I find it impossible to meditate. I really want to, I really need to, but I find it utterly impossible.
It's bad enough that I can't quiet my own mind - two seconds of "Breathing in, I know I am breathing in" and my mind is thinking about what color to paint the meditation room (we turned Tony's old office into a meditation room) or what I'm going to eat for dinner or why my customer just emailed me at 10:30 at night. I've never been good at quieting my mind. In yoga class, it is much the same. Sometimes I hit that sweet spot of not wondering what my butt looks like in these pants or if I'm showing too much cleavage because I swore this tank covered more when I left the house and did I leave the iron on but I couldn't because I haven't ironed anything in over a year and surely the house would have burned down by now and how much insurance do we have and could we just take the money and forget about rebuilding the house that is slowly bankrupting us and oh, god what if we do go bankrupt, where will Mom and Jack live and so on. That's your little peek into my mind. Never quits.
But sometimes, every once in a great while, I'll be breathing and softly gazing at my candle and my mind will go white and it is a beautiful thing.
And that's usually when Sarge barks or someone calls my name. See, I tell everyone in the house when I'm headed to meditate. I want them to know that for the next half hour or so I will be unavailable to answer phones or questions or watch American Idol or whatever else is going on at the time. I'm conscious of the fact that I'm needed a lot in my house and that everyone needs to know when I'm going off the grid.
Doesn't matter. I swear that somewhere in the house there is a light that goes on about five to seven minutes into my meditation that alerts Sarge or Tony or Mom that I need to be interrupted IMMEDIATELY! The first time, Mom needed me to clean up a Sarge accident. The second, Tony forgot I was meditating and needed me to fix the remote control in the basement. The third, Sarge needed my attention because I hadn't given him any in five to seven minutes. It has become a big joke in the house that as soon as I go in that room, I become the most popular person in the house. Tony could go the entire day without talking to me but the minute my butt hits that cushion and I light that candle, we have ISSUES to discuss.
Tonight, I had a combination of distractions. Before going in the meditation room, I announced that unless the house was burning down or someone was headed to the hospital, I was not to be disturbed. Or I would make sure that the house did burn down and one of them went to the hospital. But, Sarge was barking, the neighbors were having a party and Mom and Jack were two rooms over in the library watching some movie that involved police sirens, chainsaws, screaming and loud rock music. I think it's the latest Miley Cyrus vehicle. Plus, Tony was watching something in the basement that had so much bass in the soundtrack that the floor was vibrating. It was the perfect storm of meditation killers.
So, I did what any good student of meditation does. I fumed. But I was breathing deeply the whole time, so I think that counts.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Double Down!
It isn't news to anyone that I love fried chicken. I've written before about my love for everything Kentucky Fried, and I may have even mentioned that I'll eat until I have to roll around the floor in a big greasy pile, stomach distended from scarfing too many drummies and wings. It might even qualify as an addiction. An obsession, at least.
Last night, I took that obsession to a new level. I ate a KFC Double Down sandwich.
Frankly, what surprises me most was that I survived the experience and lived to type about it. But, we'll start at the beginning.
Yesterday was a bit stressful. Most days are a bit stressful now that I'm a Captain of Industry, but yesterday had its own unique complications and I needed greasy food salve for my wounds. Tony suggested the KFC, and you know as well I do that nothing trumps the siren song of Extra Crispy. Then Mom kicked it up a notch and said that in addition to the bucket we always get, she wanted to try the Double Down.
(Keep in mind that my mom has become one of those senior citizens who eats a dollop of potato salad and calls that dinner. I didn't think she'd be able to handle the double downage. So I offered to share it with her. Aren't I generous?)
And so, at 5:45, we drove off into the sunset, in search of crispy, salty meat products. The KFC here in Florence is about 20 minutes from the house, so the drive there is filled with anticipation, and the drive back is filled with the smell of fried chicken. At the drive-up, I told mom that the guys in the window were probably wondering what two hot ladies like ourselves were going to do with a whole bucket of chicken AND a Double Down, but they were probably just wondering why the entire country hasn't died of a heart attack already. Or what the change from $21 would be since the total was $20.50. Yes, one bucket of chicken with no sides and a Double Down costs $20.50. Mom is not a cheap date.
