tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22336371312119475772024-02-06T21:18:05.246-08:00Flossie at HomeA feminist domestic goddess in training.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-34863563449981298662011-10-11T22:00:00.000-07:002017-04-13T11:24:19.120-07:00Shamed By Mr. Rogers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Having purchased the hilarious book-about-books <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Avoid-Ships-Implausibly-Titled-Humour/dp/1845133218"><i>How to Avoid Huge Ships and Other Implausibly Titled Books,</i></a> Mr. Flossie was inspired to pull off the shelves his own little collection of odd books. One of them, <i>Mister Rogers Talks with Parents, </i>initially charmed me because it contains in an appendix the sheet music to all the Mr. Rogers songs. Plus, who doesn't love Mr. Rogers?<br />
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But then, of course, I had to torture myself by looking up what Mr. Rogers had to say about working mothers. Although he concedes that children are not "bound to suffer emotional damage if they don't have full-time mothers," he also opines that "if a mother has a choice about working during her baby's first years, she does well to think long and carefully about what that choice will mean." Foreboding words. He quotes a working mother:<br />
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From my own experience, I would like to suggest that sometimes the decision to work during the first year or two of a child's life is made in too much haste. I had already worked for a number of years; I had an advanced degree. How could I possibly stop midstream, and take a few years off? My brain would atrophy! I would lose my momentum; I was meant for better things. There are few decisions that I now regret more.</blockquote>
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Thanks, Mr. Rogers! I now feel terrible. He hastens to add that many mothers have no choice and have to work. It's those who choose to work just for kicks that he wants to gently remonstrate with. Well, guess what: I work for kicks in the sense that we could, if we wanted to, with effort, subsist on Mr. Flossie's salary. And yet I still work. I freely admit I would much rather stay home with Buddy than head in to the office every morning—I'm not one of those women who feels relief at getting away to the relative calm of work. Furthermore, I know it would be better for Buddy if I did not work: even though we have the best nanny in the world, there are certain things that only Mommy can provide, especially if Mommy is breastfeeding.</div>
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So for all those reasons, I really should be at home. And yet I'm still working. Why? The money! And secondarily, because I sort of like my job. Although we were far from poverty-stricken when I was growing up, there was always the pervasive feeling of there not being enough money. And my adult life has been dominated by low-paying jobs and graduate school. My Scarlett O'Hara rock-bottom "I'll never go hungry again" moment of grad school was the day both my credit card and debit card were maxed out, and I had to abandon a cart of groceries at the co-op. I got paid the next day, so I hardly starved, but it was just the embarrassment of it all. </div>
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With that background, at this point in my life I need to know that I could support myself, Buddy, and my family if I needed to. And then there is sort of liking my job. It's definitely the best job I ever had—the most flexibility, the most independence, the best colleagues, the best bosses, the most creativity—and I am good at parts of it (though on some days I feel like the only parts I'm good at are the paper-pushing parts, like processing payroll vouchers). It's also in a very desirable, liberal-arts-major field. If I gave it up, I'm a hundred percent certain I'd never get as good a job again.</div>
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And those are the paltry reasons why I abandon my baby son for thirty hours a week. I hope that in the end, the harmful effects of my absence will be at least partially mitigated by the positive effects on the family of Mommy having a job she likes that brings in some money. I tell myself he doesn't seem horribly unhappy with his lot in life. There are still plenty of these smiles, and as I am well aware—and fully embrace—facilitating these smiles is my most important work.</div>
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flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-53442641987021468372011-09-08T20:40:00.000-07:002011-09-08T20:40:59.538-07:00Shamed by the UPS Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you have a baby, and you are me, you don't get out to stores a lot. Even getting through the door of a store with a stroller can seem like too much trouble. And yet, you need things. For me, ordering online became a habit. Especially lying in bed late at night during marathon nursing sessions, I would multitask by using those oh-so-handy Amazon and Zappos apps on my iPhone.<br />
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Well, the other day I got word that the UPS man—the UPS man!—had raised an eyebrow about just how many boxes I was receiving. Oh the shame. So I've declared a moratorium on ordering merchandise by mail. Not only will I try to stop abusing my Amazon Prime privileges (okay, maybe cut down to every month or so), but I have unsubscribed from those daily temptation emails from the likes of Zulily and Baby Steals.<br />
