my mother's ski sweater

In honor of what would have been my mother's 72nd birthday, today, I wanted to write something thoughtful to honor her. I wrote some notes about what she called the "clothing museum." It included clothes of hers and mine that were special in some way. I have not finished this piece for many reasons. I will get to it, soon. For today, I will post one photo of one item from that museum: my mother's ski sweater from the 1950s. It was handmade, tiny and wool.

I would never have worn it--even if it would fit me--because wool makes me itch. And I never saw my mother wear this sweater. But I picture her in it when I read her short story, "The Circle," in The Hottest Night of the Century, which revolves around a skiing trip.

yet another...

As I wrote in my last post, I rarely see things that are my style in the NY Times, though everything presented is usually in fabulous taste of some sort or another. But today I again saw a dress I would wear. I am shocked. Am I getting old? Or is style NY Times style finally catching up with me? (I will fess up that I don't know who Zoe Saldana is.)

ads, airbrushing and clothes I want

(Was it more than a month ago that I collected these photos? Damn. At least the topics—advertising and fashion—are not especially time-sensitive.)

I was reading The New York Times Magazine (or is it actually, really T Magazine now?), probably not on the Sunday (April 17) it came out, rather during the week following. A few photos caught my attention.

The first set of photos fall under the “ads and airbrushing” category. As I flipped through the mago, I immediately noticed a contrast between two ads featuring “older” women and how they employed airbrushing. Sure, Lauren Hutton (67) has more than 10 years on Kim Cattrall (54), if I have my math right, so Hutton should look older. But I am also sure the Cattrall has some wrinkles, or at least pores. Need I say, I like the Hutton ad better. Of course, both women are lovely, I just wish Kim was not so willing to submit herself to such heavy, obvious airbrushing. Should Alexis Bittar be credited and Olay not? Both have chosen not-young women as centerpieces for their campaigns. I suppose that is a start. But I love that we can see Hutton’s cleavage wrinkle.

The second set of photos accompanied fairly vapid articles on Charlotte Dellal (“Footprints”) and Cate Blanchett (“Vanishing Act”). I love the latter, but I don’t really know who the former is. Here, I saw clothes I actually admired, coveted for myself, and I usually see little of my own style in the NY Times.

I WANT these clothes (putting any possible airbrushing aside).

god discussion with Iz

Iz and I have our best discussions in the car.

Iz has decided he wants to create a city out of boxes for his Godzilla-themed birthday (which is two months away). He discovered a new way of painting windows—with a single vertical brushstroke. But he wanted ideas for other types of windows so his building would look different. I picked him up at school a few days ago, and, on the 30-minute drive home, I pointed out the wide variety of window types in downtown DC through Capitol Hill. While none are Godzilla-city skyscrapers, they offered inspiration.

We passed a small church on Independence Avenue with arched stained-glass windows. I have always loved how you can see the leaded lines, darkened colors and vague forms from the outside of a stained-glass window. I pointed and said to Iz, “Look at the arched windows of that church.”

Iz asked, “What is a church?”

I paused, stumbled over some words, “On Sundays, some people meet at the church to talk about god. It is like a school where you learn about god, for those who believe in god.” I know, a simplistic description, but functional.

I can’t actually remember if Iz asked, “Why don’t we go to church?” But I knew he was thinking it.

So I answered, “We don’t go to church because I don’t believe in god.”

Iz said, “I kind of don’t believe in god and I kind of do.”

I asked, “That’s cool. If there is a god, what is he or she like?”

Iz replied, “Big. Much bigger than people, and god is a girl.”

I appreciated that, “I do think that if there is a god, she would be female—or like a female.”

Iz said, “And god would live in the clouds.”

I said, “I think god wouldn’t really have a body like we do—I think she would be something different. I do believe there is power in nature, a way that things work that makes sense, that seems to be come from a thoughtful being. Some people call this ‘Mother Nature.’”

Iz said, “Mother Nature is a girl.”

“Yes, she is.”

We then merged onto Kenilworth Avenue and probably started talking about whether he could have a doughnut when he got home.

maybe painting is more my thing

Considering that I have struggled with the writing, and this painting (in progress) feels much stronger, I may be a better painter than writer.

introverts

We know who we are, and according to the Psychology Today article, "Revenge of the Introvert," we make up 50 percent of the population. 


I have no question that I am an introvert. And this article explicitly explained two of my biggest pet peeves about how non-introverts treat us: 1) pressuring us to "be happy" as if pursuing happiness is the thing to do (it is a very American ideal) and 2) trying to help us become more extroverted, as if that were the desired state. 


An introvert is not necessarily shy, but recharges alone, thrives with time to consider problems and questions, and even likes this kind of rumination. But, and I know this feeling well, introverts often feel alien in the U.S. culture that values extroverts: "As American life becomes increasingly competitive and aggressive, to say nothing of blindingly fast, the pressures to produce on demand, be a team player, and make snap decisions cut introverts off from their inner power source, leaving them stressed and depleted. Introverts today face one overarching challenge—not to feel like misfits in their own culture." 


