Whereby the Universe Punishes Me for Trying to be Nice to the Earth

It’s the day before Halloween, which of course means that I am sewing like mad, grumpy, and covered in glitter.

I used to like Halloween. It was never my favorite holiday, but I did enjoy it. Now, I feel like it’s a tedious waste of time. Despite that, I have been doing my best for the years I have felt this way to put on a happy face and carry on. As a former costumer, the assumption is that I love the holiday, that I live to sew my children’s costumes, to come up with something creative for myself and Michael, and to go out and par-tay. Sadly, both you and me are asses in this scenario, as it is simply not true.

But my feelings on All Hallow’s Eve are neither here nor there, as what day it is (or day it will be) has little to do with my total annoyance right now. I am being tried. I am being tried by some unknown force, being punished for my commitment to living life with a small environmental footprint. And I don’t know what to do about it.

The morning started off with the usual flurry of waking up, getting the kids dressed and ready for school, feeding them breakfast, and all the insanity that entails. It was made more crazy than usual because today is the Halloween Parade at the school, so costumes had to be put into bags, shoes found, bags labeled, etc. Yes, this was something an organized person would have done the night before, but I was busy making the damn costumes, going to a friend’s book signing, making dinner to take to my mother in laws, and visiting with a good friend here from China (yes, that was all done at night, although not in that order and not separately). Suddenly, Max decides he needs a brown paper bag. “But, why?” I ask, considering all the reusable lunch bags and totes and other cloth methods of carrying devices of which we have a plethora… and he explains that what he needs to do is make a bag to carry whatever Halloween treats he gets at school. I explain right back that he has a fabric trick or treat bag, covered in skeletons, that I made him, that would serve this purpose. No, he insists, it has to be a brown bag that he can decorate RIGHT NOW before he leaves for school. Not really in the mood to fight over this particular battle, I sigh and mumble something about Mother Nature being disappointed in his desire to kill more trees and find a brown bag leftover from something for him to decorate. He happily scampers off to decorate it, and since it’s the first morning in weeks where I only had to ask him once to get his shoes on, I am relieved and pleased that there won’t be fighting, although, admittedly, still a bit irked.

Suddenly I hear Michael talking to someone at the front door. I walk into the front of the house and hear him talking to the city guy standing there about taking away one of our black trash cans and one of our blues. Now, we have 2 of each, and haven’t filled them both in forever, and since I was under the impression that we were being charged for them, I thought it right to go ahead and have them removed, and save the money. I called earlier in the week, and in the course of the conversation with the lovely lady at the DWP learned that we hadn’t been being charged for them. So I carefully backed out of the whole thing in such a way that I thought she and I had an understanding. Evidently we didn’t, as she put the order in anyway and now the guy had actually shown up to do my bidding. I become more annoyed but not in a way that makes any sense to anyone but me, as Michael had not been told about the whole thing, and as far as he was concerned we were being charged for the cans and were totally fine getting rid of them. I start stomping around and flip flopping on the issue, trying to explain to Michael why exactly I am annoyed and what was going on, at which point he also becomes totally annoyed with the situation but neither of us know how to tell the guy taking away our cans to stop. So we don’t. But we’re now both irritated. Him with the situation, me with myself for messing everything up. Ironic, since really, I had WANTED them to get rid of the trashcans not 3 days ago, but that was when I didn’t know they were free. Also, we honestly never even fill one, which I am PROUD of because it means we don’t generate a lot of trash. Which, of course, just made me more annoyed. I mean, the fact that I was annoyed when I didn’t have any real right to be just made it all worse.

Michael takes the kids to school and I get ready for my day of erranding and work. On my first errand, I call him and start to talk about all my little irritations of the day, some so embarrassingly trivial, I cannot bear to see them in print, so you will be spared. The cumulative annoyances put me in tears…so now I’m crying and at the bank. Fine, the tellers know me and are very, very sweet to me as I do my business. I leave and go to the drugstore to pick up some things and while I am there, feel the need to use the restroom.

