UnKnownSideEffect

Let's Laugh Alone Together

2011-05-08T09:10:00.000-07:00

The sun is shining again, finally (or at least it was yesterday), and my batteries are recharged. I want to laugh. I want the world to laugh with me. Click on the title to my previous post (the one about habits). Watch the video and tell me what makes you laugh the most. I can't decide if it's Peter Cetera pretending to know how to play the bass, or the fact that "the Habit" appears to be played by about 10 different women. And then there's the card tower karate chop. If you need a good laugh, taking 4 minutes to relive some dark corner of the 80's will be a good use of your time. Enjoy!

This is Not a Habit

2011-05-02T19:58:00.000-07:00

Regardless of what CHICAGO has to say about it, habits are much harder to make than they are to break. Take this blog for example: after my last post (which I had so much fun crafting and posting, thank you very much), I quickly mapped out a plan to craft the blog into a habit. This is something I've been trying my hand at recently, growing habits. Unlike most vegetable seeds, habits have a long germination window. While my tomato seedlings sprouted in under 10 days, habits take a minimum of 21 to rear their pretty little heads (or ugly depending on what you have planted in that fertile soil of the soul). Since I'm not all that fond of weeds--even though they do give me an outlet for my compulsive behaviors--I'm attempting to grow only pretty habits, or at the very least, useful ones.

For example, I've tried to nurture the habit of hanging my clothes (or folding them or putting them in the laundry basket) at the end of each day. The most consecutive days I've managed to do this is eight...and maybe I'm exaggerating that number. At any rate, this habit isn't happening. I've tried it in various locales and different seasons on and off for most of my life. It just won't grow for me.

Also, it was brought to my attention by a well-meaning and extremely efficient friend that clearing the dishwasher immediately after each load is washed is the key to keeping the kitchen neat and tidy at all times. What a simple idea. Unload the dishwasher after each clean load so you'll have ample room to hide the dirty stuff as it accumulates! What could be easier? This one I managed for 17 straight days...then I just couldn't.

Now it's this blog. My romantic ideals told me that if I could just post a simple something each day for 21 days straight, I'd be back to my original blogging glory. I was so determined and inspired by the idea that I mapped out the carrot on the stick: this very post about building habits in 21 days! I even searched the web for the perfect picture of a running nun. The problem is that external motivations hold no weight with me. True grit comes from the inside...not from some silly picture of Sally Fields flying around in a nun's habit.

So...here I am, giving into this habit post. What I discovered is that it won't go away, and I can't get that song by Chicago out of my head. I'm posting, and it's not 21 days or 21 posts later, it's just a catharsis of sounds and images. Not a habit at all.

This is Not a Blog

2011-03-12T08:55:00.001-08:00

Right? This is totally NOT a blog because if it was a blog, I would actually blog. Blah, blah, blahg. So, if it's not a blog, then what is it?

UnKnownSideEffect was born out of pangs of anonymity. I brought this blog to life in response to another, much more WELL-KNOWN blog, "KnownSideEffects" which was published by my husband. Don't start forecasting that this blogging business had something to do with my competitive side. I'll admit to being competitive, but I know there is no point in competing with my husband. He has his talents; I have mine, and our respective skills are on somewhat opposite ends of the talent spectrum. His talents just happen to be of the sort that put him out in the limelight. Google him and you'll see what I mean. Google me, and you'll see him. This doesn't bother me, really. What does bother me, the thing that propelled me to make my voice heard in the form of this blog was something I overheard one day at the height of KnownSideEffects popularity: "He's married?!" (This person was asking this about MY husband of 15 YEARS.) "I didn't know he was married. When did that happen?"

So, this is how the unknownsideeffect was born. Initially, it was going to be my clever way of anonymously responding to posts by knownsideeffects. My intention was to be the alter-ego of knownsideeffects. His background was all black. Mine would be all white. When he wrote about racing or about being on the road, I would write about spectating from the sidelines or about life on the homefront. This singular focus turned out to be utterly impossible for me. I'm not the shadow of my husband. And I'm no good at writing about the exterior life. The interior life is much more interesting, to me anyway. Of course, it's my own interior life about which I write, so I'm biased there.

This brings me to this post. What is the point of it? I don't know. But it's not a blog.

Greenhouse Gasses

2010-02-21T10:12:00.000-08:00

So I’ve been thinking (and not writing) that this blog space of mine might be contributing on a small scale to an increase in carbons in our ever-more fragile ecosystem. My reasoning has something to do with me allowing this space to sit idle much like a car pool mom sits alone outside the karate studio in her idling Cadillac Escalade reading teen romance novels; meanwhile, her little Kimberly is inside chopping away at the air and other little Kimberlies in an attempt to earn a belt of a new and more prestigious color. One day, Kimberly might actually use this defense skill to protect herself from the growing numbers of criminal types walking the streets waiting to pounce on seemingly defenseless Kimberlies; for now, though, it’s all about the accessories.

But here's the thing: I haven't been reading any romance novels--teen or otherwise. I've been reading really scary stuff about the demise of our planet and politics, and about how politics are contributing to the demise of our planet. At the heart of this war is our food supply. It's not safe. A trip to the grocery store may just as well be a stroll through a park planted with landmines. One night I actually found myself standing in the middle of the expansive produce section at my local Dan's not daring to pick out a single piece of produce for the poisons it could be harboring. Sure, I can use veggie wash to clean off the waxes and pesticides on the outside of the food, but there's nothing I can use to wash away the poison that was injected into the soil where this stuff grew up. This poison is now part of the plant's genetic code, and if I eat it, it will worm its way into my own.