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Late at night, I'll just have to read more books on my iPhone instead of pressing the "buy" button. I may still have to spend money on downloading books from iTunes, but at least no one will know but me!flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-21951613947507437942011-08-06T19:23:00.000-07:002011-08-06T20:21:54.519-07:00Dinner Party for One<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWo6gcd30NZbsXglMkBxD9LstHRerYDh25MMHmsgLNpbz8hzHu5P99n9WT0Z8b_csi2eh0NI6c3Pdg5RGk7CC9-dpHPbhrGXDrGemVkhRI4aiiL1NZxxmu-w7pspLKbHNB_0yOsEG-go/s1600/P1030880.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWo6gcd30NZbsXglMkBxD9LstHRerYDh25MMHmsgLNpbz8hzHu5P99n9WT0Z8b_csi2eh0NI6c3Pdg5RGk7CC9-dpHPbhrGXDrGemVkhRI4aiiL1NZxxmu-w7pspLKbHNB_0yOsEG-go/s400/P1030880.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637936039050638882" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >My dear readers will recall that this is a blog about the desire to have a domestic life, despite impediments (school, job, neuroses, cluelessness). Having a baby presents so many more openings to be domestic, so much less time in which to do it, and so many more ways to feel inadequate. Today, eight months in, I realized that despite working nearly full-time and raising a baby, I've been blaming myself for not doing more—like I should be planning elaborate dinner parties or writing a novel on the side. I decided to give myself permission to shelve the dinner-party-and-novel plans for now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >Dinner parties for one, however: eminently doable. I didn't always think so. Making baby food intimidated me a lot. But then I realized that mashing a banana or avocado is pretty easy. Even the whole steaming-freezing-pureeing routine isn't too hard. I've made pears, plums, and butternut squash so far. How many other people you cook for are going to be satisfied with a one-ingredient meal? Extra bonus: lots of leftovers. I made about twelve baby servings of butternut squash puree and still had half a cooked squash left over, which I devoured on the spot.</span><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QQyAnt3GtYm-4xk9BOZwOXBztP0ZISnrZc7wLhdZKRMh03X_BY25IfFWUWLXlvFMIp-G4Sbd9AQatxvJc-iOW_fFpjmJ6wtwlC-u25q1I4UKCCFW4gVzot8aR_j2yz8zZzenycHC3aU/s1600/P1030724.jpg"><br /></a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" >The little guy is an interested, if initially skeptical, diner:</span><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q8yoDrhW8_1dyBJR-6P2Mw8Beouqi_uFUDKyINCbwxKCkrgVGCPjvBuenmLX3kRgixv4FLydMkmmlaHuU7z1ItHvop_nPYxM3THi5I4zlnt19GQu5nt_jiLhkZVipghTSjD93TpZum0/s1600/P1030722.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q8yoDrhW8_1dyBJR-6P2Mw8Beouqi_uFUDKyINCbwxKCkrgVGCPjvBuenmLX3kRgixv4FLydMkmmlaHuU7z1ItHvop_nPYxM3THi5I4zlnt19GQu5nt_jiLhkZVipghTSjD93TpZum0/s400/P1030722.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637939764547125970" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfj35ZzH8gnVvX5a1V425iP_ofBm7KYTZ6kkYUwmUYDFDkVv1nvLFFr_wO1yxshRCV8footVs_2FLCb1toYQJqpgarjSTzDglDrfHrtTSSIOOB2DHERvCQm9Qd31fBGIsUEGEc8n-fFY/s1600/P1030726.jpg"><br /></a><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QQyAnt3GtYm-4xk9BOZwOXBztP0ZISnrZc7wLhdZKRMh03X_BY25IfFWUWLXlvFMIp-G4Sbd9AQatxvJc-iOW_fFpjmJ6wtwlC-u25q1I4UKCCFW4gVzot8aR_j2yz8zZzenycHC3aU/s1600/P1030724.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QQyAnt3GtYm-4xk9BOZwOXBztP0ZISnrZc7wLhdZKRMh03X_BY25IfFWUWLXlvFMIp-G4Sbd9AQatxvJc-iOW_fFpjmJ6wtwlC-u25q1I4UKCCFW4gVzot8aR_j2yz8zZzenycHC3aU/s400/P1030724.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637940270971654818" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QQyAnt3GtYm-4xk9BOZwOXBztP0ZISnrZc7wLhdZKRMh03X_BY25IfFWUWLXlvFMIp-G4Sbd9AQatxvJc-iOW_fFpjmJ6wtwlC-u25q1I4UKCCFW4gVzot8aR_j2yz8zZzenycHC3aU/s1600/P1030724.jpg"><br /></a><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfj35ZzH8gnVvX5a1V425iP_ofBm7KYTZ6kkYUwmUYDFDkVv1nvLFFr_wO1yxshRCV8footVs_2FLCb1toYQJqpgarjSTzDglDrfHrtTSSIOOB2DHERvCQm9Qd31fBGIsUEGEc8n-fFY/s1600/P1030726.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfj35ZzH8gnVvX5a1V425iP_ofBm7KYTZ6kkYUwmUYDFDkVv1nvLFFr_wO1yxshRCV8footVs_2FLCb1toYQJqpgarjSTzDglDrfHrtTSSIOOB2DHERvCQm9Qd31fBGIsUEGEc8n-fFY/s400/P1030726.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637939922154270514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Arial; panose-1:2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Palatino; panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --></style>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-88183971474015202492011-06-03T18:07:00.000-07:002011-06-04T23:39:30.120-07:00Letting It SlideI don't know how childrearing and housekeeping started getting assumed to be possibly concurrent occupations, because I'm finding it well-nigh impossible to to both. To wit: a) Babies want to be held, like all the time. Even if they're asleep and you try to set them down, they <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span>. b) Holding the baby precludes doing much else with one's hands (even if the baby's sleeping and one's attention is otherwise free). c) Put the baby in a sling carrier, you say? That gives you a free hand or two, but forget about bending, reaching, or doing much in the kitchen. d) Offload the baby on someone else? Sorry, you are the Mom Café, and besides, you feel guilty about going back to work 30 hours a week, so you're determined to spend every moment you can with him.<br /><br />Hence, the burnt-out light bulbs, the stacks of laundry yet to be put away, the unopened mail, the weeds starting to dominate the plantings outside, the notice that the water bill has not been paid.<br /><br />And you know what? I couldn't care less. Being immobilized by a nursing or playing baby is the best thing ever. We've spent so many deliciously "unproductive" hours together.<br /><br />A friend recently brought this poem to my attention:<br /><br /><strong>Advice to Myself</strong><br />by Louise Erdrich<br /><br />Leave the dishes.<br />Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator<br />and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.<br />Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.<br />Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.<br />Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.<br />Don't even sew on a button.<br />Let the wind have its way, then the earth<br />that invades as dust and then the dead<br />foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.<br />Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.<br />Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles<br />or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry<br />who uses whose toothbrush or if anything<br />matches, at all.<br />Except one word to another. Or a thought.<br />Pursue the authentic—decide first<br />what is authentic,<br />then go after it with all your heart.<br />Your heart, that place<br />you don't even think of cleaning out.<br />That closet stuffed with savage mementos.<br />Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth<br />or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner<br />again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,<br />or weep over anything at all that breaks.