Tiny times

After re-submitting (emphasis on the RE) Aetna reimbursements took three hours of my life, I did two little things that were a lot more satisfying:

1. I read this book. It's Anne LaMott meets Anthony Bourdain (pre-fatherhood) meets Mary Karr's Lit. I can't decide if I'd recommend it or not, but it did make me want to visit St. George's Anglican church. I'm binging on memoir, starting this at the same time as this (the latter is about their friendship and has inspired me to write about my own Sherie V. Her sordid past doesn't include AA, but it does include a bad relationship with Pepsi and many a sketchy afternoon talking officers out of speeding tickets).

2. I scanned this doodle:

Tiny times around here.

Tonight

One son early to bed + one husband over at the neighbor's + one This American Life = One card colored.

Customized Birthday Love

The oxygen is working! I'm a-doodling!

There are many good birthdays this week: Sweet M from Praha, BC's grand 5-0, talented JB of Bergamot Orange, and spunky LD (who we will sorely miss next year).

I want to color this card up differently for all of those fab folks and send it with a personalized name in the blank in the middle.

I'm thinking on custom cards this week. If I were to post my nine-doored cards on Etsy and tailor the images and writing inside to the purchaser, would anyone scoop 'em up? And would it be worth my time? We wonder.

 

When in Rome...one delivers zucchini bread

There's this burn barrel about eight feet from my patio where all of my neighbors burn their Joss paper money from time to time. Oranges and incense crowd around it. It's really interesting and beautiful, and I really don't mind it except when they set that thing alight while my son is busily chalking it up six inches from the roaring flames. Okay, I mind it a lot, as it also leaves a layer of ash on my furniture and stinks up my yard and makes relaxing outside with your wine-filled-with-floaters a little challenging. But, When In Rome. Which is why I should not grouse that I've been the recipient of three condo complaints in three days. One was just from a screaming auntie telling Gus to quit having fun at 1:00 in the afternoon. He was standing in the grass. The other was a nervous security guard having to quiet down my patio for the second time. He backed off when he saw it was just four adults chatting normally at a normal evening hour. But today we got the big, "Three strikes and yer out" lecture when Oscar's chalk art was finally formally reprimanded. We've been told to spread the word, folks. Chalk art---verboten!

So little Banksy and I are having to take our work to shadier places. And honestly, on an island where you can't chew gum, I can actually wrap my brain around the horror of our actions a little bit. A little bit. 

As someone who has spent a lot of her life worrying about how much time she takes in the ATM, or thinking that the car that's honking is absolutely honking at her because she is doing something tragically inconvenient, or going out of her way to never ever cut in line or be late for a meeting or not be fully prepared for any number of documents you might have to present at passport control, I am struggling a wee bit to discern if I've morphed into the ugly American. We do collect a lot of snails. There is a patch of grass that may not grow back due to some digging. Sometimes, sometimes we turn up a song called "Alabama Chicken" very loudly and sing the chorus with gusto. 

All of this coincides with a hilarious English-as-another-language moment with my students. I have these "choices" cards where I read some inane statement and the kids have to make a quick decision. It's supposed to be based on brain research and warm us up for some serious thinkin'. "Would you rather eat a raw egg or a slice of raw bacon?" kind of things. "Would you rather give up your birthday forever or give up your siblings?" They love it. The last one was, "Would you rather be chased by a charging bull or a roaring lion?" And one sweet student, wonderful dear student, got this disgusted look on his face and said, "That's ridiculous. Why would anyone be chased by either of those things?" I tried to cajole him into guessing. I mean, come on, I know it isn't going to happen but neither is the loss of your birthday (unless you chalk art on the mean streets of this condo!). He stared at me, brow furrowed, and finally said, "A roaring lime?" He thought I'd asked if he'd rather be chased by a bowl or a lime. Yes. Yes, that IS a stupid question.

I've been trying to think of how to pose my neighborly dilemma in the "choices" jar later this week. "Would you rather be neighbors with the family that waves and smiles and doesn't make a peep from 9:00pm until 7:00am but that sometimes draws repetitive patterns of squid and octopus on the walking paths and may have been responsible for the snails that crawled in your kitchen window because we lined them up under there when you had them all open and they move far faster than one might expect--OR--would you rather not?

Hm. I guess that is a stupid question too. When in Rome. When in Rome one bakes something really good as an apology. Gus and I have some serious baking to do!

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We also have some baking to do for an upcoming birthday bash. Gus is six weeks from age three, and so I've reserved the poolside for cupcake eating and unorganized preschool mayhem. We ignored his birthday for two years, and he's catching on. Goodie bags, here we come!

PS. Today's video: Killer Snails.

Recycled topic: Living well 101

It's been almost three years of almost:

Almost back in shape.

Almost drawing again.

Almost Skyping all those people I've told I'll Skype.

Almost enjoying long hours building block towers that get knocked down over and over and over and over.

Almost writing.

Almost parenting.

Almost making it home for Christmas without the flu.

Almost maintaining friendships.