Yes. (Though I've not minded feeling different for a long time now.)  

chucking it all

I am covered in yellow (washable) paint. That should teach me to wear a smock when painting murals in my son’s kindergarten class.

I have decided to chuck it all these past couple of months. I’ve been following up on academic concerns about my older son, Iz, which has required taking him to and from testing, going to preliminary and follow-up meetings, and being in his kindergarten class often. (He will be fine. He’s just not skilled at following teacher-directed tasks, remembering names of his classmates or the letters and sounds of the alphabet, or following classroom routines. It’ll come.) And I only have 16 hours a week with no children in the house. So I still have almost-3-year-old Az much of the time. I don’t have a lot of time to work.

I signed on to be the flexible parent. It made sense. I work from a home office, so I can control my own hours. But then my main client went bankrupt (more than a year ago now), and I’ve been editing online content for meager pay. So I had less and less work.

And I am lousy at marketing myself (possibly the worst lack of a skill for a freelancer).

So, with all the recent demands, I’ve done little to no work the last couple of months. Yet I am not independently wealthy, so the financial side worries me a lot. But what can I do? I have mostly let the worry go, or buried it so it can give me an ulcer. I can’t be sure which.

my mother's day

I was born at 9:06pm on Saturday, May 8, the day before Mother's Day. My mother relayed that fact to me every birthday, with affection. She died in 2007; this is my third birthday without her. I remember her reminding me to remember her. How complicated. Happy Mother's Day to my mom, wherever she might be. Love you!

my purple tutu

I am going to try being one of those runners, one who pulls on a tutu over the running tights. I have bought myself a purple one -- seemed the best color choice. (I'm not such a pink person.) And I am excited about the whole idea. I enjoyed picking out my ensemble for the race more than I usually do.

I am wearing it for the St. Patrick's Day 8K tomorrow. The race is a festive dress-up kind of one, though a green tutu might be more appropriate -- but I don't have one of those. And the race is a shorter distance, so I can test run the tutu for next weekend's National Half Marathon. That's the ultimate plan, people! 


My time goal? Around 40 minutes. But I have not run a race since November 2009, and I've had an injury, so we'll see what I can pull out, especially in a tutu. But I also don't care so much about being faster and faster anymore. Though I still like being kind of fast. And, in a purple tutu, kinda fast will also be fun.


Look for me if you are in downtown DC on Sunday morning at 9am -- Pennsylvania Avenue and 13th Street!


The next question: How do I wash the tutu?

happiness vs. sadness

Reading the Sunday New York Times, I read these two articles back-to-back: On Top of the Happiness Racket, by Jan Hoffman, and Depression’s Upside, by Jonah Lehrer. The juxtaposition interests me.

The first article is a profile of Gretchen Rubin, a wealthy and published New York author and mother (my snarky thought: sure, I could stay on top of everything is I was wealthy, lived in an NYC triplex, had a sitter for my kids and a housekeeper to clean my house -- but, still, I might not be happy). Hoffman also gives some review of Rubin's book, The Happiness Project. Supposedly, we can expect a slew of books about how to be happy this spring. Why do I find this annoying?

The second article presents a study that suggests some depression--shorter-term depression, not debilitation long-term depression--can help the sufferer focus on the problem and solve it. Charles Darwin is the lead-in example here. And the idea that depressed people are the creative ones is also addressed. I found this new take on no pain, no gain interesting, if limited.

The second was much less annoying that the first.

Somewhat indirectly, both articles remind me that I have two--yes, two--appointments with psychologists today. One is for me (yeah, so?). The other is to discuss Iz, my 5 1/2 year old, who is an anxious and creative little guy. Fun, fun, fun.

Happiness, anyone?

mother and child

My mother would visit the National Gallery of Art on every trip to Washington, DC. It was a favorite place. She came to love the Impressionists in her middle age (after a fascination with Surrealists, such as Dali and Magritte, when I was young). Especially Monet. I remember her office at the University of Technology Sydney plastered to the ceiling with Monet posters. Some she bought at the National Gallery.

Iz and I have many just-us outings there. We have attempted joint copies of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral and Japanese Footbridge paintings with markers on sketchbook paper. We go underground to the café, walk along the moving walkway through the light tunnel, then sit at a table near the fountain for a snack.

When there, I think of my mother, and I enjoy being Iz’s mother.

Yesterday, Iz’s kindergarten class had a field trip to the National Gallery. His teachers asked for parent volunteers; I couldn’t say no to that trip. The plan: to see the French Painting of the 19th Century exhibit. My mother's on-and-off favorite painting, Woman with Parasol, which pictures a mother and child, is included.

Iz grabs my hand the moment he gets off the bus, sometimes pulling me, sometimes melting into me. He doesn’t let go. I feel as if he is barely paying attention – focused only on me.