And all this time, this blog space is sitting here idle, breathing precious cyber air. Right now, it seems that this new, paperless world we've created is safer for us than that carbon emitting world of processed trees and land lines, but are we sure? In 1973, the year I was born, the U.S. Department of Food and Agriculture was sure that their new and improved ways of growing and subsidizing corn would result in our country never again having to face food shortages driven by high cost and limited supply. They were right. But what they made certainly hasn't turned out to be better. What if a similar danger lurks here in cyberspace? What if it isn't limitless after all and my idle corner is slowly eating away a precious and non-renewable resource?

What if? I guess I better start using it--even if only to type useless blather. Kimberly needs to hurry on out of karate so I can rush off to another parking lot--piano, tutoring, ballet, soccer, harp--anything to keep my mind off this seemingly futile fight to win back the planet.

In the Forests of the Night

2009-12-02T17:40:00.000-08:00

Three months pass quickly! I would like to say that it goes by more quickly now than it did when I was ten, but that wouldn't be entirely true. My dad is an accountant, so I've always been innately aware of the short spanse of time that is three months. I remember thinking, "Didn't he just DO quarterlies? Why is he doing it again?" Clearly, this was before I could tolerate the joy of relentless repetition the way I do now. Now, the routine is comfortable. It's when routine is suddenly disrupted that I fall apart.

Today, I accidentally hit "blogger" when I logged onto my google account. It's been EXACTLY three months since my last post. This must be some sort of a sign, right? Sign or no, I can't pass up the opportunity to post another chain of silly words today--I like to think of it as my personal Quarterly Report. Plus it makes the random act of clicking on "blogger" less disruptive to my senses.

Only, it doesn't make typing this post any easier. I really have nothing TO report. Ho Hum. Hum.... Ho. oH. Palindrome. Huh. Look, another one! Crazy.

What fearful symmetry. The radio whispering in the background has something to report: "It's all about Tiger Woods tonight." Poor, poor...

Tyger, tyger burning bright...

Misplaced Modifiers

2009-09-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

Today, from my "personalized" horoscope, comes an example of a sentence with a misplaced modifier. See if you can spot the error:

You may meet someone who lives far away at a party, and be invited to visit them at a later date.

When you've got it, type a corrected version of the sentence in my comments. You may also include explanations in your comments as to why you agree or disagree with this prediction as one suitable for my personality and lifestyle (please site reasons beyond the scope of the grammatical error).

Guess Not!

2009-08-19T05:50:00.000-07:00

Recently, it came to my attention that I still have this blog out here in cyberspace. Two months ago I momentarily thought I was ready to get back at it. You can see how that actually turned out. I'm stopping in to say hello before I head out the door for yet another incredibly short run.

What seems like a long time ago, I posted an update on Facebook that had something to do with two miles hardly being worth the effort of lacing up the shoes. With the passing of time comes the advantage of wisdom: Two miles is better than none, and one must ALWAYS lace the shoes to avoid tripping.

Tripping. I must make a better effort to avoid doing that. Which reminds me...

Back In

2009-06-20T10:56:00.000-07:00

So I made it back inside safe and sound and dry...except for the sweat. The wind challenged me to a battle on the way home. I won! All in all, it was a good run. Glad I got outside, and getting out made me realize that where running is concerned, it's easier to stay out once you get out. Kind of like blogging, I guess. It's easier to not blog, and the longer between bouts of blogging, the easier it is to avoid it all together. On the flip side, once you start, well...

Advice: If You're Going to Get Out, Get Out Now

2009-06-20T08:29:00.000-07:00

My therapist friend likes to say, "It's easier to stay out than to get out." This might be true this morning. I hope not. I don't like being cold and wet.

9:31 a.m. severe storm warning. On and off bouts of rain drops.

I had it set in my mind to run outside this morning, and I just can't shake it, so I'm off! I'll report back in about an hour. If I don't, that means I've been struck by lightning or stranded in some neighborhood by flying and falling trees. I'm thinking Dan Pope doesn't know his weather like Mark Eubank. I miss that old Eubank.

Tomato, Tomahto...

2009-05-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago, I decided to call the whole thing off, this tomato planting bit. Sure, there's nothing like tomatoes fresh from the garden, but there's also nothing like tending to a garden all summer either. Plus, with all the rain and my running project, I haven't really had time to prep the soil, buy the plants, dig the holes, stake the stems....excuses, excuses.

So, I was resolved that there would be no home grown tomatoes for me this season. But then I went off and bought decoy tomatoes at the grocery store. You know, the tomatoes that look like they are vine ripened because they are still on the vine, and because they are still on the vine, they smell like tomatoes fresh from the vine? Of course, when I brought these decoy tomatoes home and cut into them, I discovered their true nature: grocery store tomatoes. I suspect they were refrigerated at some point on their journey from hard green lumps on a vine in a vat in the back of a van to hard red clumps on a vine on my kitchen counter awaiting slicing. Nothing disappoints like a bad tomato.

On the bright side, this bad tomato was a reality check for me and my garden. I realized the work and water are worth the reward. Plus, if I didn't plant tomatoes, I would have an utterly empty garden bed nagging at me every time I glanced out my kitchen window, and I don't respond well to nagging. Yesterday, I finally got the tomatoes in...staked and all! Summer has officially begun.

Still Small Voices

2009-05-09T08:11:00.000-07:00

I'm posting this tiny thought

to reassure myself that I'm still out here.

I need the reminder

because the blogging voices

that sometimes run around in my mind

like children on a sugar high

have all suddenly become

very still and silent.

Smiles

2009-04-25T04:00:00.000-07:00

Mother Teresa said, "Peace begins with a smile."

Siddhartha finally found that a smile is the manifestation of nirvana.

I didn't know Mother Teresa or Siddhartha, but I knew a woman who was a nurse--both by nature and profession, and she spent at least the last 12 years of her life practicing patience, being present, finding beauty in absolutely everything, and trusting in the order of the Universe. Yesterday, I learned that one month ago today, she lost her fight with cancer and died peacefully with a smile on her face.