Almost sleeping through the night.

Almost hanging all the pictures in the eight months "new" apartment.

Almost figuring it out.

Almost buying a house.

Almost handling that last interaction with grace (before it went tragically south).

Almost learning Czech.

Almost making it through the whole year within my sick day allotment.

Almost attending the 47 dinners I've canceled.

Almost grading all those papers on time.

Almost using "swag" correctly in front of my seventh graders

Almost giving up coffee.

Almost tackling that skin rash.

Almost answering the phone.

Almost finding a new topic for the blog other than the cyclical, "How do I enjoy this cup of life that is handed to me?" one.

As I've alluded to 40 billion times, as someone that read wayyyyy too much Emerson in college, I know that I should take heart in the process of transcending my yucky self, but being on the verge is really unsatistfactory. I'm a lady hankering for a victory. An apex. Two and a half weeks post-sinus-surgery, I have a big ol' infection in my face. I'm thanking God it's not MRSA, but I'm also cartoon kicking the dirt and saying, "shucks!" If you knew how meticulous I have been with self-care, you would think my usual cavelier-about-doctors'-advice-self was taken over in the zombie apocalypse. I have been careful. 

And so I'm mildly defeated over dumb reasons.

I canceled another dinner date.

I came home from the doctor and was a poopy mom and didn't really enjoy setting up the lego train or (worst game of all) pretending there was a bee trying to get us so we hide under a blanket and scream (repeatedly). 

But, I did do something I haven't done in months. Maybe years. I handwrote a letter. I got out paper, and I scribbled a long note to a dear friend and in the slowness of those looping words, I reminded myself about (warning: repetitive blog topic alert!) seasons. We don't get to pick how long some seasons are, but we can wear them well and with kindness to self and others. We can quit fighting them and live them. We can shut up. This season is one of loose ends and loss of muscle tone and holding tight to what is near. Writing it out to her relaxed me enough to think past simply grinning and bearing it (at least for the afternoon), and I was able to react to my day with true delight. Gus was wild, and so he and I sang ourselves through a little Sesame Street therapy after dinner, which I did thoroughly enjoy. Prior to his shower I got out the "washable ink" (a manufacturer's joke) stamp pad, and we made marvelous fingerprint caterpillars and a few deranged handprint turkeys. And as we lay in bed thanking God for his snail collection, his friends, his dad who is admirably building houses in Cambodia with 14-year-olds, and anything covered in chocolate, I was understanding of our now. I wouldn't have chosen all of it. Almost-living isn't best for my personality. I'm disappointed I didn't get to have Nepalese food with a gaggle of interesting people tonight. But I am thankful--very thankful--I got to watch my interesting son shovel in quinoa and tell me the differences between male and female mosquitos.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote often of the necessity for "being time." The time where we walk alone, where we sit alone, where we write for ourselves, where we let our brains relax a bit so we can tackle the routines before us without animosity. I am so ridonkulously stupid that I forget it. And I waddle through days in my Almost-fog and forget to live. And to be fair, how is one supposed to feel excited about that dreadful bee game when a truly disgusting situation is going on in her newly remodeled nose? Being time PLUS giving ourselves a big fat break seems a fair balance for sanity and the ability to recognize the good in life.

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I took some being time last week while I mended to celebrate a birthday of a new friend. She doesn't resent my 5:00am texts canceling our jogs, understands why I didn't show up to the dance party, and she also eats frosting-laden cupcakes, so I like her very much:

I also bought these confectionery shaped erasers. They've totally amped up tea parties around here:

PS. It's question list time in my class! Man, is THIS a season that's easy for me to savor. My list wonders what adenoids do, what YOLO means (yes, I finally looked it up), the reasoning behind the mango shortage during Chinese New Year, why they all laugh at me when I say "swag", whether or not I can eat my lucky Mandarin oranges, how they pick a new Pope, what the US's involvement in WWI was, tenable methods for deterring a large asteroid from striking the Earth, what was the Marconi scandal, and does Chapstick really create a dependence on lip balm. Good times.

 

Story telling

I've been thinking a lot about story lately. Dear friends were discussing a family phrase for recentering worrying in their house, "Is that the truth, or is that a story you're telling yourself?" It's a good barometer reading for self-imposed-suffering.

Since Deborah Wiles worked with my students (see yesterday's post), I've been thinking on how story tells the truth, even when what you're writing is fiction. It's helping me frame some of my own stories and giving me license to write. It's also providing a more compassionate lens.

