I go to a lot of weddings. I photograph them, so, I kind of have to.
I photograph weddings, and I photograph engaged couples before I photograph their wedding much later. And when you photograph engaged couples and newlyweds, obviously, the look you're going for is love.
Whatever that means.
I mean, when you're there, in the midst of the job, you know what love means. Love is pretty. Love is adorable. Sometimes, love makes you cry, to see two people who enjoy each others' company so much they're willing to sacrifice life and limb in order to bind themselves to this other person legally and spiritually and, let's face it, domestically until they're dead.
Seriously, that's it. Game's over. I found you, and now I'm done.
Love is a sinking feeling. Love is having a partner, an invested partner, someone who has made a commitment to obligate themselves to you, to take time out of their busy schedule to comfort you and encourage you. And why?
I don't know. Because you like the same things. You're attracted to each other. You make each other laugh.
Love is being willing to cross town, states, countries ... just to spend a few hours with that person who, for whatever reason, probably one you can just barely articulate, you want to spend time with.
See? Isn't it sweet? It's cute. I know.
I see this engagement video, and I love it. It's charming. I watched it all the way through and pondered it, compared what I saw there to what I see in my own marriage.
I thought about the couple being portrayed here - and I know they're real people, I know there are probably dozens of layers to their relationship and I'm sure they aren't all unicorns and glitter-hearts. But that's not the point of the video. The point is portray this idea of love. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy.
Can you imagine that idea of love in five years? Ten years? Fifty?
I see her in white apron with tiny red hearts on it, pulling a roast out of the oven right when he walks in the door, simultaneously loosening his tie while ...
... no, actually. I can't.
I can't picture that idea of love in ten or fifty years ... just like I can't picture a cute girl like that getting fat after giving birth to three kids, or a sweet, forehead-kissing dude like that feeling like he just needs at least three days alone somewhere playing Max Payne without interruption for once can't he just have that?
I see videos like that ... and I go to all these weddings and I take all these pictures ...
... and I come home and I think ... my marriage looks nothing like that.
I mean, it's not dull and uneventful or sad. We don't fight. We don't really even have any problems. He's my best friend, and I know I'm his.
But we aren't sitting on the couch nuzzling each other or playing Scrabble by the fire (that actually sounds kind of fun) or sipping wine at a picnic and giggling. And half the time, we're thinking of stuff we could do with other people rather than stuff we could do with each other. And I don't always cook for him and he doesn't bring me flowers every week and really ... we aren't much to photograph.
Two years and one child later ... it's really nothing like I anticipated it would be.
At the risk of sounding sappy ... it's probably better.
Which is why it was the couple slow dancing that had been married over 60 years tonight that got me all misty-eyed tonight, not the newlyweds.
As usual, I feel like my writing has just taken a nosedive off a cliff into a sea of no real point.
Let me know if you figured out the point I started out trying to make.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Elliot. Or, My Husband the Sociopath
This is a trailer for a film my husband made with a friend of ours in 2010.
Still digging it.
Still digging it.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Get Thankful: Day 5
DAY 5. I am thankful for my big red cup that holds my iced coffee. Most mornings, I have two of these. It's the closest to being a crack addict that I'll probably ever get. Unless I get really adventurous one day.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
If You Love Something
If you love something - and by love I mean, you procrastinate your actual work to do that thing - then you should just do it.
Quit trying to convince yourself that you're fine with how things are, or that you're fine with your job or you're fine with that major.
If I could go back, I would have majored in theater performance. I wouldn't have minored in it. You know why I minored in it?
Because I was terrified of creating something that I put my whole heart into creating and having someone tell me something was wrong with it or that it wasn't good enough.
I majored in English because it was interesting enough. If a peer or a professor criticized my research paper or told me to change something, I wouldn't take it too personally. But I have always taken criticism of my creative work so deeply, deeply personally that to really expose myself to criticism, to risk being told that I wasn't naturally gifted or that I hadn't blown someone completely away, was really risking my heart.