<br />Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons<br />in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life<br />and talk to the dead<br />who drift in though the screened windows, who collect<br />patiently on the tops of food jars and books.<br />Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything<br />except what destroys<br />the insulation between yourself and your experience<br />or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters<br />this ruse you call necessity.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHdod77zhvztm5kIzD8bYukA8rAcMmSnHau3JnG6ygRS8-qwk3m-vYFGhOrasNGq9sneytqqzd7kK3nD3yrHnbAAp02MTOos1SF4cpN1C3ulj0rBmH8xms5tXkhNGBseTGE-l_tgm1t4/s1600/IMG_2526.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHdod77zhvztm5kIzD8bYukA8rAcMmSnHau3JnG6ygRS8-qwk3m-vYFGhOrasNGq9sneytqqzd7kK3nD3yrHnbAAp02MTOos1SF4cpN1C3ulj0rBmH8xms5tXkhNGBseTGE-l_tgm1t4/s400/IMG_2526.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614620073382393538" border="0" /></a>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-51104423849073843952011-03-13T16:37:00.000-07:002011-03-13T17:25:19.351-07:00Dept. of Minor ImprovementsI'm finally retiring this annoying thing:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKcXEq4KQUkWWFsa4cNTRbOjsZxPOpNqiAAPdwnyV1wlCsU7kMfGbCwlt2Lgui2JyoDzSIPYbxGY4ySL-rdS2NjJoQ2UeWQ7dMBUtSphVjHezZVskZ2Y8p-u43HNVZsBgMBOf-hEG-Jc/s1600/IMG_0284.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKcXEq4KQUkWWFsa4cNTRbOjsZxPOpNqiAAPdwnyV1wlCsU7kMfGbCwlt2Lgui2JyoDzSIPYbxGY4ySL-rdS2NjJoQ2UeWQ7dMBUtSphVjHezZVskZ2Y8p-u43HNVZsBgMBOf-hEG-Jc/s200/IMG_0284.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583716169813951474" border="0" /></a>I got sick of buying the replacement sponge heads. Instead, I'm going to use these dishrags:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7f1_rHBdMMuSzu97SvjbHgoP_3a_OkDbTqH6aOXbnekqeYnPPQf3Bv9dIw3KVLrRWsG1IP7UwHVMSyVxsQJeyb0rxHEhM4Nd1xVJqkFg5R2_Uw-yK6YkI0GR0TLRgQVVThwnyvt1SDyg/s1600/IMG_0286.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7f1_rHBdMMuSzu97SvjbHgoP_3a_OkDbTqH6aOXbnekqeYnPPQf3Bv9dIw3KVLrRWsG1IP7UwHVMSyVxsQJeyb0rxHEhM4Nd1xVJqkFg5R2_Uw-yK6YkI0GR0TLRgQVVThwnyvt1SDyg/s400/IMG_0286.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583717576658912546" border="0" /></a>They're great dish scrubbers, they're washable and reusable, and best of all, I can make them myself (<a href="http://majorknitter.typepad.com/photos/patterns/dishrag_and_magazine_photo.html">knitting pattern here</a>)! I have several left over from a knitting phase a few years ago, and more recently, with my knitting on hiatus,* I bought some at a winter farmers' market. The woman at the booth was surprised. "The older ladies are usually the only ones who know what they're for," she said.<br /><br />Hurray for older ladies' wisdom!<br /><br />*the reason my knitting (and anything else requiring both hands) is on hiatus? Hint: this is me right now, typing with one hand on the laptop.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cj_mZjT6h_aWzHQBjwLgSLxXue4lOC1e42Z-rPpR2T2GcQepcG0ottTpZ7FKaXccWvEdw7KzBfzPZqoDIhX-70JTrvgpNQwNa2ihimiBIfSsfrmQ7h-plCTD1ck9WBgoulgIyZ4pwHo/s1600/Photo+on+2011-03-13+at+19.22+%25232.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cj_mZjT6h_aWzHQBjwLgSLxXue4lOC1e42Z-rPpR2T2GcQepcG0ottTpZ7FKaXccWvEdw7KzBfzPZqoDIhX-70JTrvgpNQwNa2ihimiBIfSsfrmQ7h-plCTD1ck9WBgoulgIyZ4pwHo/s320/Photo+on+2011-03-13+at+19.22+%25232.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583724556607182306" border="0" /></a>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-4840366073114016272011-03-01T16:16:00.000-08:002011-03-01T18:28:22.495-08:00Excavating<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSE-ONU3GYG6G2Fuzx_QFmF2u2sahdD3bi97pQ4k7xbU4msbUFT790Ku4kA5y5nLqndQFScbsBgEFQAhYv8aLM5hJ5XdKjIHksyheV6Qnh2cFDM77-cr1QzLLPyq_77ZnLDGsZLSHf2fg/s1600/306779_sk_lg.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSE-ONU3GYG6G2Fuzx_QFmF2u2sahdD3bi97pQ4k7xbU4msbUFT790Ku4kA5y5nLqndQFScbsBgEFQAhYv8aLM5hJ5XdKjIHksyheV6Qnh2cFDM77-cr1QzLLPyq_77ZnLDGsZLSHf2fg/s200/306779_sk_lg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579303501870120962" border="0" /></a>These last few weeks of maternity leave, I've embarked on an excavation project. There was a certain Closet of Neglect, where I threw things to forget about them, that gradually grew into a Room of Neglect. What I found in the first layer is a time capsule of just about a year ago, when I entered pregnant-and-dissertating land.<br /><ul><li>Running shoes I bought in March 2010, right before I found out I was pregnant. Brand new, still in box.</li><li>Meditation CDs from a meditation class I was taking and never completed because of morning sickness.</li><li>Normal, non-maternity winter clothes.</li></ul>Further layers go even further back in my life:<br /><ul><li>A small collection of baby things I had accumulated before I was even pregnant.</li><li>An Obama sticker.</li><li>My wedding photo album.</li><li>Reading packets from graduate school seminars.</li><li>A box of golf pencils from the days I was teaching rhetoric.</li></ul>Is it possible to be organized? Theoretically, yes, with a place to put everything. Some people out there must be. Is is possible for <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> to get organized? Armed with a plethora of big clear plastic bins and a labelmaker, I'm going to find out. As I empty the Room of Neglect, things are going into bins (and a great number of things are going to Goodwill). As a bin fills, it gets a label. So far the bins have labels like Office Supplies, Photos, Crafts, Memorabilia, Maternity Clothes, Old Clothes/Rags, Holiday Stuff, Wrapping Paper/Gift Bags/Gift Boxes. And of course, there are already baby-centric bins: Toys Not Yet Age-Appropriate, Baby Clothes Still Too Big, Baby Clothes Already Too Small. Let's not forget the labeled drawers in the foyer desk: Batteries, Things That Stick (tape, post-its), Random Cords and Electronic Stuff, Note Pads, Light Bulbs.