Before and After: Mirror, Mirror.

I've had my eye on this mirror at an antique/junk store. Antique/junk stores are my favorite kind of store. If you can see the potential in something that, on the surface, looks like outdated junk, the world is your oyster in one of these shops (and if you can overlook the near horder-like condition of most of these places--crammed to the gills with dusty odds and ends).

I couldn't decide on this mirror, so I told Chris about it. A round mirror with gilded gold frame of fleurs-de-lis and leaves. I could just picture it painted a glossy white and hanging in our bedroom. Two days later, he came home with an early anniversary gift me: a giant, 40-pound Victorian mirror with three panes and carved oak flowers. It was a completely thoughtful and generous gesture. And the wrong mirror. But so sweet! I resolved to find a way to incorporate this three-foot by four-foot behemoth in our house. In the meantime, we called the store and they told us we could bring it back and exchange it for the one I wanted, as they were the same price.

Before

 The mirror in its original state,
taped and papered in anticipation of the After.

After

I love the way it looks against the chocolate brown walls, 

despite the fact that I want to redo the entire room in gray.

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.

What the world sounds like.

Since I've never had normal hearing (birth defect), I have no idea what the world actually sounds like at a normal-range hearing level. I suspect it is very loud and will cause me to want to cover my new bionic ears.

Had the hearing-aid impressions done on Friday, and I should be fitted for the hearing aids and LIVE in about 2 weeks.

All the people whose cubes are near mine and think that they barely need to whisper in order pass secrets better get ready for their worlds to get turned upside down.

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.

Boring.

I'm pretty sure this will be my last blog post. I've had a blog on and off for almost 7 years, and I just don't feel like doing it anymore. I'm all outta stories. Too bad I couldn't have figured this out 2 weeks ago, when I started this blog. Live and learn.

Here's a picture of George:

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.

I miss cheese.

In my new life, there is very little room for cheese. For bread, either, but the one that gets me is cheese. (Or I should say, that one that got me into this mess is cheese.) Cheesy goodness is in everything, which means: not for me.

We're meeting some friends for brunch this morning the typically Austin, run-by-hippies (yet-there-are-no-egg-white-options-for-omelets on the menu*) Magnolia Cafe, so I checked the restaurant's menu ahead of time to see what I could have. I find that if I have a plan going in, I am more likely to follow it instead of saying, "I'll have the buttermilk pancakes, extra butter." On the menu I find lots of omelet options, but no egg-white substitution (perhaps you just have to ask?). And all of them contain jack or cheddar cheese. Breakfast taco? Cheese and regular eggs. Pancakes? One million points, plus you have to have syrup or something to put on them. So.

This ignites the age-old argument within: what is cheese worth? Is it worth standing on the scale tomorrow and seeing no change? Because tomorrow-me is always pissed at the choices yesterday-me made. Is it worth the temporary taste? Yes and no. Will it make me sad to have to order, instead, off the a la cart menu: English muffin, fruit, black beans. Yes and no. Will I be glad I did that later? Yes and yes.

This is what the rest of my life will look like. I guess I'm late to the party because I'm pretty sure this is what everyone's life is supposed to look like. Make good choices. Be healthy. It's not a secret formula. Unfortunately, this just dawned on me at age 33. Fortunately, every day counts. As do the 52.5 lbs I no longer schlep around.

Suck it, cheese.

*Update: yes, there are egg-white options. Saved!

Rainy day

All day at work, I wished I were doing this:

You know, wrapped up in my JLo's (velor pants, which I for some reason always associate with JLo), snuggled under a blanket, watching the rain. If only I could work from home sometimes! (Except I don't have enough stick-it-to-ness to stay on task without every shiny thing distracting me, or me deciding that now is exactly the right time to vacuum the back of the refrigerator.) If only I could call in "sick" without feeling super guilty, thus ruining my day off!

Instead I sit in my little gray cube, hunched over reams of paper, and am assaulted with exclamation-mark-laden notes like this, from here:

 

  

Do these notes ever work? The ones in my office usually have LOTS more exclamation points and lots more run-on sentences. They are often accompanied by emails sent with high urgency. To which I would like to respond someday: Dear secretary, A high urgency email is one that warns employees about a gunman loose in the building or a tornado headed straight for us. It is not one that tells people not to put stir-sticks in the sink. 

Instead I plan to secretly rip down the one over the sink. Someday. Maybe.

Military chic or Private Benjamin?

I bought this jacket at the Gap the day after Christmas for $17.

I've been wearing it pretty nonstop, since most of my coats and jackets are now too big for me. (Which, yay.) The other day I was wearing it at work because I was freezing at my desk. When I went to the bathroom, I got a good look at myself in the mirror. And my first thought was: Good grief, I look like Private Benjamin.

There is a fine line between military-inspired and army surplus. I believe this jacket may straddle that line more than I originally thought. But let's be honest: I bought it because it was $17 and I love a bargain. I'll probably keep wearing it regardless.

Observations, asides, and odds and ends, all without segues.

• My walking soundtrack for today was Bon Jovi's Greatest Hits. Gives new meaning to the word "great," and if you disagree, I will fight you. Bon Jovi has a soft place in my heart--I'm talking about the days of Jon Bon Jovi's lion's mane, not the era of JBJ with a Meg Ryan-'do (c. 2000-present). New Jersery was my first "cool" tape; I got it in fifth grade, and the only other tapes I had at the time were Whitney Houston and Madonna. My cousin and I used to have contests to see who could spell JBJ's name out loud the fastest. J-O-N-B-O-N-J-O-V-I. Try it; it's fun.
• I cannot get enough citrus right now--mandarin oranges, tangerines, minneolas (cross between grapefruit and tangerine). I've long stayed away from citrus because of the stringiness factor; in fact, when I get rich, instead of hiring a grape-pealer, I'm going to have an orange de-stringer. But since taste > stringiness, I'm eating them with abandon right now. However, my old foe has returned. Anytime I eat anything citrus-related (I believe some of you will remember the bus ride to the canoe trip and a roll of SweetTarts), I clam up. My face and my palms get clammy. But as I thought then and still do now: worth it.
• My office is full of the biggest bunch of socially maladjusted people I've ever met. I have never been in a public situation--I'm talking airports, malls, neighborhood streets--where people seem to go out of their way to ignore you when you walk by. This is a society, people: we don't have to be friends (we all just breathed a sigh of relief), but we do have to be civil. No need for small talk or pleasantries. Just smile. (You think I'm exaggerating; little do you know that editors are barely one rung up the social latter from video-gamers. Seriously.)
• I love Eve Ensler (author of "The Vagina Monologues"), and if I ever have a daughter, this is what I want for her: "The verb that's been enforced on girls is 'to please.' Girls are trained to please...I want us all to change the verb. I want the verb to be educate, or activate, or engage, or confront, or defy, or create." In the meantime, I want it for all of you daughters.