See, I started writing as a kid. And acting, and singing. I played piano and violin. I wrote stories. Full plays when I was in 4th grade. Novels in 5th and 6th grade. I made videos of myself. I put on plays for friends and family, plays that I wrote and then gathered all the neighborhood kids up to perform. I recorded tapes of myself singing all kinds of songs. I tried started a band when I was 10. It was an all-girl band, and that's all I'll say.
My first opportunity to try out for a play, I was all over that. I acted competitively in UIL speech and theater (and kicked xss at it) from 6th grade until just at the end of high school when I had a falling out with my theatre teachers over a ton of things, but mainly just the fact that I'm over-sensitive and at that time there was no one really teaching me how to work through my more or less unwarranted emotions. It was kind of traumatic for me. It definitely ended traumatically, anyway.
I grew up being told that I was amazing and gifted because for a kid, maybe I was. The same things don't carry over to adulthood with quite the same novelty. As an adult, no one really calls you amazing. And as an adolescent, no one really explained this to me.
So, in short ... I didn't major in theater performance because I loved acting so much that I was terrified of having to face the fact that one of the only things I really, really loved doing, was something I was sub par at. I majored in English. I became a teacher. Everyone in my family had been a teacher. I should be decent at that, I guess. And I was. And when I wasn't, and when people told me I wasn't, I just took their advice and tried to make changes.
More importantly, when I took my licensing exam, my "skill" was measured quantitatively.
Being criticized quantitatively is a completely different ball game than being criticized qualitatively. It's ability versus effect. It's being able to run a six-minute mile versus whether or not people care that you can or how pretty you look while you do it.
I also used to be a musician. I always turned down offers to form bands or play in other venues across the state because I was terrified that, the more into the limelight I got, the more I'd be forced to look at myself and be unsatisfied. And then where would I be?
Because I hated looking at myself. I never thought I was pretty. I only ever saw flaws. I'd see other female musicians ( -- don't even get me started on female musicians and who gets popular versus who doesn't. No, the mix is not homogenous. But yes, the pot's disproportionate in my opinion -- ) and believe that no one would take me seriously if I couldn't lose 20 pounds. I was an obsessive dieter. I still have issues. This isn't where I talk about them though. I just did what I could to either stay out of people's line of sight or look like I didn't care when I was in it. I wrote songs for them. I didn't dress up for them. Why?
Because I really wanted to look good in a sleeveless dress and tall boots, but I have huge upper arms and even bigger calves and so I wasn't going to, and I had convinced myself that there was something sexy and cavalier about bedhead and a faded Die Radio Die t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder.
I even quit writing for the same reasons. I began to become my own worst critic. I told myself that story ideas that hadn't even been fully fleshed out yet were stupid. The poems I was writing were too melodramatic and I needed to get over myself. Even this entry. I'm worried that all these line breaks make me look like I'm 14 writing on LiveJournal again. I want to tell you that as a form of protection, so that you know I'm not oblivious to this fact and write me off.
You know when people are proud of you? People are proud of you when you finish school and find a job, and they get all a twitter when you buy your first car and you buy property. And for a second, they even kind of want to be you, just a little bit. They're just a little jealous.
But what's the point if you don't want to be you? What if you only want to be you in a one-bedroom apartment with someone you love and a burgeoning photography business or writing career?
So do what you want. Don't let people tell you otherwise. Get rejected, let it hurt, and then GET BETTER. And keep doing it. Tell yourself you suck, and then keep doing it. Let someone else tell you that you suck. And then keep doing it.
Realize that you'll probably never be fully satisfied with your art because it's your art. And maybe you aren't really supposed to be fully satisfied with it. Because once you're satisfied, then what? Then, realize that not everyone will be satisfied with your art because that's just the nature of art.