Once we arrived home, I knew we had approximately 30 seconds before the destroyer of chicken showed up. Tony can reduce a bucket to a few scraps of skin and a pile of bones in three minutes flat, so you have to get in, get what you want, and get out, perhaps with your fingers intact, perhaps not. Mom has a habit of dithering around the kitchen after we get take-out, gathering drinks, getting silverware, checking on the dogs, knitting a sweater, etc. She doesn't understand the Chicken Imperative. I grabbed the Double Down, hid it in a cabinet and called for Jack to Loose the Hounds (let Tony out of the attic so he can eat.)
As Tony was devouring his third piece of Kentucky Fried, Mom finally landed at the table to start eating. We cut the DD in half (actually thirds - Mom got 2/3 and I got the scrappins - she's not good at sharing) and braced ourselves for the chicken-y, bacon-y, cheesy goodness.
The verdict? Meh.
I'll admit, it was tasty. But was it more tasty than a piece of extra-crispy KFC? Not really. The box they put it in kinda steams out the crispiness and the bacon adds another (unnecessary) layer of salt to an already salty product. I enjoyed it, but I don't think I'll be purchasing another.
I did eat two drummies, though, and those were fantastic. That's right, people. I ate a third of a Double Down AND two drumsticks. And some potato salad. Save your judgements for someone who cares that it's swimsuit season.
This morning, however, I felt like I'd been doing salt shooters all night. I've had almost a gallon of water today and my body still feels like the Sahara.
So, my Double Down recommendations:
1. Eat a Double Down at least once in your life. It's a cultural experience.
2. Drink lots of water with the DD.
3. Eat it as soon as you order it so the packaging can't steam it to death.
4. Tell no one.
Last night, I took that obsession to a new level. I ate a KFC Double Down sandwich.
Frankly, what surprises me most was that I survived the experience and lived to type about it. But, we'll start at the beginning.
Yesterday was a bit stressful. Most days are a bit stressful now that I'm a Captain of Industry, but yesterday had its own unique complications and I needed greasy food salve for my wounds. Tony suggested the KFC, and you know as well I do that nothing trumps the siren song of Extra Crispy. Then Mom kicked it up a notch and said that in addition to the bucket we always get, she wanted to try the Double Down.
(Keep in mind that my mom has become one of those senior citizens who eats a dollop of potato salad and calls that dinner. I didn't think she'd be able to handle the double downage. So I offered to share it with her. Aren't I generous?)
And so, at 5:45, we drove off into the sunset, in search of crispy, salty meat products. The KFC here in Florence is about 20 minutes from the house, so the drive there is filled with anticipation, and the drive back is filled with the smell of fried chicken. At the drive-up, I told mom that the guys in the window were probably wondering what two hot ladies like ourselves were going to do with a whole bucket of chicken AND a Double Down, but they were probably just wondering why the entire country hasn't died of a heart attack already. Or what the change from $21 would be since the total was $20.50. Yes, one bucket of chicken with no sides and a Double Down costs $20.50. Mom is not a cheap date.
Once we arrived home, I knew we had approximately 30 seconds before the destroyer of chicken showed up. Tony can reduce a bucket to a few scraps of skin and a pile of bones in three minutes flat, so you have to get in, get what you want, and get out, perhaps with your fingers intact, perhaps not. Mom has a habit of dithering around the kitchen after we get take-out, gathering drinks, getting silverware, checking on the dogs, knitting a sweater, etc. She doesn't understand the Chicken Imperative. I grabbed the Double Down, hid it in a cabinet and called for Jack to Loose the Hounds (let Tony out of the attic so he can eat.)
As Tony was devouring his third piece of Kentucky Fried, Mom finally landed at the table to start eating. We cut the DD in half (actually thirds - Mom got 2/3 and I got the scrappins - she's not good at sharing) and braced ourselves for the chicken-y, bacon-y, cheesy goodness.
The verdict? Meh.