Ok, this is where I am placing the warning. If you have an issue reading about feminine (yes, menstrual) issues…then just stop now. Skip ahead to the end and spare yourself. Otherwise, buckle up, cause I’m going to get personal…and kinda graphic. So, my need to use the restroom has nothing to do with me emptying my bladder as I am feeling that old familiar feeling of the mess coming on. I think “oh, no…” and head to the back of the store. Now, I don’t use tampons or pads. I use something called a Diva Cup. It’s a silicone cup that I insert in my hoo-haa when Aunt Flow comes to visit. I keep it in for up to 12 hours, take it out, empty and rinse, and put it back in. Once in a while I have a really heavy few hours and have to empty it more often than that, but it really never leaks or anything like that, and I’ve been using it for over a year now, so this sensation is very unexpected. I think my cup may have runneth over, and go into the bathroom to check. I happened to be wearing back tights under my pants today, as it was so cold this morning, I thought it would help keep me warm, so I sit down and look and lo and behold, there’s some mess on my tights…ok, I look at my pants. Oh my Bertha. It’s everywhere. EVERYWHERE. All over my LIGHT green twill pants…through to the outside everywhere. Evidently, in my annoyance and haste to get ready this morning, I mis-inserted. I sigh, am reminded of the time this happened in France (pre-Diva cup), and think the Studio City Rite Aid is not nearly as nice a place as the Arc De Triomphe. On the upside, there is a sink in the restroom, so I manage to rinse off everything, and put my now clean, but wet tights and pants back on, possibly the ickiest sensation ever. I walk out of the restroom, with my visibly sopping wet pants, head held high, daring anyone to question why I would have wet pants on, and continue with my day.

But in my head, I am thinking…Fuck you, Universe.

Dewey!

It's true. I should probably rename my blog Ariella's Little Chickens, for as much airtime as they get. It seems like it's even more than my children. Eh. I'm a city girl with a small town fascination and so I raise chickens. As much as I devoured the Little House books growing up, particularly fascinated with the detailed chapters on things like "when we slaughtered the pig" or "getting maple sugar out of the tree", it never occurred to me that in my life as an LA girl, a defining characteristic that has lost it's luster over the last few years, that I myself would have my very own chickens to care for. But I do. And they are crazy animals.

Michael's mom had a pet chicken when we first started dating...way past her prime, she was allowed to wander the large backyard and do whatever she wanted. I used to pick her figs off the tree, lay next to her on the grass, and feed her half while I ate the other half. Yes, I'm odd. When we moved into our own house, a mere 7 blocks away, on the huge by LA standards 1/3 acre lot, we decided to get our own chickens...and as I've blogged about before, it's been an interesting decade of learning the fine art (or not) of poultry farming, so to speak

Which brings me to the last few weeks, where I have repeatedly shouted in the modern day commons (FB status updates and Twitter Feeds) about the fact that a hen keeps making her way into my bedroom. This is generally the cause for a just amount of amusement in said forums, but I don't think people quite understand why this is even happening. And so, I blog.

Our "special chicken", aptly named Catfood (pictured above in her awkward period) was henpecked at around 10 weeks old. Rescued during this trauma by Max, her bloodied body and neck barely moving, I set her in a box with some water and food, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. I didn't have the heart to finish her off. Much to my surprise the next morning, she was up and walking around...and eventually healed completely. Well, kind of. I now know that chickens now better than me about what is good and what isn't, and well, Catfood is a bit, um, developmentally delayed. Also, Physically challenged. Her feet are completely deformed and turned in on themselves, and she's at least a few months behind her sisters in feather development. Because of these issues, and the fact that she is not welcome in the coop, she has been allowed to roam free in our yard. She hobbles about and doesn't really cause any trouble and the dogs ignore her. It turns out she's not as dumb as one might think, as she started nesting right by my bedroom door (I have french doors off my room). I tried to avoid using the a/c as much as possible this summer, and so at night I would open my doors to cool down the room...unbeknownst to me, Catfood used this opportunity to wander in and find herself a much more comfortable nesting spot in the corner of my room.

If you've been in my room, you know it is not the most...empty environment, so a habit was formed without my knowledge. Once I figured out what was happening, I started leaving the door closed. She figured out how to use the doggie door. I blocked it. It seemed to fix the problem. I unblocked it, tired of having to constantly remember to let the dogs in and out. She noticed and came back. I took her out every night to another location, where she'd stay...and then I finally put her in her own enclosure, so the problem became moot. But then... there was Dewey.

More later...going out tonight. :)

Beauty is in the Eye

I'm working on a few quilts right now, all custom orders, and the one that has consumed me the most has been a t-shirt quilt that was ordered by a young lady for her (now) ex-boyfriend, who happened to have been a high school football star.

