Connie has stuffed the legs of her elegant Kate Hepburn black silk pajamas into the tops of her big fuzzy house shoes. Fashion statement or faux pas? And does she care?
Statement or Faux Pas?
Hedonism
A cup o’bloomin’ tea.
Tea can provoke a need for candlelight.
My family are not tea drinkers. We had iced tea (no sugar – sweet tea was for communists), but we weren’t hot tea drinkers. Oh sure, the parents would let me order tea when I was 8, but they thought I just wanted it for the little silver pot. I did, but I also enjoyed the tea.
I got introduced to “Russian Tea” when I was 14. It was a dark black tea with cloves, dried oranges, cinnamon, star anise and something else. It was the first tea I ever had that was supposed to be lumpy and leave dregs. I’ve searched multiple states and multiple countries for it with no luck. Just last Christmas I found a reasonable substitute at a bookstore – Harney & Sons Hot Cinnamon Spice (with orange and cloves). It’s a lovely tea and I’ve grown fond of it.
The well-used kettle.
I’m an unrepentant coffee drinker. Folks are astonished at the amount of coffee I drink. I’ve been told I’d fit right in at an AA meeting. I drink a pot of coffee before I even leave the house in the morning and another throughout the day. During the day, I’ll often also brew green tea. Or chamomile. Sometimes an Oolong.
I enjoy the ritual of tea – the boiling, the steeping, the pouring, and the accoutrements.
Oolong.
I like trying to “read the leaves.” I stir and watch the steam swirl. I deeply inhale the fragrance. Coffee is gulped, tea is savored.
I drink my coffee black except for the very rare occasion I have dessert – in which case heavy cream is required. But tea – now tea positively requires additives mostly because of tea sets – you have to put something in all those containers and if you’re going to put something in there then you have to use it.
The very-special English teacup.
I love tea sets and tea pots and tea cups. Coffee is everyday – utilitarian. Well, mostly it is. Sometimes coffee is just a caffeine delivery system and sometimes it is a spiritual experience. Tea, however, always provokes ritual. Sugar cubes, creamer, lemon, honey, Demerara sugar, spoons, tongs, pots, trays, kettles, shortbread cookies, and comfortable rockers.
Tea is not a beverage, it’s a mind/body experience.
The even more special dragon cup (and tea service).
I like a little Mozart with my tea.
My teapot collection, while not large, is diverse. Some of it is very formal even if I do almost always drink tea in faded jeans. The tea cup collection is far more sparse. I vow, now and again, to get more, but I’m usually overwhelmed by the choices.
Tea is almost always enjoyed in well-faded jeans.
Lipton’s black tea is fine. Cheap herbals are fine. Luscious imported teas, delicate whites, organic herbals and the like are, of course, much more appreciated. I love to hold the cup close to my face and breathe in the steam and aroma.
A couple of years ago I discovered in a magazine the “blooming teas.” These immediately rushed to the top of my “must have” list. Showing restraint, I did not order them and when Chef Boy ‘R Mine asked what I wanted for Christmas, I told him. My restraint centered on the fact that without the special teapot, the wonder of blooming tea is not fully realized.
Blooming tea.
Blooming teas are hand-tied bulbs of tea and other botanicals including dried flowers. When the boiling water is added, the bulbs “bloom” and one ends up with a floral arrangement in their teapot. It doesn’t get much cooler than this.
Said tea requires a glass teapot and a tea candle so that the blooming tea is visible. Brewing this tea is most spectacular in a dark room. The blooming teas are almost always one of the white teas; hence the tea is an amber color. With the tea candle shining upwards through the bottom of the pot, the view of the blooms is wondrous – a Monet water lily with a golden cast. The ritual of tea takes on a whole new facet with these bulbs.
Tea often demands a good book, an afghan and a comfortable Victorian rocking chair.
Still, I like the old standbys. Oolong is a favorite because it has the same mouth feel as coffee. The cinnamon/clove/orange tea is great heavily sweetened and drunk on a cold winter night. Chamomile is spectacular with honey and lemon.