...Cause He's the Tax Man!

2009-04-15T18:13:00.000-07:00

In the first grade, my teacher posed a question to the class about what each of our parents did for work: Doctor, plumber, farmer...when it was my turn I said, "My dad does taxes." The teacher laughed. I didn't understand. I still don't understand. Taxes aren't funny, and my dad IS an accountant.

Two days ago he called concerned that he hadn't yet seen our tax documents for 2008. He wondered if we had used someone else. What? That's crazy! My dad is an accountant. I would never dream of trusting this delicate issue to the mind of another number cruncher. Since my first grade career day experience, as far as I'm concerned, my father is the only accountant in the entire world who matters. He's absolutely the best, most honest, meticulous, intelligent man in the accounting world. Today is his super bowl, and I know he'll be running that adding maching until the clock strikes midnight.

Good luck, Dad, and don't worry...ever the procastinator, I've filed an extension. Our government is democratic afterall.

A Work in Progress

2009-04-13T06:32:00.000-07:00

Quote of the Day
Discontent is the first necessity of progress.
Thomas A. Edison

"First" being the key word here. Before there were 30 flats (900 individual plants) of thyme sitting in my front yard, there was discontent. Of course, the discontent happened long before the thyme. Discontent happened about two years ago when I realized I was breaking up with the lawn. I didn't love it. It didn't love me. We really had nothing in common. When we first got together, the lawn was a novelty to me, and I was determined to make this work.

Other homeowners--people who have a deep and lasting love for their own lawns--tried to warn me that this relationship was futile. Outsiders could see that we were just too different from each other, the lawn and me. The most glaring difference is my concern for water conservation. I'm stingy with the water. Running the sprinklers feels like a sin, and I become overwhelmed with pangs of guilt when I hear the system kick on after the sun sets on warm summer evenings. The lawn...well, it doesn't really care that we live in a desert. It's thirsty all the time--a habit I couldn't convince it to break. That's what tore us apart--that and it's need for synthetic treatments to keep the bugs and weeds at bay. I like birds and clean ground water too much to abide by these filthy habits.

The old bitter, lawn, was too crippled to pick itself up and walk away on its own, so I tried killing it...softly...with words, and song, and lack of water, and that's when I discovered just how tenacious this thing is. For all it's weaknesses, it really has a will to survive. It doesn't want to work in my yard on my terms, but it also doesn't want to go away. It's like Bartelby the Scrivener. I ask it to please stop growing, please stop taking up space on my property, please pick up your old useless roots and vacate the premises. It replies, "I'd prefer not to."

Well, I had to move on. I couldn't lie to myself anymore, and I stopped pretending with the lawn a long time before I boxed up most of his stuff and sent it to the landfill. He's still trying to come around. It's ridiculous! Can't he see I love thyme now? I've always loved thyme. We're soul mates, I believe. This is why there are 30 flats of red flowering thyme waiting to move into the earth around my house. It's progress. Progress born from discontent.

Comment to the Comment

2009-04-10T07:36:00.000-07:00

I was going to post this as a comment to the comment to "Life's Not Fair", but I realized my comment was turning in to more of a rant, so I'm posting it here:

People have ALWAYS wanted fairness. It's true, things have never been fair; but that doesn't stop us from longing. Mostly I was lamenting here that I'm human and have a need to do human things such as sleep and eat. But I have an equally human need to do the things that feed my soul. Sometimes I have to choose between the two. Those are the choices that don't SEEM fair. I know too that "seem" is mostly a useless word--it's one of those intransitive verbs that doesn't really show the reader anything concrete. Perhaps I should have used a more definitive word? That's the difficulty in talking about fairness; since it doesn't exist, I can't exactly talk about it in terms of action or even a state of being. I can only talk about it in terms of what it is not and in terms of what it gives the impression of being.

Life's Not Fair

2009-04-08T22:09:00.001-07:00

Late at night, like right now, it doesn't seem fair to have to choose between sleep and writing. In the mornings it doesn't seem fair to have to choose between sleep and running. Or between running and eating. Or between eating and getting to work on time.

But life's not fair...so.

Week Subsides to Week

2009-04-03T07:49:00.001-07:00

...So Eden sank to grief.

So Dawn goes down to day.

My words won't come out to play.

This is all I can do. But it is Friday after all. Maybe next week will be better. Maybe it will stop snowing. Maybe the economy will rebound. Maybe my house will learn to clean itself.

Eyes Wide Shut

2009-03-28T10:11:00.000-07:00

It took ten years and an accidental dose of the wrong sort of eye drop, but I think I finally get it, Stanley Kubrick!

I'm on day three +3 hours of extreme eye dilation. The iris is wide open, but my visual accuity is WAY off.

This sort of condition does little to assuage my paranoia. The eye doctor and my brother doctor both assure me this will not cause permanent damage. Two days ago, I believed them. Now, I'm not so confident in their knowledge. That's why I've been googling it again.

Google agrees with them, so I should stop worrying. Worry won't restore my vision.

The eye doctor says I'm lucky to be so naturally myopic. If I wasn't, he tells me, I could be completely incapacitated by my careless use of unfamiliar eye drops. That's reassurring.

He also tells me this is good practice for what's to come in 5 years or so, when my eye muscles get too old to accommodate on their own. I don't appreciate knowing in advance how it feels to turn 40. I wonder, will it happen suddenly, like it did with the Atropine Sulphate Solution? Will I wake up one morning five years from now with my eyes wide shut, too dilated to read the fine print?