Generally, I don't think much about the aesthetics and artistic merits of t-shirt quilts. Someone mails me their old, sentimental for whatever reason t-shirts, we choose sashing fabrics and I make them into a quilt. This one in particular was interesting, partially due to its story- the client is only 17. She and her boyfriend dated for the last 3 years, and she started to make him this quilt, but stopped when they broke up. She was nice enough to not just dump the pile of cut up shirts on his doorstep, but found me online and actually enlisted my services to do what she felt she could no longer do herself, finish his quilt to preserve his high school memories, which, in her words, he deserves.

The school colors on this one are funny...red and green. I sent her fabric combo options, she chose, and away I went. Anything I thought about the quilt was in the story behind it, in the mathematics involved with dealing with her having cut the squares differing sizes (PITA), and making sure I did a good job. Any beauty was lost on me. When I sent her the picture of the top, to make sure she liked it before it was forevermore untakeapartable her response was overwhelmingly positive. Lots of exclamation points and accolades...so many in fact, I was a little shocked. I mean, she sent me these t-shirts. She picked the fabric I sent in her color preference. What was the big deal? What on earth was she expecting? Seemed too enthusiastic for the situation.

Later that day, a friend was over and saw the finished top. She couldn't stop saying how pretty it was. Last night, my husband was helping me sandwich it, as it's just a bit too large to do myself, and started waxing poetic about how beautiful it was. He was particularly struck by how a bunch of old, worn t-shirts could be spun around and attached to fabric and made into something useful, keepworthy, and artistic all at the same time. He's seen a million quilts in his life, including every single one I've ever made, but this was different. It was late, I was tired, but I was so overcome with the sweetness of the absolute sincerity of his words that, well, I had to tweet about it. That's gotta mean something. :)

It had me thinking all day though, about how I dismiss these quilts as more practical, less artistic, than my others. I love helping people preserve their memories, but it isn't necessarily artistically fulfilling. But it seems like I may need to rethink that.

September What?

I know most of the country is working on being contemplative about the fact that tomorrow marks the 8th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Towers...but I find myself consumed with other contemplations.

As I sit here in my living room, my often laundry covered sofa providing me with a comfortable spot to sit and write, my poor, overworked, sleep deprived husband completely crashed out next to me, a very ambitious cricket outside tries to get noticed, and a developmentally disabled chicken sits brimming with malcontent outside on the step after being kicked out of the house. Again. This is my life.

When the planes struck the towers I was pregnant with my first child, and after days of sorrow, I tuned out all coverage of the event to protect my fetus from my overwhelming sadness over the losses felt by so many people. Today, the day before the 8th anniversary, I sent my baby boy off to kindergarten. His first full day of school, the first day of the new era, and I found myself torn. Full of sadness? Not exactly. Melancholy, nostalgia, regret for every morning not appreciated, every opportunity potentially lost by me having a quilt to finish, or payroll to submit, or dishes to wash...yes, those things I felt. An overwhelming sense of freedom and the excitement of what lies ahead for both of us? Yes, I felt that too. But as much as I struggled to find my identity after Max was born and I stopped teaching, I didn't realize I'd have to find it again now.
PTA vice president? Yes.
Office Manager? Kinda.
Housewife? I don't think so.
What I want to be and what I can be are very different. I'd love to spend all day creating things, sewing, quilting, making and posting new things for sale on Quilting Mama, but it doesn't seem a valid career option. Teaching is not an option, thanks to Governor Terminator. Office manager is a full time job in theory, but seeing as my paycheck is non existent, it doesn't really count. The plan is to seek representation and try and find work as an actor, but that's a tough world too, and talk about not terribly secure...and what does that mean anyway? Who will I be? It's just all so confusing. And the worst part is that I'm going to miss conversations like this:

Max: Mama, do you know what kind of pets I am going to have when I'm a grown up?
Me: No, honey, what?
Max: I TOLD you already! Why don't you remember??
Me: I'm sorry, sweetheart, can you remind me?
Max: I'm going to have 4 cats, a lizard, a snake, and a hamster.
Me: Hmm, ok.
Max: I don't want dogs because I don't want poop in my backyard
Me: Seems reasonable, but you know those other animals poop too, you're going to have to clean their cages at some point.
Max: I'll make sure to be at work when that happens.
Me: Well, then you'll need to clean the cage when you get home.
Max: (whispers something)
Me: What was that?
Max: (loud sigh) Nearaiah will do it.
Me: How do you know she won't have a job and not be at home either?
Max: She's going to work at home.
Me: You can't decide that for her...she may want to become an astronaut like you and go to the moon, then no one will be home to clean the cages.
Max: She can be an astronaut from home.
Me: That may not work.