<br /><br />With a place for everything, will everything find a place?flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-37291899455519941772011-02-13T14:39:00.000-08:002011-02-13T18:44:37.034-08:00Spaceship to the MoonAt first, having a baby is as if someone kidnapped you and sent you to a country you've never visited before. Or put you in a spaceship bound for the moon. You're ripped from your old life and suddenly need a whole different skill set than you did before. Carseats—how to install them? Clothing—what do babies wear? Breastfeeding—really? Burping, diapers, onesies, baths: they're all mysteries, and those who know the secrets—like the nurses in the mother-baby unit in the hospital—are our new gods. We hang on to their every word.<br /><br />Soon enough, it's the same world that I lived in before, only with a difference. Home starts out being 99% of our world, since it's the dead of winter. When we emerge, the heavy-as-lead carseat limits our jaunts to about ten feet from the car; the purchase of a foldout stroller that fits the carseat opens up our range exponentially. Yet curbs and stairs still stymie us. Previously unnoticed aspects of the landscape have new interest: handicapped accessibility; secret doors opening to luxuriously private lactation rooms; restaurants so chaotic that a crying baby bothers no one. The big local mall, which I had never fully appreciated before, provides us with our first extended stroll.<br /><br />And at the center of it all is a wiggly, grunting, squirming, panting, chortling, wheezing, honking little creature. He reminds Mr. F and me of a Chris Ware cartoon: those jowly characters with old-man hair and bags under their eyes, even the children. Needless to say, we find him completely adorable.<br /><br />In fact, any description of this experience would be incomplete without adding how very smitten we are. Everyone told us how hard, inconvenient, exhausting, and stressful parenthood would be; fewer mentioned the swoon factor. I guess it goes without saying, but it's something I never could have fully anticipated.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugNYeAnNigm005XfHAa8deQ-gEUfttyh19P8SxfrSQyhNWVmdZytXftIakqRSxi_J0KRJ3LNqY9bwecUbte5dPGrOQD7rkY1Gt5Aw2WCOejcpQMGBcBzs1ngxBfqN9TfxB46-PkOO18c/s1600/IMG_2125.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugNYeAnNigm005XfHAa8deQ-gEUfttyh19P8SxfrSQyhNWVmdZytXftIakqRSxi_J0KRJ3LNqY9bwecUbte5dPGrOQD7rkY1Gt5Aw2WCOejcpQMGBcBzs1ngxBfqN9TfxB46-PkOO18c/s400/IMG_2125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573356174168230738" border="0" /></a>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-28573206351269974182011-01-15T15:16:00.000-08:002011-01-15T15:47:13.023-08:00Alasdair!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCZLZkyTew7c0ruC3219b67ndtGLbBj3igV3XI_YpAmDnMs7JkZTbrpsXYI2nvGVYZP-TaXJ3ugtEId9pQwkBcS6hGX2tU9QuCA8Ra5aHJU-X0YaaXksGEauL0L5RBtoiMzm09T9UNaQU/s1600/P1030066.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCZLZkyTew7c0ruC3219b67ndtGLbBj3igV3XI_YpAmDnMs7JkZTbrpsXYI2nvGVYZP-TaXJ3ugtEId9pQwkBcS6hGX2tU9QuCA8Ra5aHJU-X0YaaXksGEauL0L5RBtoiMzm09T9UNaQU/s400/P1030066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562559717984324098" border="0" /></a>Four days after that last post, and two weeks ahead of schedule, I went into labor, and all to-do lists went out the window, where they remain. But it all worked out, thanks to friends and co-workers who have stepped in do everything from keeping the office running smoothly to putting together baby furniture to bringing over lasagna. For the moment I live in a world happily deprived of to-do lists. Or at least, the only important one is one I can keep in my head pretty easily: Feed Alasdair. Change Alasdair. Hold Alasdair. Repeat.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-51594875857390976302010-11-26T10:17:00.001-08:002010-11-26T19:40:14.565-08:00De-HoardingNow that the dissertation is done, I feel like I can get back to everything I've been neglecting in my life, but where to start? I've been a grad student of one kind or another for ELEVEN years!<br /><br />De-cluttering is one thing I've been longing to do. I haven't watched that show "Hoarders," even though several people have told me they're obsessed with it, partially because I watch too many bad reality shows as it is ("Teen Mom," "Jersey Shore"), and partially because I would probably wince at seeing my own traits in it. For example, you know how you should keep cardboard boxes "for a little while" to make sure you don't have to return the thing that came in it? In this way, over years, we accumulated a mountain of cardboard boxes and packaging in the basement. As mountains of trash tend to do, it accrued other kinds of junk to it as well:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFsiddlIxcGKMR0VfFT6R6-r8eZjdbz6jf2aR9CWfbqKn90yD3_sFGYjevvjBeRJv9-qPl4cKb_4aMyDZ8MIltYnraPIvPDII6Ua7CosPB-3j0MVUeGmmLzzUe2fOwdXO7FI2rZywjis/s1600/P1020628.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFsiddlIxcGKMR0VfFT6R6-r8eZjdbz6jf2aR9CWfbqKn90yD3_sFGYjevvjBeRJv9-qPl4cKb_4aMyDZ8MIltYnraPIvPDII6Ua7CosPB-3j0MVUeGmmLzzUe2fOwdXO7FI2rZywjis/s320/P1020628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544065976598049666" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Just recently, I actually hired movers for an hour to come take the mountain away, as well as move around or take away several pieces of extraneous furniture we had around the house. Now the basement looks a bit less alarming:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlZ09FHErKFsWLl3d7WsNryLCQx8hwG8PYhg1j6sVp5LeKOwZ9leHrYPjWPok_Wa52h-wqKQ14Gm86ruFXTs6vVK4K_VVC6IAhDIwc_5zN8nUBeYMUnzbSXtK4S-OAsmj7wJxfgesehE/s1600/photo%25283%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlZ09FHErKFsWLl3d7WsNryLCQx8hwG8PYhg1j6sVp5LeKOwZ9leHrYPjWPok_Wa52h-wqKQ14Gm86ruFXTs6vVK4K_VVC6IAhDIwc_5zN8nUBeYMUnzbSXtK4S-OAsmj7wJxfgesehE/s320/photo%25283%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544066680173976018" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I hope this means you won't be seeing us on an episode of "Hoarders" anytime soon.<br /><br /></div></div>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-35228974705146878302010-11-15T19:19:00.000-08:002010-11-15T20:45:15.180-08:00Phantom To-Do ListHello! I'm still here, just have been busy. I'm usually one of those people who likes to make to-do lists, because they help me feel in control. However, for this past month, I've been afraid to make one for fear of how many items it would have. I estimated 200 at one point, if you include all the dissertation things that needed to get done, things that need to get done at work before taking three months of leave, decisions that need to be made about the birth, and decisions to make as to what to acquire and not acquire from the various preparing-for-baby lists. And a hard deadline for all of those 200 things: December 13. Or sooner.