Fine in ’09

The Art of Doing Nothing

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments
Nope. Not gonna do it.

Nope. Not gonna do it.

Just as our bodies need downtime in the form of sleep, our bodies need downtime during our waking hours.

I’ve had a drought of downtime both asleep and awake.

Today, when the alarm went off, I silenced it, rolled over and went back to sleep. I clocked something like 10 hours. It wasn’t enough to eradicate my sleep deficit, but it was enough to provoke a feeling of well-being.

Yesterday, I did just enough housecleaning that I didn’t curl into fetal position when I went downstairs this morning. [It’s still a mystery to me how the house can become a Super Fund site when I’m never here.]

I plopped my ass on the sofa. After a few minutes, I arranged myself in a supine position. A few minutes later, I pulled the blanket over me. The dogs and I reacquainted ourselves there on the sofa.

I announced, firmly, “I have things to do.”

I got up, poured another cup of coffee, and stared out the window at the kitchen garden – looking at the mess I never had time to get to.

I forced myself to take clothes out the dryer, put the clothes in the washer into the dryer, and put the last load of laundry into the washer.  Drudgery, pure drudgery.  The inner adult had wrestled the inner child into submission, but neither were happy.

I poured another cup of coffee and stared out the window some more.

I announced, firmly, “I have got to motivate.”

Deciding that perhaps some sunlight on my pineal gland would help, I toddled out to the garden and plopped my ass in a lawn chair. From that seated position, I willed the calla lilies to bloom. I noticed that the morning glory had wrapped itself around the gate making ingress and egress impossible.

I contemplated getting up and whipping the morning glory into submission.

Stating clearly and audibly, I said, “Fuck It.”

Without getting too technical, the FuckIts are that state wherein no matter how hard your inner grownup spanks the inner child, nothing on the to-do list is going to get done without a change of strategy.

Nothing.

Facing this knowledge, the person with the FuckIts will develop a great sense of peace and sometimes giddiness. I am not going to do a damn thing and you can’t make me. It’s not rebellion, obstinacy, defeat or disobedience.

It’s very nice. It’s a lot like when you have a killer headache and you notice, suddenly and with pleasure, it’s gone.  The to-do list evaporates.

In my Geek Girl persona, I equate it with rebooting the computer. When you’re holding too many tasks in memory, sometimes you just have to reboot. (You Mac people can just shut up now.)

I trundled back into the house and heated up leftover tuna casserole. I settled in with a book – a bite of casserole, turn the page. Bite, turn.

Self permission to do nothing is energizing.

mmmmmm book and a nap

mmmmmm book and a nap

I’ve wandered about the house with the book. With no hurry, no agenda, no sense of looming responsibilities fixin’ to fall on my head and destroy me, I’ve managed to do even more cleaning between chapters. Paid some bills. Found and removed the source of the gnat problem in the kitchen. Readied my clothes for the following week. Put the jewelry back into some order. Cleaned off the desk.

I’ve actually done more than was on the to-do list to begin with.

People who are into meditation talk about this phenomena all the time. Quieting the chatter of your mind, either through counting breaths, repeating a mantra, or giving yourself permission to do nothing allows you to accomplish so much more. The essence is simply doing, or not doing, without thought of the past or the future. Without haste.

I had a fledgling meditation/yoga practice going that I abandoned when the to-do list got daunting. Big mistake. I haven’t been on the exercise bike (white noise and muscle toning all at the same time) in weeks. Another big mistake. I haven’t been reading well-crafted novels or listening to the music that makes my heart soar.

No wonder I’m a cranky bitch.

Doing nothing is both a luxury and a necessity.

I’m going back to my book now. I’m kinda thinking that napping in the guest bed in the afternoon sunlight after reading some of the book would be nice. If I do that, I’ll probably put clean sheets on the bed and vacuum – after watching the dust dance in the air for awhile.

Pan Seared Tuna with Mango Radish Coulis – NOT

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment
Fresh ground pepper and an elegant presentation always helps.

Fresh ground pepper and an elegant presentation always helps.

I do enjoy foods that those with sophisticated palates (or a lot of money) eat regularly. Just ask Chef Boy ‘R Mine. I’m his guinea pig. [And it’s about time he comes home and cooks for me again.]

I also like a lot of junk food, pseudo food, comfort food and stuff that is plain fare. I even like stuff, some of it, that involves a can of Cream-of-Something soup.

So sue me.

In the junk food category, I get weak-kneed over Cheez-Its. Ruffles (have ridges) potato chips and Slim Jims are perennial favorites. As for pseudo food, I like Twinkies (though I prefer SnoBalls), but will not abide Cool Whip.

Comfort food and plain fare remind me of my childhood, which was good, and serve, well, to comfort me. Plain fare I regard as further up the haute cuisine ladder than comfort food. Comfort foods are those things that you’re a little embarrassed about liking. Spam is one. Morton beef pot pies are another.