I'll admit, it was tasty. But was it more tasty than a piece of extra-crispy KFC? Not really. The box they put it in kinda steams out the crispiness and the bacon adds another (unnecessary) layer of salt to an already salty product. I enjoyed it, but I don't think I'll be purchasing another.
I did eat two drummies, though, and those were fantastic. That's right, people. I ate a third of a Double Down AND two drumsticks. And some potato salad. Save your judgements for someone who cares that it's swimsuit season.
This morning, however, I felt like I'd been doing salt shooters all night. I've had almost a gallon of water today and my body still feels like the Sahara.
So, my Double Down recommendations:
1. Eat a Double Down at least once in your life. It's a cultural experience.
2. Drink lots of water with the DD.
3. Eat it as soon as you order it so the packaging can't steam it to death.
4. Tell no one.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Stripping isn't what it used to be.
I used to be an expert stripper. Just ask my mom. I could take any piece of furniture, strip off all the paint, varnish, dirt and age and turn it into something beautiful and light that you'd be happy to have in your house.
Oh, you thought I was talking about something else.
Anyhow, that was when I was a younger woman, with more tolerance for caustic chemicals, more agile fingers and knees that didn't blow out if I tried to crouch too long. Today I undertook a project that showed my age in more ways than one, but proved that I can still have a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old if properly motivated.
First, though, I have to explain Starling woman projects. Some people are happy having as a project a little scrap booking weekend, or planting a flowerbed in fluffy moist soil. Not Starling women. We believe that a project should crush your will to live, should challenge all your physical and mental capabilities and should, if possible, send someone to the hospital with a bizarre (but non-life-threatening) injury.
My mother was always taking on this kind of project when we were younger. She'd wake up Saturday morning with a bolt, thinking to herself, "Today is the day we rip out the kitchen and reposition it on the roof! We should totally be able to finish that in two days!" or "I feel the urge to build a full-scale medieval trebuchet out of nothing but lawn clippings and guano! Go to it, kids!"
Of course, I exaggerate. Mom would never touch guano. But whatever the urge, it seems genetic. Yesterday morning, I woke with a bolt, thinking, "I'm going to strip and re-paint that chest in my bedroom! Surely I'll be finished by Sunday afternoon and can bask in the glow of my handiness while filling the beautiful chest with crisp bed linens!" (Where I was going to find crisp bed linens, I don't know. Mine are all kind of limp and pilly. I probably thought I'd have time left over to starch and iron mine.)
I thought I could crank this out because in my younger years (when I was recovering from a minor nervous breakdown) I refinished a couple of pieces that are still part of my furniture collection, even after 22 moves in the intervening years. So mom and I set out to buy all the supplies and after a few hours of shopping (turns out some of the supplies were clothes from Ann Taylor Loft), I was home and ready to go.
And that's when it all fell apart. This chest had three layers of intense oil paint on it, each nastier and more stubborn than the last. I spent hours on Saturday spreading, scraping and cursing the paint stripper, breathing in deadly toxic fumes and burning holes in myself. At one point, the stripper was eating through my gloves, so I had to make a choice which hand I liked least. (Take that sentence out of context and this gets weird again.) After a second run to the hardware store for better gloves, mineral spirits and more stripper, I went back to work. (I've got a fever and the only cure is...more stripper!)
This morning I woke up at 6:45, what I consider to be an unseemly hour for a Sunday, so I could bolt back into my bedroom and get back to work. (We slept in the guest room last night so as to survive. Those fumes are not kidding around.) Three hours later, I had to admit defeat. The top layer of paint turned into a substance not unlike toxic marshmallow fluff, while the bottom two layers stubbornly clung to the wood of the chest. I chipped the veneer in several places trying to scrape the paint away and every time I sat down to give my poor ancient knees a rest, I burned my leg or butt or foot or arm with paint stripper. Not to mention the brain cells I killed in the pursuit of bare wood. I need help brushing my teeth now.