<br /><br />Once I decided my dissertation was as done as it was going to get and got it formatted and turned in to my committee, that removed a good chunk of the phantom list, enough that I could start to contemplate writing it down. Just now I wrote down 27 things off the top of my head. One of those things was to post to my blogs. Down to 26!flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-11179987686582328092010-09-12T10:47:00.000-07:002010-09-12T11:56:14.088-07:00Pears<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8T2ppPtwhyphenhyphen2YChQre1zuhSFAALdaeKyyR7clgWvTYm4rAfeqJcWajJvsocgAYWLdmqpVFtwIDjXiXYoTxjS2HiHP1Zb369dGjd6SX1GvreT2uxYG_3cpjvTUDrkefgrjj2UvZRSy3Zxg/s1600/photo-5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8T2ppPtwhyphenhyphen2YChQre1zuhSFAALdaeKyyR7clgWvTYm4rAfeqJcWajJvsocgAYWLdmqpVFtwIDjXiXYoTxjS2HiHP1Zb369dGjd6SX1GvreT2uxYG_3cpjvTUDrkefgrjj2UvZRSy3Zxg/s400/photo-5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516086683406486258" border="0" /></a>Yes, I continue to be amazed by local produce. Here are some delicious pears from Jenna's grandpa's tree. She brought them into the office, and here they are aesthetically posed on top of my laser printer.<br /><br />When I was growing up in the suburbs of St. Louis, there was no such thing as a "farmer's market." That I knew of, anyway. Everything edible came from Kroger's. It wasn't until I volunteered at an organic farm in Iowa that I realized how good vegetables like spinach and tomatoes can taste. Turns out that fruits, as well, can be pretty darn good. The blueberries from the U-Pick place froze beautifully. Every so often I grab a handful and thaw them out for my cereal.<br /><br />Here's something else that is pear-shaped right now:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCF_mDu108hb5CGRQKCTFuX1SzzEkOy_U4j0tmUFqzER0eBgzsS1F2QTcv-xBRueFVxvl9RkaDa83fP80NyuMF4LsVKQGMEBUcXhHUaPVVZK57hYsh1KRBzkDFkeGTs3RxQ6Iwmjtd48s/s1600/photo-6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCF_mDu108hb5CGRQKCTFuX1SzzEkOy_U4j0tmUFqzER0eBgzsS1F2QTcv-xBRueFVxvl9RkaDa83fP80NyuMF4LsVKQGMEBUcXhHUaPVVZK57hYsh1KRBzkDFkeGTs3RxQ6Iwmjtd48s/s320/photo-6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516090121531760434" border="0" /></a>Me. Getting pregnant has introduced a whole new dimension to the work-life balance I've written about in this blog and have so utterly failed to get a handle on. Namely, there is a lot more "life" stuff to address. Maybe in retrospect, I will think it was a good move to combine the misery of FIVE SOLID MONTHS of morning sickness and constant fatigue with the misery of finishing my dissertation (get all the misery over with at once!), but at the time it was pretty overwhelming. Now that I'm over the morning sickness and a draft of my dissertation is turned in, I'm finding it much more enjoyable. Prenatal yoga? Bring it on! Eight-session birth class? Sure, there's time! Trip to IKEA for gear? Let's do it!<br /><br />Three months from delivery, there's still plenty to do on my dissertation and on getting ready for baby. (The room behind me in this picture? Has to become a nursery.) Not to mention work continues to be a crazy-fest. But the baby tasks are a nice kind of fun work. Thanks, baby! I feel I haven't been thanking you enough so far...so thanks for all you've given me already.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBw9cQxc6qmmqfnSbFtmIyVcf1V64HXAeWH3JmqwGYAEN1sUAzMKMdwZfNlVh7jvszb2MMgeW55al9aXmthp-1uWSUZfVfrzjLsXE284AH9JzjUqJjX3l2SVasVcbaawh1r5g6-Z82x44/s1600/photo-6.jpg"></a>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-51482099153900637532010-08-15T14:31:00.000-07:002010-08-15T14:42:54.592-07:00CSA Regrets<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhN_RxmWndUnSYqzA_z0MDSUrXG-6w8P3ghtTuAF_hyphenhyphenuhJtTHvZR0WrHw1uNUGFwbbN_QIwZdc9r0WlwGHX8WZ8I65Pa_zvd_2OCLwy7kkg5BuN-H-HV65x_k94EHhmxYgkgrvzj69lbk/s1600/IMG_0050.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhN_RxmWndUnSYqzA_z0MDSUrXG-6w8P3ghtTuAF_hyphenhyphenuhJtTHvZR0WrHw1uNUGFwbbN_QIwZdc9r0WlwGHX8WZ8I65Pa_zvd_2OCLwy7kkg5BuN-H-HV65x_k94EHhmxYgkgrvzj69lbk/s400/IMG_0050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505753286238934066" border="0" /></a><br />Why oh why did I not sign up for my <a href="http://echollectivecsa.blogspot.com/">CSA share</a> this year? Something about feeling overwhelmed and pressured by having to deal with a boxful of veggies week after week. But after picking up Veg's box of goodies for two weeks in a row this summer while she was in the process of moving, I realize I was crazy not to do it. I simply don't have the gumption to go to the farmer's market every week on my own and pick up tons of random vegetables. The paralysis of indecision may have something to do with that: what to get?—What to make?—Oh no, have to get out all my recipes and read through them all. But getting a box of pre-selected veggies each week takes the decision-making out of my hands. Then I just have to figure out what to make, and usually it turns out to be something simple or improvised.<br /><br />Oh well. Next year. In the meantime, I'm vowing to stop by the farmer's market each week and pick up <span style="font-style: italic;">something</span> veggielicious—no overthinking allowed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBufR9w19EVqpQ8-RUBntjljjxuT-3vcI3dlcU27Q8VfQgBPrQ5-qyWNKwnmsVgZ3Wi5yC_WOzCojeVIKZGQ1L5p50NJWnOI-zHgxA0EzcZ5PTJbWLl9RBNhLC551D6RREp48yyAOMsQ/s1600/photo-3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBufR9w19EVqpQ8-RUBntjljjxuT-3vcI3dlcU27Q8VfQgBPrQ5-qyWNKwnmsVgZ3Wi5yC_WOzCojeVIKZGQ1L5p50NJWnOI-zHgxA0EzcZ5PTJbWLl9RBNhLC551D6RREp48yyAOMsQ/s400/photo-3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505752460451631666" border="0" /></a>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-36574055973784086622010-07-31T12:18:00.000-07:002010-07-31T12:41:46.870-07:00Cake!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ByZtXnWrKw3pkeHZuDu6jzOEhB3x1iFClBBwMJxLenaRyAqHq3aEy98PFuT4ZC3O53meFny2tOfzPzpqwocY9aC-4wFSF6MX9Pb4PqUFBB_Ptv7Vt22T_a28lwzZptDvnbe9tOEaMmU/s1600/IMG_0047.