Creepy, Quirky, Crawly

2009-03-24T21:53:00.000-07:00

Last night I had dinner with a friend who confided to conversing with spiders. Something happened to her during childhood that made her realize spiders have needs too. Spiders are more than household menaces lurking in corners. The way she sees it, Spiders have personalities and a certain sense of intelligence. They can, after all, determine that we humans are something quite different from pieces of furniture.

She sites one incident in particular: she and her husband rented an apartment on a property with a lush, dense tropical garden. The apartment and gardens were absolutely lovely, but once they moved in, they found the downside to living in the tropics: spiders. The property was covered with spiders. Most of them were harmless as most spiders are wont to be, but some of them were vicious. Soon enough, she and her husband started finding themselves covered in big red itchy splotches. Spider bites.

Still, she was not deterred. Spiders have a right to life as much as any other creature. She had especially grown attached to a spider who lived in the corner of thier bathroom and would silently admire her as she went about the business of primping up for the day. He didn't try to frighten her with bold and sudden moves, and she didn't try to scare him with the old hairspray and match trick. They respected one another's space and admired one another from afar.

Then, one morning, she nearly walked right into the spider's newly made home in her bathroom. She didn't see it because it was perfectly placed in her line of sight. Spider webs are not something you see or sense head on. Not wanting to needlessly take the life of this clever one, she asked her husband to scoop it up and usher it outside. (She would have done this herself, but she couldn't risk having the spider crawl off the scooping devise and creep up her arm.) The next day, same thing: new web, same spider (she's quite certain of this), same spot in the bathroom. So, the spider was politely ushered outside a second time. The third morning, kid you not, same spider, new web, same place in the bathroom.

What's a girl to do? My friend said all she could do at this show of intelligence was to reason with the spider. She leaned in close to the web and said, "Spider, listen. You can stay. But if you so much as even THINK about biting my husband or me, you are down the toilet."

This morning, a therapist acqaintance of mine informed me that she'd been to this blog. She read that post...or rather, she tried to read that post. She had to stop reading. It was too much for her. Do I really watch my neighbors at night? It all was a bit odd, she tells me. And she hears it all, so she should know.

My apologies if my sudden drop from the web in the dark corner has frightened any of you. I'll try to keep my quirks in check from here on out.

An Easy 8 or 9

2009-03-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

I'm off to do the first 8 or 9 miles of the season. The training plan says "easy". The first 8 or 9 are never easy, but I'll try.

My Future's So...

2009-03-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

Paul Valery: "The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up."

Tonight at writing class: "To a certain degree we can alter our futures."

So, is fate back in fashion? Vogue didn't call that one. And here I've been thinking that my future was my own...not set in stone, mostly.

I've been wrong before. This won't be the first time. Of course, I'm going to fight this notion tooth and nail. Try to disprove Ken. It will be easy, too because Ken doesn't even know that I'm out here trying to counter his comment. For all I know, he doesn't even realize the implication of what he threw out there tonight. This one-sided debate will be much like my other one-sided competitions (the 4th of July 5k run against the cousins, the facebook bookshelf race against my brother-in-law (he's winning by a long shot, so I've sort of lost steam on that one), the sibling birthday call-off (first one to call on the day, wins)). Don't worry, Ken. I'll quickly lose interest in this new competition too.

In fact, I'm almost over it now. My food is getting cold. It's been a long day. At this point, not having to determine and shape my own future would actually be a bit of a relief. I'm glad it's back in style. Maybe it will be one of those things that doesn't come and go in a single season and I'll be able to try it on and get comfortable wearing it over the next few years. Maybe it will even start to look as natural as those oversize shoulder pads looked in the 80's. Maybe.

Hey, What's That Sound?

2009-03-18T07:07:00.000-07:00

Paranoia strikes deep...into your life it will creep. Who are my neighbors. Why are all those cars outside my house at 3 in the morning? It probably doesn't help that my favorite tv shows include Dexter, Breaking Bad, Weeds.

What was that show from the early 90s where the guy was obsessed with tv. All his memories of childhood were merged with scenes from the favorite tv shows. That's how I'm beginning to feel. I'm pretty sure my backyard neighbors don't really work in artistic concrete solutions for the home. They most likely use their grey-primered milk truck for the purpose of transporting their meth lab. Why else are their lights on at 3:16 in the morning. Then there are those all night rave parties they throw. My other neighbor sites the out of state cars lining our street as proof that they advertise these drug parties on Craig's list or MySpace inviting people far and wide to come out and disturb the relative peace of our neighborhood.

Of course, even before these neighbors, there were the rats. Before the rats there was the empty cat house--which in my mind was also a meth house. I still worry about the health of those triplets living there now. I shouldn't--there's another symptom of our drug crazed world: triplets. Fertility drugs. Next to them is the house tucked into the corner. The only people on the street who smoke. And they do it in their front yard! Maybe the cars lining the streets had something to do with that house. Maybe. There isn't a yard full of cars parked there this morning as there usually is. I just figured the people there are big on family and friends. They like having a full house. But maybe they are running a pot ring and they were all arrested last night at 3:16 a.m. in front of my house...

...Funny thing about them is that they never seem to use their upper floor (except to come out the front door to smoke on the porch). I still don't understand why they wouldn't prefer to smoke in the privacy of their back yard which they can access from the sliding door of their walk-out basement.

How do I know these things? Probably because I'm not only paranoid, I'm curious. Sure, some people might call it nosy. No. It's simple curiosity. Before the current owners purchased the house, I walked through it during an open house. I like to be familiar with the floor plans of my neighbor's dwellings. That way, when I'm passing by in the mornings or evenings while walking my dogs, I can accurately imagine what the people inside are doing.

Accurate imagination. Is this the seed of paranoia? Like prejudice and racism, paranoia is an irrational state of mind, but it holds because it's based in some level of reality. Reality skewed by imagination. Oh the places my mind can take me. Now let's see where my legs can go.