Things I Like

(repost from old blog, from May of 2008, but still very applicable...)

The ceiling fans in my house
The freckles on Magnolia's nose
A good episode of Law and Order
Jeremy Sisto (yum)
My new Target panties
Singing on stage
Our bed
How Michael's hand has to touch his belly when he sleeps
Max's curls
The way Xena picks up whatever is closest to her to try to control her own bark when she can't help it.
Fabric
Our Backyard
Good Burritos
The way I feel doing my 3rd downward dog
Dusting
Nesting Dolls
Camp during devotions
Making Stuff
The first tomato of the summer (homegrown)
Dinner with an old friend
The looks I get when I talk about the fact that I keep chickens
When I come home to a clean kitchen
Getting a sale on Etsy
Watching the kids in the ocean
Cleavage
That Whitney won ANTM
Grace before meals
Text messages
Sunscreen
Pedicures
Gift Cards
Feeling Productive
Berries
Jumping in waves
Catching a wave on my boogie board
Ice Cream
Laughing until I can't breathe
Dancing with Michael
Waking up without an alarm

It's Funny

Life can change so quickly. Expected, unexpected...the changes just keep coming. In 2008 I experienced a horrible life change. 20% of my immediate family all of a sudden getting sick and dying. Yes, it was only one person, but the 5 of us were a team. An often dysfunctional and sometimes weirdly codependant team, but a team nonetheless. And in 48 days we went from 5 to 4. I felt all the stages of grief. I still feel like I cycle through them, even though it has been over a year since Mimma passed. I am a different person because of it.

2009 has brought forth change as well. Sometime in March, I asked the shy, quiet construction worker with the incredible opera voice in my musical theater class if he'd sing a song with me. The song was A Little Priest, from Sweeney Todd. It was the most fun I've had in my class. When our showcase performance was over, I got more accolades from random audience members than I have ever gotten in my life...and Michael insisted it was time. It was time for me to get back on stage for real.

When I got the email from my teacher, I didn't think much of it. It was announcing that one of our vocal coaches was music directing a musical, Nunsense, in the West Valley and they were having auditions the next week. The audition conflicted with a camp directors' meeting. The show conflicted with camp. After much discussion (M and I do nothing with simplicity) we decided it was worth trying. The process could be a blog post in and of itself, but to keep it brief, I'll just say- I got the part.

The process has brought me to tears of happiness, of anger, of frustration, and of pure joy...and with all of that it has given me a gift I had all but given up on. It gave me back my passion. From the day my stepmother chastised me for telling a dinner guest who asked what I was interested in that I was an actress ("Don't call yourself that, it's pretentious and it makes it seem like you're saying you're a professional, which you are not. No one pays you.") to the day that my HS counselor told me I needed to lose weight to land better parts to the day my college boyfriend suggested I work on costumes to continue my work in theater post graduation and beyond...the roads all led me away. I am back now. And it's really quite wondrous. I can't believe I let it lie for as long as I did.

So I advise, if you have something you love doing that you don't do...stop not doing it.

Maxism in the Morning on a Monday

It's been a while since I've written...part me being busy, part me being lazy, part me being overwhelmed with the idea of it...so I thought no time like the present to jump back in...but I am starting slow, with a little recounting of the conversation I just had with Max.

Max (stealing the sleeping kitten off of my shoulder): Can I have a burrito?
Me (on computer, jumping between twitter, facebook, and paying bills): Sure.
Max wanders off...

About 10 minutes later, I get up and away from the computer, and start tackling the to do list for the day, which involves tidying the front of the house, so I pass through the back with a pile of stuff, where Max is watching The Incredibles.

Max (on couch): So, did you make my burrito?
Me (not stopping, still putting things away and walking back and forth): No. You know how to make a burrito, I thought you were going to make it.
Max: No, that's ok, you can make it.
Me: No, I don't want to make it. I am doing something. You need to make the burrito if you want the burrito.
Max: I can't right now because I am watching the movie.
Me: Then I guess you won't get a burrito then.
Max: Please!
Me: You have to make it yourself. Not optional.
Max: But my hands are full.
Me: What?
Max. My hands are full. Full of kitty.

At this point, I just stopped talking. Full of kitty.