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ByZtXnWrKw3pkeHZuDu6jzOEhB3x1iFClBBwMJxLenaRyAqHq3aEy98PFuT4ZC3O53meFny2tOfzPzpqwocY9aC-4wFSF6MX9Pb4PqUFBB_Ptv7Vt22T_a28lwzZptDvnbe9tOEaMmU/s400/IMG_0047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500152796538724066" border="0" /></a>I learned that <a href="http://mindfullymusing.wordpress.com/">Deb</a> was doing extensive research on vegan chocolate cake recipes, so when I needed to make a cake for work a week later, I simply took advantage of all her hard work and asked for the recipe she found. Hence, <a href="http://www.theppk.com/recipes/dbrecipes/index.php?RecipeID=124">this</a> cake and <a href="http://vegweb.com/index.php?topic=6441.0">this</a> frosting. Vegan baked goods are perfect for me because I rarely have milk or eggs on hand. My flirtation with veganism ended ignominiously, but still I so rarely eat milk or eggs (lingering mixed feelings after I found out that I <a href="http://flossieathome.blogspot.com/2010/03/food-allergy-update.html">may or may not</a> be allergic) that if I get some for a recipe, I only use a little and the rest just sits in the fridge.<br /><br />I didn't frost the sides because I realized that the only way to get the cake to work was to put the sides of the springform pan back on and cover it with plastic wrap. Now that I have the perfect recipe, next I'll work on my presentation technique.<br /><br />Hmmm—there is leftover frosting in the fridge, and I still have all the cake ingredients...I may have to make some cupcakes tonight.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-86282517542022411672010-07-23T14:26:00.000-07:002010-07-23T14:42:04.268-07:00Blueberry Overload<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrseqePHKVUjSM3rnBfAN-yPzkt22vH3aogWoSH6KUW3aI1h9I-gskRZ-E06O6oqQni_xUjKOFW224VGB2yuQ5k_Owd-VAickz2uYsg06dSmacsDPXHk_3JKSw5IL9JfkZFl7L9bq0LvI/s1600/IMG_0041.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrseqePHKVUjSM3rnBfAN-yPzkt22vH3aogWoSH6KUW3aI1h9I-gskRZ-E06O6oqQni_xUjKOFW224VGB2yuQ5k_Owd-VAickz2uYsg06dSmacsDPXHk_3JKSw5IL9JfkZFl7L9bq0LvI/s400/IMG_0041.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497216312800362802" border="0" /></a>On Tuesday afternoon some of us ditched work and went blueberry picking at this U-Pick farm south of town. The sun and the mosquitoes were fierce, but the blueberries were abundant. Now I'm experiencing what never happens in regular life: a surplus of blueberries. I've eaten soooo many blueberries in the past few days. It's impossible to get sick of them, though. I also <a href="http://www.pickyourown.org/freezingblueberries.htm">froze</a> some for later use—we'll see how well they hold up in the freezer.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXg7F2k9zQYPIBCoblicahp1K_Ip2pxcbjgqq6ZxlZBEmJNJHFiNYM8W2k5MAlYikjSFCZLDdHrHmgoU9o63deXjD-VHaemQpoQg_SHsVcB_nSuuQuNkGqNuNARwiJOcWMQdxXgebYNM/s1600/IMG_0045.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJXg7F2k9zQYPIBCoblicahp1K_Ip2pxcbjgqq6ZxlZBEmJNJHFiNYM8W2k5MAlYikjSFCZLDdHrHmgoU9o63deXjD-VHaemQpoQg_SHsVcB_nSuuQuNkGqNuNARwiJOcWMQdxXgebYNM/s400/IMG_0045.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497219967925895426" border="0" /></a>flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-1000294587495489082010-07-14T13:44:00.000-07:002010-07-14T13:59:09.760-07:00Junk Mail War<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.catalogchoice.org"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 109px; height: 56px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidfMqBw4eiiz9vCu13ck409lL0nSFBcM26yRZIq-WXEX2tLWx9gINJI20swHNzRq9DYkRMZRkoUA4-oP9_RJt0bIZKFN4EXCwscpeIZV7G3jYAT_3m2NpKv5y3FtZQUdjXvGt8tvuac1s/s400/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493866102003848466" border="0" /></a>I am the designated bill-payer in the household, hence I am the person who opens the mail, hence I am the person who gets annoyed at all the junk mail that clutters up our entryway and our recycling bin. There was a certain credit card company (cough*Bank of America*cough) that saw no problem with mailing us "convenience checks" every freakin' week. Oh, thank you for the convenience of checks that would cost a hefty fee to use and that any identity thief could steal out of my recycling bin and why would I need checks that draw on my credit card if I already have the credit card itself? I finally called them and canceled the card.<br /><br />In the realm of unwanted catalogs, I have been really happy with <a href="http://www.catalogchoice.org">Catalog Choice</a>, a free service that allows you to get off of catalog mailing lists. I've been using it for about a year. A catalog arrives, I enter it into Catalog Choice, and so far the companies have been responsive and taken me off their lists.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-81986451314745893882010-07-04T12:44:00.001-07:002010-07-04T12:58:54.766-07:00Violas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKPUBy4B8wRWUN-hD1H2TrxkDyVJCWl8xP-Wbpd9HBy3Wro0W0jSmrAxlw8YEqLdGAuzrtG7gVI04egUe3AjuxqHE0TJr6hzR0D4fXlcDJ7aAgLM-BKruoIiZAsdu30L5HKvVGvDWkt4/s1600/P1020466.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKPUBy4B8wRWUN-hD1H2TrxkDyVJCWl8xP-Wbpd9HBy3Wro0W0jSmrAxlw8YEqLdGAuzrtG7gVI04egUe3AjuxqHE0TJr6hzR0D4fXlcDJ7aAgLM-BKruoIiZAsdu30L5HKvVGvDWkt4/s400/P1020466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490140311019319122" border="0" /></a>Our next-door neighbor Jim brought over a couple of trays of black viola seedlings a few weeks ago. Now they're in a pot by our front door, looking perky. Jim is great. He is a professional landscaper, and his yard is a total inspiration.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-28861603337851062822010-06-19T09:42:00.001-07:002010-06-19T09:49:39.296-07:00Mulch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91VLNpyUDqUqXol0ygJ3rqexIDBMLrvtGq0PyyzOtbqIHbulVhuU_BYD7v_hXY2KD_H4xexvh_eTFcxh4BdgIVYEDsHq410Gdnmr0wax168VK3aq5Ed3RrP_5nkQV_zZpHOMWXtlMhZA/s1600/IMG_2171.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91VLNpyUDqUqXol0ygJ3rqexIDBMLrvtGq0PyyzOtbqIHbulVhuU_BYD7v_hXY2KD_H4xexvh_eTFcxh4BdgIVYEDsHq410Gdnmr0wax168VK3aq5Ed3RrP_5nkQV_zZpHOMWXtlMhZA/s400/IMG_2171.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484526328614607554" border="0" /></a>Our backyard has turned into a giant jungle this summer due to my neglect, but I was able to get out there and spread some new mulch over a weedy zone. This was the first bag; eventually I had used twenty. It won't stop the weeds, but it may slow them down a bit.