When I was about 10, maybe 11, I read a Beverly Cleary book about a high school girl and her first date. I was beginning to find boys a little interesting, but overall was pretty clueless. For those of you not initiated, Cleary wrote children’s books – Ramona, Beezus, Henry Huggins – which were funny and poignant. While they sometimes had a moral, the heavy-handedness of it was blunted by the comedy. Beverly Cleary could channel all those feelings and ideas and actions of a kid somewhere between 5 and 10 years old. She wrote a few books about teenagers. They weren’t as compelling.

In this book that I’ve forgotten the name of, the protagonist is a bundle of nerves before her first date. She worries about everything including whether or not her mother is going to make Smells to Heaven Tuna Casserole. Cleary, knowing her audience, explained the onion breath problem. Most ten year olds, at least in my day, didn’t worry too much about bad breath.

It’s either a testament to Cleary’s writing or my love of tuna casserole or, perhaps, both that forty years later I remember that detail.

I like tuna casserole. I don’t remember not ever liking it.

My mom made it with Cream of Mushroom Soup, noodles, onions, sometimes celery and tuna. After putting it in a baking dish, she crushed potato chips and spread them on top of the casserole about a 1/2 inch thick.

Now I did and do abhor canned mushrooms. They’re not even as good as pencil erasers (something I chewed on quite a bit as a kid). I hate them, and when we had tuna casserole, I ate around them. They’re chopped up fine and those tiny little suckers could really slow down the eating process.

When I started making my own tuna casserole, I discovered Cream of Celery soup.

Well, well.

I love celery. I toss it in anything I can get away with. Cream of Celery soup and chopped celery became necessities in the production of perfect tuna casserole.

I use the extra-wide noodles. I don’t want any wimpy noodles likely to get limp and pasty. I want them bold and al dente. This is a must.

I’m not sure when or why, but sometime early in my tuna casserole production years, I began substituting French’s French Fried Onions for the potato chips. It’s now a necessity. I could no more enjoy tuna casserole without French fried onions than I could enjoy it without onions or celery or tuna or noodles.

It’s a perfect gestalt of sodium, preservatives, msg, calories and the meager Omega 3s that that the tuna provides.

And I’m having it for dinner tonight.

I haven’t cooked for myself in months. And I haven’t cooked for one person  in months. I was surprised I had to think about how to go about making the casserole. This is not a recipe that’s ever been written down.

I managed to do it, but I could easily feed 12 people. I’m going to be eating tuna casserole all week. I suspect that I will, but it remains to be seen, if I will still like my Smells To Heaven Tuna Casserole next week.

Patron of the Arts (and Crafts)

/ wvfurandroot / 3 Comments
Sherri's Multimedia Painting

Sherri's Multimedia Painting

Surprisingly, I had Friday night off. Now I could have called in and asked if they needed an extra body. Almost assuredly, they would have said yes and I would have had a few more dollars to throw at my creditors. However.

However, I have worked a great many hours this past month and a couple minutes with the calculator indicated I could enjoy Friday evening without much more austerity than is already in place.

I ended up at my good friend’s house for what we term a “sistering.” Women gather and we talk about stuff. We talk and we talk – about our kids, our classes, our dreams, our aspirations, about how good the lasagna is. One of the craziest evenings involved the en masse arrival of the lesbians after which, somewhat perplexingly, we all ended up sitting around talking about boys and whether or not size matters. (The other memorable occasion was the night we were all PMSing and the potluck was ENTIRELY comprised of chocolate.)

My friend, the host, teaches art history and the guest list is often, usually, comprised of artists.

I have a love/hate relationship with the artsy crowd.

Willy on Great-Grandmother's Afghan

Willy on Great-Grandmother's Afghan

Now my mother is into crafts. She has always been thus. She’s fully aware of the difference between arts and crafts, although like most of us, she doesn’t know exactly where the dividing line is. The female members of both branches of the family tree are into crafts. A few of them dabble in the arts. They crochet, they knit, they tole paint, they quilt, and they paint ceramic figurines and execute paintings. They make collages and jewelry. Christmas will find them in quite a frenzy.

My mother is not big on the crochet/knitting thing, but she makes up for it with power tools, sanders, and every shade of acrylic paint Michael’s sells. She also sews. She’s actually very good at sewing. I was tortured throughout my childhood with my mother trying to teach me how to sew.

The disasters are family stories – the time I hemmed my dress (which I had no intention of ever wearing) to my jeans. And then there was the time I made kitchen curtains without any thread in the bobbin and couldn’t figure out why they kept falling off the rod.

I am afraid of my sewing machine and after the slight concussion of a few weeks ago, I am doubly afeared. It used to just silently glare at me and taunt me to try and fill the bobbin. Now, it seems, its malevolence has branched into physically harming me when I have no intention of pressing it into service.

That love/hate relationship centers on the fact that I love that talent/ability and hate that I don’t have it.

I did manage to spray paint this piece <br>I bought at auction for a $1.

I did spray paint this piece I bought for a $1.