The most demoralizing part is that the chest looks worse now than it did when I started. It has a few bare spots, but most of it looks like it's been crusted in, well, toxic half-melted paint. So I did what any sane adult woman would do. I threw a fit. I cried, I stormed around looking for a vacuum cleaner and I yelled at both my husband and my mother. All my work toward a calm, centered self went right out the window, which is nearly where I threw the vacuum cleaner in a fit of rage. Not my best moment.
But, now that I've had time to consider the ill-fated project, I've realized one thing. I'm not as young as I used to be. Oh, and some things you should leave to professionals, like stripping. Both furniture and the other kind.
(Oh, did you miss me? Because I missed you....)
Oh, you thought I was talking about something else.
Anyhow, that was when I was a younger woman, with more tolerance for caustic chemicals, more agile fingers and knees that didn't blow out if I tried to crouch too long. Today I undertook a project that showed my age in more ways than one, but proved that I can still have a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old if properly motivated.
First, though, I have to explain Starling woman projects. Some people are happy having as a project a little scrap booking weekend, or planting a flowerbed in fluffy moist soil. Not Starling women. We believe that a project should crush your will to live, should challenge all your physical and mental capabilities and should, if possible, send someone to the hospital with a bizarre (but non-life-threatening) injury.
My mother was always taking on this kind of project when we were younger. She'd wake up Saturday morning with a bolt, thinking to herself, "Today is the day we rip out the kitchen and reposition it on the roof! We should totally be able to finish that in two days!" or "I feel the urge to build a full-scale medieval trebuchet out of nothing but lawn clippings and guano! Go to it, kids!"
Of course, I exaggerate. Mom would never touch guano. But whatever the urge, it seems genetic. Yesterday morning, I woke with a bolt, thinking, "I'm going to strip and re-paint that chest in my bedroom! Surely I'll be finished by Sunday afternoon and can bask in the glow of my handiness while filling the beautiful chest with crisp bed linens!" (Where I was going to find crisp bed linens, I don't know. Mine are all kind of limp and pilly. I probably thought I'd have time left over to starch and iron mine.)
I thought I could crank this out because in my younger years (when I was recovering from a minor nervous breakdown) I refinished a couple of pieces that are still part of my furniture collection, even after 22 moves in the intervening years. So mom and I set out to buy all the supplies and after a few hours of shopping (turns out some of the supplies were clothes from Ann Taylor Loft), I was home and ready to go.
And that's when it all fell apart. This chest had three layers of intense oil paint on it, each nastier and more stubborn than the last. I spent hours on Saturday spreading, scraping and cursing the paint stripper, breathing in deadly toxic fumes and burning holes in myself. At one point, the stripper was eating through my gloves, so I had to make a choice which hand I liked least. (Take that sentence out of context and this gets weird again.) After a second run to the hardware store for better gloves, mineral spirits and more stripper, I went back to work. (I've got a fever and the only cure is...more stripper!)
This morning I woke up at 6:45, what I consider to be an unseemly hour for a Sunday, so I could bolt back into my bedroom and get back to work. (We slept in the guest room last night so as to survive. Those fumes are not kidding around.) Three hours later, I had to admit defeat. The top layer of paint turned into a substance not unlike toxic marshmallow fluff, while the bottom two layers stubbornly clung to the wood of the chest. I chipped the veneer in several places trying to scrape the paint away and every time I sat down to give my poor ancient knees a rest, I burned my leg or butt or foot or arm with paint stripper. Not to mention the brain cells I killed in the pursuit of bare wood. I need help brushing my teeth now.
The most demoralizing part is that the chest looks worse now than it did when I started. It has a few bare spots, but most of it looks like it's been crusted in, well, toxic half-melted paint. So I did what any sane adult woman would do. I threw a fit. I cried, I stormed around looking for a vacuum cleaner and I yelled at both my husband and my mother. All my work toward a calm, centered self went right out the window, which is nearly where I threw the vacuum cleaner in a fit of rage. Not my best moment.
But, now that I've had time to consider the ill-fated project, I've realized one thing. I'm not as young as I used to be. Oh, and some things you should leave to professionals, like stripping. Both furniture and the other kind.
(Oh, did you miss me? Because I missed you....)
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