The class of twenty sits on the carpet, looking up at the woman with her parasol and her child on a windy day; I, of course, think of my mother and am melancholy (in that oddly satisfying way); and Iz insists in sitting in my lap, his face turned to me, his eyes closed.

Mother and child motif repeated in a moment.

no idea what I am doing

As I do this National Novel Writing Month thing, I must remember two things my mother wrote:

1) One of the last things my mother wrote – in May 2007, just over a month before she died – was for a discussion panel on creativity at the university where she taught creative writing for more than 10 years. She wrote, “Writers don’t really know what to do or how to do it. They are uncertain.” My husband said, “Come on, some writers must be confident,” assuming my mother was not confident. But I think uncertainty is not the opposite of confidence.

2) I found a list in my mother's handwriting, a list of events from a very bad year (1983-1984). A tiny piece on that list jumped out: "I feel useless, stupid, not a writer."

These two bits go together. I must remember both as I write: as I think I am getting nowhere; as I complain that I can't write dialogue and that I don't have a plot. I have no idea what I am doing. And that is okay and, maybe, even exactly right.

NaNoWriMo

November is National Novel Writing Month. Hm. So I signed up. Day 3. I've got 1800 words that look nothing like a novel. I don't care -- I will try to write more words than I would write without the structure of NaNoWriMo. They may turn into a novel. Who knows?

First, I'm going out for a run.

the better marathon

Not the “perfect” marathon, I am hoping to run a better marathon. I am running the Marine Corps Marathon on Sunday. It will be my fifth marathon, or my fourth (depending on how you count, since I didn’t finish my second marathon).

I have never finished strong. I think it comes down to a simple problem: I start too fast. I have indeed finished three of the four marathons I have run. But, in two of those, I was reduced to frequent walking breaks for the last 6-8 miles.

In the past, I have been concerned about speed, though my time goals have been realistic while also being challenging. I can finish a 10K in 48 minutes, a half marathon in 1:45. That should mean I can finish a marathon in 3:45 or even less. I did that, once, for my first marathon, my best marathon. New York City. I was 28 years old. I had been running for a mere 1 ½ years. (I am no high school track or cross and field runner. In high school I was smoking and taking soccer juggling to fulfill my physical education requirement. My dad ran, but I had no interest.)

During that first marathon, I did slow down a bit for the last four miles, but I didn’t have to walk (I tried, but when I walked, I felt I would never start running again – so I kept plodding and finished in 3:43).

For my second marathon, I had a time goal – to qualify for Boston. Don’t know why. I don’t really care about running Boston – but it was a goal. Problem was I did not do any speedwork. So, while I covered the proper distances, I started too fast and my legs literally seized up around mile 19. A terrible disappointment. Maybe I could have walked it out, but the time goal loomed so large in my mind, and I knew I would never make it.

After that, I didn’t care about Boston. But I still cared about speed. I trained with a group for the 2002 National Marathon in Washington DC. (The one that went bankrupt the next year, cancelling the 2nd annual race. It has been revived under new management with a new course.) I was convinced by my training and the coaches that I was capable of a 3:50 finish. So that’s the pace group I ran with. But the pacer had us going too fast, running 8:20s for the first five miles. I can do that, easy, for five miles, but that is not my marathon pace. I knew I was in trouble by mile 16. I had dropped off the pace group with two friends who were also suffering a little – but less than I was. I took walk breaks and wanted to stop by mile 19 (again – I know, the wall). But my training friend pushed me, talked me into continuing. Eventually, she ran ahead. I finished in 4:15.

I ran no marathons for six years, during which I had two kids and kept running and racing 10Ks, 10 milers and half marathons. In 2008, with my two kids aged 4 and 1, I looked to the Philadelphia Marathon. I was talking running with a new friend in my town, a friend I made because I saw her running in the early AM as I do and we both had 4-year-old sons who became good friends in school. I mentioned Philly, and she said, “Sign up; I’ll do it, too.” That little push did it.

Again, I thought 3:50. I am now dedicated to doing speedwork on a regular basis. My race times for other distances hold steady and strong. But, once again, I started too fast (trying to catch up to the 3:50 pace group, with their bouncing balloons). I knew I was in trouble by mile 10. That’s bad. I walked at each water station, then every mile. At mile 23, the 4-hour pace group balloons bobbed past, and I pulled myself together and suffered for the last 3.2. I finished in 3:59.

So, how to fix the blow outs? I think I just need to have some self-control and trust in the beginning – and avoid pace groups. My time goal is now 4:00. That I can probably do “comfortably.” And maybe I’ll even surprise myself and finish strong.

I want to run a better marathon. Five days to go.

running makes mice smarter

So, mice who are forced to run on a treadmill at a faster pace than they would choose are smarter. Does this mean when I force myself to run faster than a steady pace, say, do sprint repeats or tempo runs, I become smarter? Or do I need some outside influence forcing me?

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/16/what-sort-of-exercise-can-make-you-smarter/

-- Post From My iPhone