Localvore.

Apparently, George Michael knows of my desire to try to eat more locally grown things, so he's been a real help this week. He's brought in a bird, a couple lizards, a few cicadas, and a mouse. (Well, two mice, I think. The first one looked so scrumptious that he ate it--how do I know? There was a pile of barf under the table, another pile of barf by the door which had, shall we say, remains in it, and then there were the entrails in a separate pile by the chair. So maybe it was not to his taste, but he tried to bring in another one that afternoon for me to sample on my own. I declined. And then subsequently played cat-and-mouse in the backyard, trying to distract GM long enough for the mouse to shimmy away.)

That cat's a real space invader.

There's also a frog that has taken up residence in my succulent pot. Or as GM probably puts it, there's a succulent frog in my pot. I see it in the morning, as we're returning from our 6 A.M. walks, just nestled in the cool soil. (Yes, I keep my succulents so watered that their soil is cool and damp. They are growing like gangbusters.) So far the frog has not been in the house yet, but I have every expectation that it will make that journey (inside GM's mouth).

And you wonder why I often have night terrors related to things crawling on the bed.

My omnivorean dilemma.

Farmers' market in Monterey, California

I'm reading a book that is making it very difficult to eat. Thanks to the thoughtful arguments laid out in Eating Animals (by Jonathon Safran Foer, whose fiction I adore), I am thinking it's time to rethink meat.

I've already grown more circumspect about what I eat. The additives, the massive amounts of sugar, butter, oil, and Lord-knows-whatever-else kinds of chemicals and preservatives. It's easy to know that those things aren't good for you. And, relatively speaking, it's easy to find ways to avoid them or reduce them or be smarter about them. (Though I do love sweets. And high-fructose-corn-syrup-laden popsicles--0 points for 2!)

The difficulty comes in meat. Factory farms, as Foer points out, are almost literally the only option for chicken, turkey, pork, and beef. And animals in those farms are drugged up and kept in deplorable, filthy conditions. What kinds of drugs are they taking, and how often? What is the long-term side effect for humans eating them? We know that we don't want to eat non-organic apples or potatoes because those things are chocked full of pesticides...but what of our meat and poultry?

But what if not everyone in your family wants to go vegetarian or go out of their way to find local chickens or beef? And what do you do when you have a child and they get fed hot dogs and nuggets at day care or birthday parties? And how do you eat out? This touches every aspect of life.

Becoming a thoughtful consumer/eater is a lifestyle change in and of itself. But can I overcome my intrinsic American laziness over food? Will I be willing to paying more for humanely raised and processed chicken? (I am a penny-pincher.) Do I want to shop at three different grocery stores every week--one for Chris's food and stuff like Fiber One bars, one for produce, and one for local chicken, eggs, and milk? (I hate grocery shopping, so very thought of this is enough to me want to quit before even starting.)

When I think about the scope if this, it is humbling and frustrating and challenging. But probably necessary. Maybe it begins with baby steps, one thing at a time.

And so we're clear: I will not judge what you or anyone else chooses to eat--I hate it when people do that. I can't even promise that three months from now I'll still feel this way (though I hope my awareness of what I'm eating never leaves me). I'm just trying to get my own thoughts in order here.

Do-gooding.

For some reason, perhaps because I spend half of my waking life there, Target seems to be a prime location for me to practice my do-gooding. I have rescued more than one lost kid in a Target. Today, I rescued someone's dignity.

I grocery shop at a SuperTarget (produce department is a bit scanty, but overall I recommend), and sometimes afterwards I stop at the in-store Starbys for a frappuchino. A tall mocha light frap is only 1.5 points--I can spare that. Today, as I walked to the counter, I noticed something amiss with the woman's pants in front of me. She was about my age, with a 9-mo-old baby in her cart. When I got closer, I noticed that her pants were ripped on the right butt. Her underwear situation was in peril.

Namely, because I'm not sure there was any. I sure wasn't seeing any through the three-inch rip. All skin.

When I told her that her pants were ripped, she looked at me like I was making it up. Then she kinda looked like I was suggesting her ass was too big for those pants and that's why they ripped. It was really odd--kind of accusatory. The Starbys worker joined the conversation when she turned her backside to him (accidentally) and was like, Wow, you can really see a lot. (Maybe she was irritated that I didn't tell her in a quiet voice? That I let the Starbys guy overhear? Sorry, lady. Next time I won't say nuthin.)

This girl was mortified, as you would be. I asked the Starbys worker for a stapler and offered to staple the girl's pants. Now she looked at me like I was suggesting that I should staple her pants to her actual body. But, thinking on it now, maybe it was more of a look of, You're not in charge here; you can't just decide to staple my pants.

Well, I'm a problem solver. I was trying to solve the problem.

Instead, the Starbys worker offered her an apron to tie around her waist, which she did, and then she continued her shopping. And I have a feeling once she got home and saw how big the rip was--and how much skin was showing--she wanted to die. And thought about all the errands she had already run that day with her booty exposed.

A bird in hand.

This right here is worth at least two in the bush.

Or maybe just a trip to the doctor because of avian flu.