The Creative Life

2009-03-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

Thursday night I went to my first session of CNF II. The instructor made mention several times of "The Creative Life" the illusive thing she seeks to attain through writing. It makes sense, a creative life. That is exactly what I need. But I'm wondering if there is room for a creative life within this larger life that includes a running life, working life, cooking life, gardening life, SLEEPING life....

I'm going to try cramming it in. It's only eight weeks. Of course, these are the same eight weeks I will be training for the Ogden Marathon. I'll either be exhilerated by all this rush of blood to the head, or I'll be entirely exhausted. Stay tuned.

Lured Back by a Lotus Blossom

2009-03-13T07:45:00.000-07:00

Four months ago I prophetically posted something about the gravity of words--I should have known the birth of that thought was an indication of the months to come. Like I said, there is no such thing as just saying; our words have consequences. In my case, the consequence was that I subconsciously heeded my own suggestion: if I don't have anything important (whatever that means) to say, I won't say anything at all.

In reality, I've had too many important things to say. The problem has been how to say them. It started on my birthday three days after that flippant post. Turning 35 didn't strike me as anything monumental, but under the surface I suppose it was. I remember being 15 looking forward to this age; there was so much certainty that by 35 I would have it all together (whatever that means); by 35 I would be three-quarters--or at least half--of the way to achieving Nirvana. Of course, when I was 15 I had no idea that this state of self actualization was named Nirvana. I was a debator who knew only of Maslow. Nevertheless, I envisioned a point in my life--a point that would surely come by the advanced age of 35--where I would achieve a true sense of self, permanence, contentment and purity.

Instead, we came home from my birthday dinner to discover our sweet, patient, beautiful greyhound swollen up like a balloon. After a week of ultra-sounds and blood tests, she was diagnosed with an incurable cancer. This is not nirvana.

I don't know where to go from here. This is not supposed to be the case for an educated, employed, happily married 35 year old woman. I'm supposed know where it is I'm going. I'm supposed to have learned from where I've been. Life is not the way it's supposed to be. I'm on a permanent wave, bobbing in the sea like a boat, driven forward only by the force of the wind. What I need is a sail and a rudder--a way to take control. Purpose.

Funny that my life needs exactly the same cure as this blog. Four months ago I stopped writing due to lack of purpose. As it turns out, silence wasn't the solution. It took a lotus blossom to help me understand this. So, I'm back at it. I don't know if jamming away at these keys will produce any more clarity, but at least it's self-propelled momentum.

As If!

2008-11-21T08:43:00.000-08:00

"I'm just sayin..."
This is the catch phrase of the year.

What does it MEAN, "I'm just sayin'..."?

As if words aren't the very things that give life to all ideas.

JUST sayin!

It seems to me there is no such degree as "just" in this equation.

If any of us believed our words were really this trite,

we wouldn't even bother to speak or blog, right?

Mixed Signals

2008-11-16T19:35:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day: Order is Power!?

The Universe needs to stop sending mixed signals.

Transverse Lines

2008-11-15T10:40:00.000-08:00

It looks like it's time to dig into Constructing the Universe, a book that's been haunting my bedside reading stack for almost a year now. Here's the thing: This book was loaned to me by a woman who believes deeply in astrology and it's application to our artistic egos. She determined I should read the book when our conversation about astrology turned to the topic of math as an art form integral to the construction of the universe--and thus, an innate part of the human psyche--not a subject to be feared, in other words.

So, yesterday, I'm reading my horoscope in the City Weekly, and what does it say? It says exactly this:

In his book Signs of Success, astrologer Steven Weiss says "The question 'Do you believe in astrology?' is like asking someone if they believe in art." I agree. Picture a no-nonsense physicist gazing at a Kandinsky painting, with its teeming blobs of mad color and exuberant shapes, and declaring it to be a superstitious eruption of delusion that's not based on a logical understanding of the world. Like Kandinsky's perspective, astrology at its best roots us in the poetic language of the soul, and isn't kindly submissive to the values of the rational ego. It's here to liberate our imaginations and encourage us to think less literally and to visualize our lives as mythic quests. I bring this to your attention, Sagittarius, because right now it's crucial that you spend some quality time in modes of awareness akin to Kandinsky's and astrology's.

Then, as if to drive home the point even further, I open this month's issue of DWELL, and what's the focus? Bauhaus architecture! (Kandinsky lectured at the Bauhaus school; fellow blogger, The Mop, features the band Bauhaus on his blog tunes.)

The Universe, it seems, has determined that I am spending far too much time in the realms of literal thought. Funny. How does the Universe know anything about what I'm thinking? And why is the Universe always siding with my friends and family who are constantly urging me to push the boundaries of what I deem possible for myself? It's maddening really--all this random "order" in the Universe. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. An object in motion stays in motion--until acted upon by some outside force. I guess for me this force manifests itself in the form of "Free Will Astrology." I get it, I'll start reading the book! I'll actively pursue my life as a mythic quest; but I'm warning you, Universe: you started this! You underestimate my aptitude for abstraction!

Things to Remember

2008-11-08T12:26:00.000-08:00

Here's the thing: I don't want to go another month before I post again, but I just can't settle on a topic.

Yesterday, while nearing the last mile of my run, I came up with two separate blogging ideas: a list of things I MUST remember, and a photo log of why I really didn't post anything in October. The problem is that ever since I saw Deenie Wimmer's enlightening report on the dangers I expose myself and my family to while blogging, well, I'm just so apprehensive...I mean, what if someone steals the photos from my blog post that I've stolen from somewhere else on the web??? What if a completely random person I don't know decides to remember MY list of things to remember...except alters the list to make it funny? I would feel so violated.