I arrive at the sistering on Friday to discover that two of the guests did a run through Michael’s and purchased an astonishing amount of beads, wires, thingie-dos and other accoutrements for the making of jewelry. The idea was that we would all sit around talking (about boys or no) while making necklaces, earrings, bracelets, anklets, etc. etc.

I had a right awful day Friday. I immediately envisioned myself lopping off a finger with the needle nose plier-thingies and spending the night in the Emergency Room. Or somehow crafting earrings that would turn my ears black with gangrene. Or, worse, having all the art students laugh at me. I have a good ear for music, but can’t sing a note anyone besides me has ever heard. I also have a good eye for design, but can’t execute.  (I’ve spent 25 years trying to learn how to crochet and my only accomplishment is the ability to chain if I concentrate really hard.)

I know my limitations.

Generally, I’m not too concerned about being laughed at and poke more fun at myself than the others could even begin to match. But. I had a right awful day Friday and was trying to control my twitching.

I demurred.

Voila! Bodily adornment for me, me, me!

Voila! Bodily adornment for me, me, me!

I insisted it would be far better and I would enjoy myself far more watching them turn hobby supply store goods into bodily adornments. I ate lasagna, drank wine, and watched women make jewelry.

The creative process (whether art or craft) intrigues me. I love watching artists and craftspersons execute. It doesn’t matter if it’s the well-turned leg of a piece of furniture or the execution of a piece of sculpture. Watching that ability to take raw goods and turn it into something visually appealing is a great form of entertainment.

In this case, I watched pieces of this and that turn into a necklace and a pair of earrings. From the beginning, it was the intention of the maker to give them to me. She kept asking my opinion and asking me to make decisions about the choice of components. I kept telling her I would be far happier and it would mean more to me if she made me what she wanted to make.

I left with a lovely ensemble of malachite and dragonflies.

The one thing I can do that I’m good at is needlework. Years ago I took up needlepoint as something to do while watching television. I loved the process. I loved the process more than the finished product. Of all the stuff I did, I only managed to actually frame a couple of pieces. In The Closet I Am Afraid Of languishes finished projects unframed and unstuffed. The act is enough.

In memory of Donnie.

In memory of Donnie.

Needlepoint is damned expensive. I regarded it as worth it, because the moving meditation of pulling thread and yarn in and out of canvas was soul-soothing. But as with so many areas of my life, the cost of both time and money became insupportable. When I had the time, I turned to cross stitch and simple embroidery to fulfill my need to poke a needle in and out of fabric. While I enjoyed the act of cross stitching, I hated the end results. There’s something about cross stitch that offends my sensibilities. The only piece I ever displayed was the one I made while my best friend was dying of cancer.

Back in January, I had another attack of Needleworkitis. At ridiculous expense, I purchased a kit of needlepoint boasting an image that I’m not thrilled with. Needlepoint is damned expensive and I went for the clearance stuff. The kit itself bears a ridiculous price, but even worse is the added expense of all the other crap – stretcher bars, thread organizers, hoops, needles, magnifying glasses, and carrying cases. (And as fate would have it, I have not had time to relearn the stitches – something I must do before I can bring myself to tackle this project which cost me far more than was prudent.)

Like many people with ADD, I have a love of containers. It’s been postulated that those of us with ADD love (love, love, love) containers because we’re embroiled in a constant battle to organize our minds and our surroundings.

Containers and yarn and books, oh my!

Containers and yarn and books, oh my!

HMOKeefe claims to not be ADD, but I’m dubious. He has containers for his containers. He puts stuff in containers, holders, cases, bags and boxes and then puts those things into containers, holders, cases, bags and boxes so that the end result is a lot like Russian nesting dolls. On our vacation, I had a suitcase, an overnight bag and a purse into which everything was tossed willy nilly. He had 77 tote bags filled with containers of containers that like that old Barrel of Monkeys game I was uncommonly fond of as a child eventually revealed the item he intended to need. Now that I think about it, perhaps he’s not ADD. He actually uses his containers. Still. I think there’s some sort of pathology there.

As I sat there watching the jewelry process, I was equally intrigued by the containers. I submit the entire guest list of Friday evening is ADD. Not only did they spend a boatload of money on beads and whatnot, they also purchased containers, dividers, and all manner of stuff to organize the supplies.

I’ve gotten off-topic. (We ADD people tend to do that.)

Birthday quilt from Sherri.

Birthday quilt from Sherri.

My point, I think, is that while I’m relatively talentless in the arts and crafts area, I love having things people I know have made. Fortunately, I’m surrounded by people who do have talent and see fit to give it to me. The objects themselves are wonderful, but the bonus of knowing the artist and, sometimes, watching it made is an even greater thrill. I asked on Friday if I could be considered a patron of the arts if I never actually paid for any of the stuff I have. I was assured that was not unusual.

So. As an impoverished patron of the arts, feel free to make something and give it to me. (I draw the line at plastic canvas – it’s a long story. If your medium is plastic canvas you’ll need to find another patron.)