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-24485222351317399182010-04-18T15:17:00.000-07:002010-04-18T15:25:02.737-07:00Pink Smoothie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganLCWummgEh4TRDMDdZ0O4hAj2yonTiQ-xQFlAMxF-lQ7utvrYFHf2Zucfu7VKK414leFSyJLjuG_0McGsmYH9uLbRtlKVdprrK3FU6_p1wQ1MeWYPgFozewZj_ewazsMq532eYcb9iA/s1600/IMG_2152.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganLCWummgEh4TRDMDdZ0O4hAj2yonTiQ-xQFlAMxF-lQ7utvrYFHf2Zucfu7VKK414leFSyJLjuG_0McGsmYH9uLbRtlKVdprrK3FU6_p1wQ1MeWYPgFozewZj_ewazsMq532eYcb9iA/s400/IMG_2152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461605363977549026" border="0" /></a>I have been enjoying the hell out of this smoothie recipe. Blend together the following:<br /><ul><li>frozen strawberries</li><li>frozen banana</li><li>chopped figs</li><li>sliced almonds</li><li>handful of spinach leaves (optional—makes it less pink, but healthier. I don't notice a difference in taste)</li><li>soymilk</li></ul>Yum!flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-68396357363187866622010-03-27T14:02:00.000-07:002010-03-27T14:31:39.352-07:00Om<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmrDwWwR-Ooon85oEEWPZ0FrpTPAtVDzYWOMDETkTh54hALrFNeUcvZJ97vqaMkUEnFC09R-SZMV6FxaLBIVabx9bvo6Cau9SM-HrIejNRD9Hwh4ONCFQrPWiU9IWu7uEC8N8mq8WikIo/s1600/meditation-leaf.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmrDwWwR-Ooon85oEEWPZ0FrpTPAtVDzYWOMDETkTh54hALrFNeUcvZJ97vqaMkUEnFC09R-SZMV6FxaLBIVabx9bvo6Cau9SM-HrIejNRD9Hwh4ONCFQrPWiU9IWu7uEC8N8mq8WikIo/s400/meditation-leaf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453427158921225234" border="0" /></a>Ready for the latest in what has become quite the series of self-improvement schemes? First it was the labelmaker, then it was the naturopath, and now...meditation! I started taking a <a href="http://www.uihealthcare.com/depts/mindfulness/index.html">Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction</a> class on Monday. My stress level has been through the roof lately, because of my job, which, although no one's life depends on my doing my job well, still involves keeping about 10,000 different balls in the air at any given moment, dropping any of which will cause (relative) disaster. And my new boss is always tossing in more balls for me to juggle along with the rest.<br /><br />All of which causes heart-pounding, stomach-churning, and 2:00 a.m. mind-racing. So when I learned of the MBSR class on a Friday, I was signed up by the following Monday. The class meets once a week for eight weeks, plus one whole Saturday in May, plus daily homework. This week's homework is listening to a 40-minute CD every night that guides you through an exercise called a "body scan." I swear, my instructor's voice on that CD is perfectly calibrated to cause instant sleep, which is not the intent. Today I did it in the morning and that worked out better.<br /><br />I didn't really know what I was getting into with this class, because it is hard to describe if you're not doing it, and for the same reason I don't really know how to describe it now, but I like it. I normally have a running narrative in my head of the past and future—all the (stupid, of course) things I've done and all the (insurmountable, of course) things I need to do—but it's very hard to keep that narrative going if you're told to focus on your toes.<br /><br />I'm sure that this class will be about more than that as it continues, but just that in itself is a pretty good payoff.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-71043448252124995442010-03-14T12:43:00.000-07:002010-03-14T13:39:40.262-07:00Food Allergy(?) UpdateSome have asked how the everything-free diet is going.<br /><br />As a matter of fact, I've been doing some research on my food allergy report. At the bottom of the lab report, in small print, it said that the tests were for the antibodies IgE and IgG4. Google and my university library databases revealed articles with titles like this: "Unreliability of IgE/IgG4 antibody testing as a diagnostic tool in food intolerance." "Unproven diagnostic procedures in IgE-mediated allergic diseases." They all say that the gold standard for diagnosing food allergies involves an elimination diet followed by food challenge tests, NOT one of these blood tests.<br /><br />Common sense had led me to suspect this already, but all the same, I wish Dr. L-H had explained how controversial these tests are. Not that my conventional-medicine doctor ever explains anything to me. So, yes, I'm holding Dr. L-H to a higher standard. After all, he wants me to give up more!<br /><br />Now I'm conducting my own little challenge tests. Stay tuned for whether the egg and cheese croissant I ate this morning causes a personal health apocalypse.<br /><br />Mr. F and I had an interesting talk about the word "quackery," which Mr. F uses liberally, and which I'm fascinated with. I think the word is so derogatory that it creates a wide category of practitioners who must feel perpetually on the defensive. Mr. F has big problems with anything that seems the slightest bit New-Agey, whereas I'm more open to it. I'm willing to go along to a certain extent with the placebo effect and other positive results of treatments that are not necessarily endorsed by the hospital-industrial complex, which has its own motivations. However, take bread away from me, and suddenly I'm the biggest cheerleader for the Enlightenment and the scientific method.<br /><br />By the by, I love the blog <a href="http://thequackdoctor.com/">The Quack Doctor</a>. It researches nineteenth-century patent medicines advertised in newspapers.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-14450576512477183282010-03-04T19:01:00.000-08:002010-03-04T19:26:17.309-08:00Flossie's Little Helper<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkunybTo8wv5P71SGsG2Lcyjymr9fSkoAWq9JFz7QztFkcXx2jTdgvG9J-5TY_3rSiyaLieTThMqIIIPn-8PckQtjwxzZgYX9VzUJk_WWuz61ONHFKtyAKrZbGCdrQB8uAV1MOtbEWlk/s1600-h/IMG_2128.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkunybTo8wv5P71SGsG2Lcyjymr9fSkoAWq9JFz7QztFkcXx2jTdgvG9J-5TY_3rSiyaLieTThMqIIIPn-8PckQtjwxzZgYX9VzUJk_WWuz61ONHFKtyAKrZbGCdrQB8uAV1MOtbEWlk/s400/IMG_2128.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444979637008707986" border="0" /></a>Why, what a delicious meal of marinated tempeh, lemon-garlic kale, and herbed roasted potatoes and celery root. How did I ever do it? Oh, you know, just whipped it together between working at the office and trying to finish my dissertation.