It's frightening, really. But with the new President coming to office in eleven short weeks, and this new era of hope hovering in the air, I'm going to break free from the reign of terror in which I've been living. I'm going to post that list AND the photos. Enjoy!

Things I MUST Remember

It's never as cold outside as I imagine it to be while looking out my front windows.
Running makes me feel good.
Oxygen is great for the brain.
Running feels good.
x equals negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4 ac divided by 2a

The last thing I don't really think I must remember, but I decided that a list has to be either 3, 5, or 10 items. I'm a bit compulsive that way.

As for the photos, I promise I will post them soon...stay tuned.

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost

2008-11-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

October. It's a long month. 31 days. When I was a kid, the end of October meant we would dress in costumes, secretly steal the the pillow cases from our bedding, and head door to door on foot for as many hours as we could tolerate being out in the cold. We didn't limit our stops for candy to just the houses of people we knew, we braved the unknown. Sure, there might be cyanide, or razor blades hiding in the treats, but we didn't care.

This October, oh so many years removed from that dangerous childhood, I stood in my yard moving pavers in the half-dark begging children passing by to take more than just one piece of candy. Store-bought. Obviously, very safe candy. Nothing that could cause immediate death or bleeding. Still, by the end of the evening I was left with a bowl more than half-full of Nerds, Take-5's, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Next year I'm going to splurge and actually buy full sized candy bars. The only kids who will benefit are those brave enough to knock on the door of a house that doesn't have a pumpkin on fire outside...and of course those who listen to the crazies who were brave enough to try in the first place.

So, it's a long month, October. Yet, I didn't manage to post a single blog thought. I've been in a funk. I thought finishing a marathon would pull me out of it; but something about running 26.2 miles in rain and a minor head wind killed my finish line elation. Then, a week later, there was the Ghostbusters episode. I've been mulling that idea around for the past three weeks, but I just couldn't bring myself to give it voice. Every time I thought about writing it, my thoughts quickly turned to the October my grandpa died and appeared to me in the form of a beautiful buck.

Okay, so this is all really weird and maybe too personal. Deenie Wimmer would probably say this is drawing the line on "staying safe". The internet is a dangerous place after all, and who knows how any of my 5 readers out there might use these random thoughts against me, but I'm going to live dangerously here. I'm going out on a limb the trick-or-treating pansy children in my neighborhood were unwilling to straddle. I'm going to hit "publish post". I'm not going to look back (except to check spelling and spaces and what-not).

Laughter for Hard Times...and Grammatical Ramblings That Interrupt My Flow of Thought as I Try to Blog

2008-09-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

These are not funny times, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't still find ways to chuckle. Tonight, while looking for some random thing on the web, I came across CakeWrecks. Check it out. I laughed out loud. Of course, maybe this isn't any sort of recommendation given the fact that I'm given to laugh out loud at all sorts of things (usually at inappropriate times).

Other things: Themes: Fat. Somehow I keep catching these documentaries on TLC of the fattest so and sos and their journeys to lipo or gastric bypass or some other such sort of surgery to rid them of such fat. Amidst all this I came across this website (much more funny--or is it funnier...Single syllable adjectives form their comparitive and superlative by adding "er" or "est". ..funny is a double syllable...I'll have to look that one up...and, btw, it's perfectly okay to end a thought or sentence with a preposition, so stop sweating me for that last thought!) Skinny Girls Who Have it Out for Fat People. That, of course is not really the name of the site, but they really do seem to take the piss out of fatness.

If this banking crisis continues on this same path, we may be able to cure this country's problem with obesity. People may have to cut back in all sorts of ways. Maybe we'll re-learn how to grow our own food. Everyone of us will understand the joy and flavor of home-grown produce. But if all this doesn't bring you warm fuzzies, rest assured we will always have satire--and if you can't handle hard core dry humor, DON'T click on the following link: Highly Controversial Satire.

You Don't Know Jack, Dorothy!

2008-09-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

Way back, when I was a young, ambitious, high school debate coach (as opposed to now--where I'm old and contentious), my star debate students introduced me to, "YOU DON'T KNOW JACK!" Actually, I really DIDN'T know jack, which was made all the more evident because, try as I might, I couldn't get them to leave my classroom after school so I could be home at a decent hour to walk my dogs and maybe cook dinner and do other things not related to high school. Instead, I would grade papers and organize the room, put the desks back in line with the tape marks strategically placed on the floor (see why I couldn't stay in the public education system?), and listen to these four tragically intelligent teens roar and banter over the computer game that loves to talk smack when the players aren't speedy or witty enough for the game...

Fast forward 9 years to now:

"You Don't Know Jaques": The new shade of taupe polish in O.P.I's Paris collection.

When I saw this in the nail salon in Portland last Friday, I had to have it--mostly because the grey so matches the sky in that city (it's a much cleaner grey than the smog in my own town, but it's grey nonetheless...let's not kid ourselves about that.) Anyway, I opted for this shade because it's a really pretty glossy grey, and I thought the color would serve as a befitting reminder of my food trip to P Town (more on that in a later post).

As is turns out, it's the Polish's title that has really stuck with me--because of course the finish is already chipping, ay yai, yai! Today for instance, I completely blanked out in COSTCO and couldn't provide the pin numbers for my bank cards; the worst of it was that the more I tried to conjure up the four magic digits, the deeper into the abyss of my memory the numbers would slide. Worse still, I was holding up the line! I hate being held up in line by people who have no business leaving the safety of their homes.

Sometimes, we just don't know how good we have it until we leave home and wish to return with a mere click of our heels. Ruby slippers are pretty...

I wore these red moccasins on the plane ride home. I don't have the power to click heels for a speedy return.