When in England in 1998, I learned to drink tea with cream. I was in a little tea shop complete with white table cloths and a platter of “biscuits.” The tea was served with cream and sugar. When in Rome and all that. It was quite lovely and there are some days I just I have to have tea prepared that way along with some Walker shortbread cookies.
My 13th birthday china.
It’s always been interesting to me how and why we acquire the habits we have. I’m not sure why I’m so entranced with tea, but I suspect it’s the cups and teapots. I have more dishes than any one person can justify, because I love dishes. Now there’s a habit I can’t begin to explain – fine china, hand-turned pottery, hollow-stem champagne flutes, sushi plates, whimsical turkey soup bowls – you name it, I have it.
Tea is ritual – it’s the very epitome of right here right now. It slows me down, centers and grounds me. It’s a lovely respite from real life.
[If you’re into tea and ever in the D.C. area, don’t miss Ching Ching Cha’s – it’s a Chinese tea house that will, I promise, rock your world.]
The Art of Doing Nothing
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
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.
Re-Entry
And the first period in months is not helping.
Re-entry into the land of paid labor is proving difficult. I just cannot get my transmission in gear. Given that I have a 70 hour work-week, this is proving to be problematic.
At Job #1 we have an employee perk that is not mentioned in the employee manual, but which is generally accepted as standard practice. Vacation Head is that state of being wherein one returns from vacation not worth a shit. This state is not questioned. In fact, said perk allows the employee either 3 or 7 days of merely showing up and only dealing with those matters that are on fire. The four day discrepancy is explained by the fact that in the Executive Director’s absence, we took a vote and agreed on 7 days. I believe we’re operating on a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. As long as we look like we’re doing something, 7 days is usual and customary.
Motivation is the key to success.
At Job #1, I have shown up. I have showed off birthday presents and photos. I’ve told stories. I’ve gone through email, dealt with a couple server emergencies and orchestrated a solution to a web page boondoggle. Other than that, I’ve spent my time re-adjusting to being in the office 8 hours a day,
Job #2, on the surface, is neither physically nor mentally taxing. However, 30 hours tacked on top of 40 is both physically and mentally brutal. And it’s even more so in Vacation Head state.
I had a brilliant vacation. Vacation Head is especially bad this go around. I ate roughly every 12 minutes (and exceptionally good food). I slept whenever I wanted to for as long as I wanted to. I engaged in carnal relations. I read 3 novels. And I was the grateful recipient of several spa treatments (massage, sugar scrub, aromatherapy bath, and a wonderful thing called a swim spa). I drank champagne, ate decadent chocolate, and enjoyed spectacular views.
Even more pleasurable was the company of good friends and family members for the birthday house party.
It’s been a week since the carriage turned back into a pumpkin and real life asserted itself.
I am still not worth a shit to my employers.
I think I’m angry that vacation can’t go on and on and on.
Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho
Today, I have forced myself to deal with some housekeeping. In doing so, I found the tiara that (long story) my mother wore during my surprise birthday party. There it sits on my scarred and cluttered kitchen table. I fondled the glittery headpiece with a sense of deep envy.
If I were, in fact, a figure-head queen, I would never have Vacation Head because I would always be on vacation. It’s true that I am genetically predisposed to be one of the idle rich. Something has gone very wrong.
I am girding my loins for the next 8-hour shift. My head hurts thinking about it. The scab from the trip-over-the-computer-cord-banging-head-on-sewing-machine-and-splattering-blood-and-hot-coffee-all-over-me-and-the-wall is not helping matters. My hair is embedded in the scab resulting in a pulling sensation occasionally punctuated by sharp pains. The headache behind my left eye has been around so long now that I’m tempted to name it. Right now, Horace is leading over Hector and Hermione.
All that glitters.
I’m tempted to wear the tiara to work, but the scab makes that impossible. There’s a Great Truth buried in that, but the headache is too fierce for me to puzzle it out.
Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work I work go. On the way, I’m buying aspirin and a lottery ticket.
[Apologies for the photo quality. I get madder and madder at that lowlife who stole my camera.]
W. Va. Fur and Root 