<br /><br />NOT!<br /><br />Mr. Flossie and I have been subscribing to the Red Avocado meal plan: four vegan and usually gluten-free dinners for two, $65/week. They are delicious meals, they patronize a worthy local cause, and...I feel so ashamed! I have a domesticity blog, for god's sake! I should not be outsourcing my domesticity!<br /><br />Just to make the confession complete, I'll also tell you that we've been hiring someone to clean our house twice a month. Taking shortcuts is the name of the game Chez F.<br /><br />"Why do we feel we need to do it all?" asked Dr. Knitter. "Did people think that men in the fifties needed to work from 9 to 5, then come home and cook and clean afterward?"<br /><br />Sigh. No. But the house feels wife-less, in all the good ways, and all the bad ways.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-13812859690774754002010-02-07T14:27:00.000-08:002010-02-07T14:39:11.802-08:00Amazing BeautifulIf you're sick of whiny, trivial blogs (ahem), I recommend you hie yourself immediately over to <a href="http://akaran.wordpress.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Me and Cancer: One of Us Must Go</span></a>. Alex and I went to high school together, and we were the only two of our graduating class to choose the college we chose, so I feel like that made us educational twins in a sense. He went on to law school and became a partner in a law firm, so alas for me, the educational twinship didn't last.<br /><br />Prepare to be amazed at how courageous a person can be.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-12728706290007844432010-01-31T13:34:00.000-08:002010-01-31T13:44:01.153-08:00Curses!That horribly restrictive diet...may be working. I'm feeling less fatigue, and some minor ailments that have annoyed me this winter (e.g., upset stomach, skin rash) seem to be improving. Damn, damn, damn.<br /><br />However, it's possible that my improvement may not be due to avoiding eggs, dairy, and gluten (I drew the lines at legumes) but to the <span style="font-style: italic;">gazillion</span> vitamins that Dr. L-H also has me taking. I still have hope that bread and I may be reunited one day.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-597569835318062852010-01-28T16:24:00.000-08:002010-01-28T16:45:46.712-08:00Not Much New Here...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxg9AqJg2L6OJx0NAqjfIciTQm8dJ7bi7MX4zTNjrC7ojy4IOTgRgmRqZy5vTW-d-Jm2yh0oDO-f-uwPrXW2CYO0lOttmoQ9Z3CouolBDemXCagi7o4ePH7CeiWVv5rewtTByLs35wxQ/s1600-h/photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaxg9AqJg2L6OJx0NAqjfIciTQm8dJ7bi7MX4zTNjrC7ojy4IOTgRgmRqZy5vTW-d-Jm2yh0oDO-f-uwPrXW2CYO0lOttmoQ9Z3CouolBDemXCagi7o4ePH7CeiWVv5rewtTByLs35wxQ/s400/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431951380334929090" border="0" /></a>...PSYCH! Ha ha ha. This is me visiting a pair of stunningly beautiful month-old twins of my acquaintance: Hazel and Eliza. And their wonderfully multitasking parents.<br /><br />This photo, upon being taken, was promptly phone-mailed to Mr. Flossie to give him hives. Heh.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2233637131211947577.post-19944441115721170632010-01-10T11:35:00.000-08:002010-01-10T12:20:49.084-08:00Dr. Love/HateOn the recommendation of a colleague who said he completely turned around her energy levels, I started seeing this naturopathic doctor, and in my mind he quickly became Dr. Love/Hate. I like him because he's friendly, chipper, and under other circumstances I would totally want to hang out with him. But then he tells me to do things that sound as plausible as if he wanted me to build a spaceship to the moon.<br /><br />For example, a few weeks ago he presented me with a blood test report stating that I am "very" allergic to dairy, eggs, pinto beans, and navy beans, and "moderately" allergic to beef, lamb, gliadin, gluten, malt, rye, wheat, halibut, salmon, sardines, sole, crab, shrimp, almond, pineapple, green beans, kidney beans, squash, brewer's yeast, mushrooms, psyllium seed, safflower seed, spelt, triticale, chili powder, cumin, mustard, poppy seeds, turmeric, cashews, pistachio, honeydew, alfalfa, garbanzo beans, kale, mung beans, red peppers, and watercress. These are not food allergies in the sense that they cause a reaction, because they never have, but in the sense that I produce antibodies to these foods or something.<br /><br />"Just cut out all of those foods, plus all remaining legumes, from your diet for six weeks," he said. "Then after that you can have the 'moderate' foods once a week, but never again have dairy or eggs, and I wouldn't recommend ever eating gluten again either."<br /><br />Sure—no big deal. I have hours and hours to research and plan all my meals as well as read every label and keep stopping to consult a list while grocery shopping or at a salad bar. Plus never eating out again, and presenting people who invite me over to eat with a 40-item list.<br /><br />"That's crazy," said my therapist Dr. Knitter.<br /><br />I had wondered why more people didn't partake in natural medicine. All natural, no drugs! But now I realize that natural medicine requires a high level of personal willingness to change. I consider myself willing to try such things. I don't eat meat except for fish, I've flirted with veganism, and, when I heard bad things about gluten, I started reading a blog called "gluten-free vegan." So getting to that point seemed almost plausible. But to give up legumes as well—what kind of vegan can you be without legumes? That was what put it all over the edge and made me leave his office almost in tears.<br /><br />If I had a lot of time on my hands, I might even try this diet to see where it got me. But as it is, I'm just trying to avoid the foods I'm not supposed to eat when I can remember what they are. It's been three weeks. I guess I feel OK, but Dr. L-H would probably tell me I'm not getting optimal results because I'm not being super strict about it.<br /><br />An interesting discovery is what I miss the most. Not dairy. Not eggs. Not psyllium seed (whatever that is). I miss bread. Bread, bread, bread. Delicious bread. I think about bread. I dream about bread. When I eat a piece of bread, it's the most delicious thing ever, and I'm euphoric for hours.<br /><br />If nothing else comes out of this diet, I will have a new appreciation for bread.flossiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08499097642851821455noreply@blogger.com0