Should Have

2008-09-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

I should have been out and back from my Monday morning run. Instead, I'm wasting time online...looking at recipes for possible side dishes for tonight's dinner, catching up on blogs (BTW, Andi needs to update), wondering how Ali has time for such a clean house AND cute nails, and now jotting down a blog detailing how I waste time in the morning. Stalling.

"What's Cooking Mother?"

2008-09-12T12:30:00.000-07:00

I wish I could take credit for that title, but really it belongs to Kim Stafford--the son of the great poet William Stafford. And if I remember his story correctly, he got the line from a student who wasn't so good with punctuation. Stafford's point to the English teachers at his lecture was that a mere comma--or in this case the omission of one--can make all the difference. But what's got me thinking about this brilliant line over and over again all week is the incident inside my own very retro Kenmore stainless steel drop-in range.

It was like this: The oven was pre-heating in anticipation of roasting the beets which I had just scrubbed. Meanwhile, I was using my newly purchased mandoline to make pretty, uniformly-sliced to 1/8" thick sections of eggplant and zucchini. (Yes, I purchased this slicing tool with the express intent to use it on this recipe for Zucchini, Eggplant, and Tomato stacks from the Williams-Sonoma catalog.) I was having fun with my new toy when I smelled something metalic and very much unlike food burned onto the oven rack--which is what my olfactory senses are accustomed to observing when the oven is warming.

I opened the oven door to investigate and was immediately pleased to see that my husband had decided to clean the oven and surprise me! It was a brilliant hot-white. Absolutely glowing. So bright I had to shut the door before I blinded myself...

"Did you clean the oven?!" I queried.

"What...? No?...Why would I...What's that smell?"

What, indeed. The oven wasn't newly cleaned. The bright light calling to me through my oven wasn't heavenly, afterall. It was all too terrestrial; A Saggitarian knows fire when it dawns on her that her husband didn't clean the oven, and even if it were clean, it wouldn't glow like that! After turning the old nylon button to the off position, we opened the oven door to witness the baking element burning its last red ember.

Still unable to comprehend that an oven can burn itself out, I reasoned that the fire resulted from orange marmalade which had boiled out of the pear tart I baked a week earlier; there were suspicious black bubbling lines forming in several spots on the heating element. This must have seemed a reasonable explanation to my husband as well because he grabbed a spoon and began scraping at the black scar. At this point, the heating element snapped along with my motivation to make dinner.

Somehow, when the oven is on fire, everything else seems hopeless. What else is there to do at a time like that other than to feel sorry for yourself? So that's what I did. While I'm not so good at dealing with a sudden change in plans, I'm very good at sulking. So, I sulked, and sliced, and changed the menu to grilled veggies. While I sat across from the grill sulking still, I remembered Kim Stafford:

"What's cooking, Mother?" and I contemplated what happens when we take out that little unassuming comma and whether the result makes for a more interesting story:

"What's cooking mother?"

I think it does.

Food News From Nowhere

2008-08-31T11:28:00.000-07:00

The votes are in, and it looks like my devoted readers are calling for a recipe. As with most recipes I try, this one came from Sunset magazine (July 2007). It took me over a year to gather the ingredients to actually produce this food--not that is was really so difficult to locate smoked paprika (I found it at the "Heist")--mostly I'm just a lazy grocery shopper. In fact, I'm a lazy shopper all together; that makes two luxuries I would have if I ever won the lottery: a driver and a personal shopper. But enough of this...on to the food.

Grilled Chicken Kebabs

With Romesco Sauce

Chicken

8 skewers

2 lbs. boned, skinned chicken breasts cut into cubes

1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro

3 TBS olive oil

2 TBS fresh lime juice

2 tsp. minced garlic

1 tsp. each kosher salt and smoked paprika

Combine the above ingredients in a large bowl or plastic bag. Toss to coat the chicken, then chill and marinate for at least 25 minutes. Meanwhile...

Romesco Sauce

1TBS minced garlic

1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper

3/4 cup peeled roasted red peppers

1/4 cup whole almonds or hazelnuts, toasted

1 slice crusty bread, toasted and cut into cubes

1/4 cup olive oil

1 TBS sherry vinegar

Put the above ingredients in a food processor and whirl them until pureed. This sauce is thick.

Obviously, the chicken must be threaded onto the skewers and grilled before this meal can be served. So, do that, and enjoy!

Food Notes: One person in my house really doesn't enjoy chicken all that much, so I was a bit skeptical of even preparing this meal. But, it was a big hit! You can't even taste the bird in the chicken once it's marinated. And the romesco sauce...mmm. If you like mole, you'll be smiling when you dip into this stuff. Also, if you are into impressing the neighbors with scents wafting off your grill, this recipe is sure to please; my neighbor actually popped her head over the fence to inquire as to what I was cooking.

In other food news: I have learned that preparing smooth (Mazza-like) hummus does not involve the labor intensive task of peeling the skins of each and every little garbanzo bean. This summer, I was stealing a read from Cook's Illustrated while I waited in line at the grocery store, and there was an article on getting this silky smooth hummus. I catalogued the technique in the back of my mind where it remained until yesterday when it popped into my conscious thought somewhere after mile 15 on the Jordan Parkway trail. Long runs deserve whatever food the mind desires, so I obliged by making the hummus shortly after consuming a cheese danish (like I said, whatever the mind wants). Magic! Super smooth and creamy. The trick, it turns out, is to leave the olive oil out until the very end, and then pour it into the mixture in a slow stream while it blends in the food processor. Here's my recipe for simple hummus:

Hummus

One can garbanzo beans

2 TBS plain yogurt

2 TBS lemon juice

2 TBS tahini

Garlic (you be the judge on quantity)

Olive oil (use your best judgement)

Breaking the Silence

2008-08-25T05:38:00.000-07:00

The blog has been silent nearly all month. I'm torn up over it, really, I am. Now, I don't know how to get started again mostly because there are so many topics to be covered here: cake pans on loan from libraries nationwide, miles and miles of running woes, saffron and smoked paprika, school starting and the mystery of head lice, pesky thievery, poetry Friday lost, stupid names like Renesmee (...there's definitely a blog brewing over this one), man boys in pink panties, a much needed public service announcement directed towards women. So many things. I promise to cover at least one of these topics this week. If any of you have a preference, drop me a comment and I'll do what I can to oblige.