What was I supposed to do? George brought it in, and I've seen him tear birds limb from limb. It gets the carpet very dirty. So I picked it up. Which I've never done before--I usually I use the broom and dustpan. Or Chris. But this guy needed me. I let him rest in my hand. He was very hot. I tried to coax him onto a chair so that we would both be safe (and so that I would remain poop-free), but he wouldn't go. So I just held him in my hand like this until he flew away.

It's a lovely story. A parable of some sort. Until--or maybe because--I will see him again, no doubt. Probably missing some limbs. Once they've been in once, they tend to be marked.

But I have high hopes for this one. Fly, brown bird with yellow around its beak, fly high!

And yes, I washed my hands. Twice.

Did someone say mouse?

It won't surprise you to know that I'm typing finger by finger at the moment. When GM feels as though he hasn't gotten sufficient attention for a while, he curls up in front of they keyboard for some love and a quick nap. He's currently kneading my upper arm as I try to type around him. Wouldn't want to make His Highness angry. (No, really; you wouldn't. It's gruesome. Earlier this week we came home to find a bird leg, a bird stomach--cleanly and surgically removed--and several feathers. Where is the rest of this bird?! This cat is possibly a Voodoo priest.)

What's in a name.

Notice that is phrased as a question, not a statement.

When I decided to keep my name after getting married, it caused a minor uproar with Chris's dad, and my dad and Chris's mom, to a lesser extent. My mom was all for it, but I think it scared her a little too. It really seemed to matter only before the wedding, when it was not a fact yet. Nowadays, it hardly occurs to me at all.

My name kicks ass, and sorry, I'm not trading it in. I still feel that way. I see why people do it, and I understand the tradition, but I don't feel, personally, as if I need to change my name because I'm married. My name is my special thing.

However, I do get a laugh out of the ways that people address our mail. Most extended family go with Chris's last name for both of us, and it doesn't bother me. But I giggle any time we get mail from our mothers, since they don't seem sure how to address us. A primer:

my first name + my last name and his first name + his last name

Chris's mom just does away with last names all together. My mom puts our last names together at the end, like we're both hyphenated. When I asked my mom why she doesn't just  follow the my name + his name guidelines, she confessed that she doesn't want the mail carrier to think that Chris and I aren't married.

Again, none of this bothers me. It's a paradigm shift for people our parents' age--and maybe even our age, though less and less all the time--so I understand that it takes a little getting used to. Maybe I'll change my name when we have a kid, but these days I'm not leaning in that direction. I reserve the right to do whatever.

Before (muffled) and After (loud)

Lord have mercy, the world is loud.

Yet my hearing aids are small. That's one of them, next to a quarter.

 Here's one of them in my ear. See? You can barely even tell. The over-the-ear part blends right in with my hair. It kinda obstructs my ability to tuck my hair behind my ears, but in exchange for being able actually hear you and not just grin and nod, I'll take it. (Does it look like I'm posing on an airfield? Maybe I am!)

 

Here's what I look like with them on. This is also for you to compare how different my face is, 63 pounds down. The picture with Chris is from our honeymoon, almost one year ago.

Lots of changes. All of them good.

Aids.

 
I have an appointment with an ENT doctor on Tuesday. My ears have been ringing nonstop since I got sick at Christmas, and I have a feeling my hearing loss has only become more...lost. I do believe that 2010 is the year I get aids. Hearing aids.

The reason I've put this off as long as I have is that I'm afraid they'll tell me that my hearing loss has gotten worse. It was 40% in both ears 5 years ago--what if it's 50% now? Or 60%? If the loss is progressive and constant, then that's some scary math: it's not a lot of years till 100%. So if you don't go to the doctor, then you don't know it's gotten worse for sure, though you suspect it, of course, and life goes on. And you don't hear anything in meetings, or when people come to whisper something to you in your cube at work, or when someone's got her head turned and she's talking to you but you can't hear it.

But how will I wear my iPod when I'm on my walk? And how on earth will we afford the aids in the first place. I have a lot of questions.

The chair.

When Chris moved in last year, there was very little in his apartment that he brought with him. I had a fully (and cutely) furnished place, so there wasn't a need to bring much. There were the books, of course.

This is how our bedroom looks now, and this is just a sampling; the rest of our books 

are in the office and downstairs, tucked in every conceivable cranny.

And the chair. The one piece of furniture he was really attached to, the one that he bought at a vintage store because it spoke to him.

Spoke of '60s-era orange/saffron/brown colors, apparently. I was dubious.

Until I sat down in it. Mama mia, that is one comfortable chair. Like sitting in a cloud.

So we tried to make it blend in (because it's not going anywhere--we nearly got annulled over trying to get this thing up the stairs and through the tightest doorway ever, so this thing stays). Painted the walls blue. Tossed the orange pillows I got from former employees in Pakistan. A little hand-me-down foot stool. Make the chair look like it's there on purpose.

I've never been totally sold on how "intentional" it looks, other than when I see Chris retreat to it to read in the mornings, or on a Saturday afternoon. Then I know it belongs here. It's part of our house.