(thank you for DW)

When P and I were recovering after the tsunami, we had our stories taken from us by two different people. One journalist published an email we didn't want seen and another author lifted quotes by P and used them in painful, derogatory ways in widely-read angry diatribes. Those violations made me quit talking and question my own reliability and experience. This week, an 8th grade student was doing a research project on the tsunami of 2004 in order to write a short story for her language arts class. She found one of those "shocking but true" books that tells tales of brushes with death. And of all the stories, in that book was the tale of the family that P helped rescue eight years ago. But, P wasn't in the tale. They shared an entirely different story with an entirely different hero. At first I was enraged. For the third time we were absent from our own life-changing experience. But then I thought about what Debbie Wiles taught us, and I stepped back. That story was what that family experienced. They were panicked--like us. They were in survival mode--like us. What they wrote is what they felt, hoped for, and lived through---even if it didn't really happen. Who am I to say I'm the reliable eye-witness? I spent enough years teaching social studies to know that no account is to be trusted when we examine history. Include me in it. I'm sad we're not in the story in the book, but it's only for petty reasons. Mostly, I'm happy that family had a shared narrative that leaves them stronger and that gives their children scaffolding for making sense of something very hard and scary. I'm grateful for story, and it's not mine to judge if it's fiction or not. 

That's all sort of heavy and weary-making, so I'll think about this: Today, while I continued to recover in bed, Gus brought me a coconut he picked up on his walk home from school. Things like that make me really dig Singapore. We shook it together, heard the milk slosh around and made plans to smash it open when his dad gets home. In Gus's story, he knows that you can't stand under trees laden with coconuts or one could fall. He also knows that there are different kinds, and we usually only drink from the green ones the street vendors hack into with machetes and poke with bendy straws. He knows every snail in his yard by family order ("that's the littlest brother and the almost biggest sister"), and he also remembers not to touch milipedes or yellow fuzzy caterpillars. The sting is outrageous. Yesterday, a green snake (mildly venemous) climbed the trees in our yard and got into a second story apartment. Gus knows that snakes are dangerous and that we run and get help when we see one. The condo "uncle" who caught it, also told Gus tales of a python he caught on the eighth story last year. Gus is learning his natural world even in a city of five million people, and he is creating memories that I had. Mine featured large mouth bass, ducks, and sunfish. I picked lilacs and goldenrod and not tropical fruit. The parrots in the trees we see here would have only existed at the zoo. When we moved overseas, I worried that we'd lose our footing with nature. Thankfully--hallelujah-- nothing has been lost: the storyline is the same, the elements have just altered. That gives me great joy.

So does smashing coconuts. 

Breathing soon

We've been having a quiet time that has felt very noisy.

P and I, ever list makers, have been feeling overwhelmed with lack of lists and Groundhog Day-ish surviving. Even after long post-holiday peptalks where we informed ourselves we were not too tired to be creative, we are still working our way through evenings of season two of NCIS when we could be scribbling. And darn that Downton Abbey. It's simply no good. 

We're doing things. We work. We send a lot of house-buying emails. We have mandatory daily walks. We play with that wild Gus, and we changed four light bulbs on Tuesday. I had the rich pleasure of co-teaching (That's a lie. She did it all.) for three days in my classroom with Deborah Wiles, who reminded my students that they are not invisible voices and that our stories matter. I cried happy tears every day she was there. I've rushed through fleeting art moments. For his 37th birthday, P got a card I was too lazy to scan with a Carole King quote that did not look quite as sappy when I drew it in blue ink: "Funny how I feel, more myself with you, than anyone else that I ever knew..." He also got a from-scratch red velvet cake that stretched for five whole days.

I even sketched a collection of logo ideas (View this photo) for a friend that is doing admirable jewelry work. What's your vote?

And yesterday, I got my sinuses surgerized. My face feels like I should have ducked a little lower during that last shot, but I'm told my life will change. The new B will get so much oxygen to her brain that she'll only need four hours of sleep and will finally produce that novel. Or at least she'll make a list or two. On that list will be, "embarrassing hospital stories." They will include the doctor in Prague that ate his lunch in front of me while I sat pantless polietly listening to his diagnosis on a very cold chair. They will also include Wednesday's nurse, a lovely woman who apparently is from a far more conservative culture than mine, who had never heard of a tampon and caused me to have to explain what it was in front of six patients and several shy hospital staff. 

I will also have a list entitled, "community building 2013." We've had the rare rare rare Singapore opportunities lately to make people meals (gasp), walk their dog (wow), and send get well cards. In our insulated society of (for whom we are much grateful) domestic employees, you rarely get to open someone's refrigerator and get yourself a glass of water. To get to deliver the soup to the table is the community we crave, and I'm so happy the C family let us in this week. (I'm also embarrassed that it's all it takes). That same week, we found ourselves at 8:30pm getting in trouble from the condo security because an impromptu happy hour led to a dozen children drawing with chalk on the sidewalk (against the condo rules!) and playing fabulous rowdy games in the yard too loudly. It was such a welcome scolding to have enough kiddos around us that we could make a wild ruckus on a weekend night not from the adults on the patio but from the sweaty toddlers to teens in the yard. My biggest prayers when we moved here were that Gus would be loved by others and that there would be dirt in which to dig. He is hugged, and he is filthy. Praise God. To all my Singapore friends, you can look in my laundry basket anytime. Please, let's see one another's mess.

And man, once that oxygen starts flowing, who knows what creative genius will strike. Look out kids, chalk masterpieces are ahead!