Why Did the Boiled Chicken Breast Cross the Road?

2008-08-02T09:53:00.000-07:00

Exhilarating. Inspirational. Empowering. Often, a long run is all of these rolled into one magical ball. Not so today. At mile 13.75 I wanted to cry, and I probably would have if I wasn't so concerned with staying hydrated. The mile and a quarter to home seemed impossibly far away.

Adding insult to injury was the vanity check in the Seminary building's glass door--it's really not fair that this flat stomach thing is largely genetic (this according to some flat-bellied, defined-abbed writer for Oxygen magazine--yes, I tore out the article 3 years ago and am holding on to it in case I ever get motivated enough to live solely on 3 oz. of plain boiled chicken breast each day)....

It's also not fair that after burning 1200 calories and already feeling defeated, I have to look at my reflection in a glass door and have two love handles waving back at me.* This problem could be easily and instantly solved, I suppose, by wearing a shirt that is loose at the bottom...I'll look into that. Then there's the obvious solution: stop looking in glass doors. Or, when looking at my reflection in glass doors, focus only on my good points. These are solutions I can live with as they don't require me to cut all the crappy food out of my diet. Of course, they also only mask the real issue that will still be lurking there beneath my shirt and in my blind spot....

These were the distractions of thought that allowed me to get my rubbery legs home where I can sit at the computer and compose a cathartic blog post while sipping my favorite cappuccino-flavored recovery drink. Ahhh...feeling better already. And it's almost time for me to meet the girls for a birthday lunch! Hurray.

*Disclaimer: lest you all fear I have image problems, stop fretting. I DON'T THINK I'M FAT. If any of you think otherwise, keep your thoughts to yourselves because I don't need your skewed vision in my life.

Friday's Poem

2008-08-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

I'm drained of poetry at the moment, but in honor of Poetry Friday, I'm sharing one from Pablo Neruda: "The Well". Think of this as an Ode to the blog--which often falls silent for reasons unbeknownst to me.

The Well

At times you sink, you fall

into your hole of silence,
into your abyss of proud anger,
and you can scarcely
return, still bearing remnants
of what you found
in the depth of your existence.

My love, what do you find
in your closed well?
Seaweed, swamps, rocks?
What do you see with blind eyes,
bitter and wounded?

Darling, you will not find
in the well into which you fall
what I keep for you on the heights:
a bouquet of dewy jasmines,
a kiss deeper than your abyss.

Do not fear me, do not fall
into your rancor again.
Shake off my word that came to wound you
and let it fly through the open window.
It will return to wound
without your guiding it
since it was laden with a harsh instant
and that instant will be disarmed in my breast.

~Pablo Neruda

You've Gotta Wear Shades

2008-08-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

It's been too hot recently. The sun is bright. Blindingly. The heat makes it difficult to think clearly--clouds the judgement. You know that's why Gatsby's story finally came to a climax, the oppressive heat of summer. Heat makes us do crazy things--like delete our blogs. (And here I am writing in 2nd person like some Mitch Albom hack...I hate 2nd person.) Since erasing all those old posts I've lost my momentum. How do I get it back? Here's how: wait for my dark alter-ego to come out of hiding.....

...And he finally did it! We're back in business--the business of blogging, which isn't really a business at all because there's no money in it. Of course, this would make it a great candidate for a business that white people like (see #105); maybe I should get an intern for my blog.

Anyway, my point is that once knownsideeffects started clacking away at the keyboard, a spark of inspiration twitched in my own fingertips. And here I was thinking I am so independent and individual...no longer needing a springboard for blogging material. Apparently, The Mop's assessment of us "... they keep acting.... well like one is an index finger and the other a thumb. Individual fingers, work well together. but different....and part of the same hand..." is truer than I gave him credit for. Weird, too, how that anonymous blogger can pick up on this nuance.

So, now that the blogging game is back on, I'm going to stop worrying about all those posts I didn't think to save, don some dark glasses, and in the spirit of forward momentum, close this post with a genius quote from some guy on A&E's Intervention :

"Me living in the past has inhibited my future."

No more.

...This is Just to Say

2008-07-26T06:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday,

I was driving home from the reunion

and remembered that it was Friday...

...poetry day.

I realize today is Saturday,

but I'm hoping

I can still turn this in for half credit?

My Attempt at Imagism

2008-07-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

So much hope

hangs

in summer

clouds

casting dark

shadows

on fields of

alfalfa

growing along the

interstate

2008-07-20T18:27:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow a new quote will take the place of this one:

"Whosoever desires constant success must change his conduct with the times."

--Niccolo Machiavelli

The message seems an appropriate one with which to make a new start on the blog. I'm already missing some of my old posts--I guess this is why the old technology of black and white composition notebooks never goes out of style.

On the other hand, I can't decide how I really feel about Machiavelli's assessment of how one must go about achieving success. Sure, we need to change with the times to some degree, but on the other hand, we should stay true to our core values, right? The balance between tradition and progress is tricky. Oh that there were a tried and true formula. My nature is to side with progress and question tradition. Perhaps I need to examine my natural instincts more closely...question them, for a change?

Online Again

2008-07-19T16:36:00.000-07:00

...I wanted to change up my playlist anyway.