So do it. If you do it while you procrastinate, then do it anyway. Find a way. Make a way. Make a list of what you're willing to sacrifice and do it. Be fearless and realize that we only get one chance at this - only ONE CHANCE. Don't be a sissy. Oh, wait - you're 26 with a mortgage and a family? STILL NOT TOO LATE.
The best thing about all of this is that it's never actually too late.
I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Quit trying to convince yourself that you're fine with how things are, or that you're fine with your job or you're fine with that major.
If I could go back, I would have majored in theater performance. I wouldn't have minored in it. You know why I minored in it?
Because I was terrified of creating something that I put my whole heart into creating and having someone tell me something was wrong with it or that it wasn't good enough.
I majored in English because it was interesting enough. If a peer or a professor criticized my research paper or told me to change something, I wouldn't take it too personally. But I have always taken criticism of my creative work so deeply, deeply personally that to really expose myself to criticism, to risk being told that I wasn't naturally gifted or that I hadn't blown someone completely away, was really risking my heart.
See, I started writing as a kid. And acting, and singing. I played piano and violin. I wrote stories. Full plays when I was in 4th grade. Novels in 5th and 6th grade. I made videos of myself. I put on plays for friends and family, plays that I wrote and then gathered all the neighborhood kids up to perform. I recorded tapes of myself singing all kinds of songs. I tried started a band when I was 10. It was an all-girl band, and that's all I'll say.
My first opportunity to try out for a play, I was all over that. I acted competitively in UIL speech and theater (and kicked xss at it) from 6th grade until just at the end of high school when I had a falling out with my theatre teachers over a ton of things, but mainly just the fact that I'm over-sensitive and at that time there was no one really teaching me how to work through my more or less unwarranted emotions. It was kind of traumatic for me. It definitely ended traumatically, anyway.
I grew up being told that I was amazing and gifted because for a kid, maybe I was. The same things don't carry over to adulthood with quite the same novelty. As an adult, no one really calls you amazing. And as an adolescent, no one really explained this to me.
So, in short ... I didn't major in theater performance because I loved acting so much that I was terrified of having to face the fact that one of the only things I really, really loved doing, was something I was sub par at. I majored in English. I became a teacher. Everyone in my family had been a teacher. I should be decent at that, I guess. And I was. And when I wasn't, and when people told me I wasn't, I just took their advice and tried to make changes.
More importantly, when I took my licensing exam, my "skill" was measured quantitatively.
Being criticized quantitatively is a completely different ball game than being criticized qualitatively. It's ability versus effect. It's being able to run a six-minute mile versus whether or not people care that you can or how pretty you look while you do it.
I also used to be a musician. I always turned down offers to form bands or play in other venues across the state because I was terrified that, the more into the limelight I got, the more I'd be forced to look at myself and be unsatisfied. And then where would I be?
Because I hated looking at myself. I never thought I was pretty. I only ever saw flaws. I'd see other female musicians ( -- don't even get me started on female musicians and who gets popular versus who doesn't. No, the mix is not homogenous. But yes, the pot's disproportionate in my opinion -- ) and believe that no one would take me seriously if I couldn't lose 20 pounds. I was an obsessive dieter. I still have issues. This isn't where I talk about them though. I just did what I could to either stay out of people's line of sight or look like I didn't care when I was in it. I wrote songs for them. I didn't dress up for them. Why?
Because I really wanted to look good in a sleeveless dress and tall boots, but I have huge upper arms and even bigger calves and so I wasn't going to, and I had convinced myself that there was something sexy and cavalier about bedhead and a faded Die Radio Die t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder.
I even quit writing for the same reasons. I began to become my own worst critic. I told myself that story ideas that hadn't even been fully fleshed out yet were stupid. The poems I was writing were too melodramatic and I needed to get over myself. Even this entry. I'm worried that all these line breaks make me look like I'm 14 writing on LiveJournal again. I want to tell you that as a form of protection, so that you know I'm not oblivious to this fact and write me off.
You know when people are proud of you? People are proud of you when you finish school and find a job, and they get all a twitter when you buy your first car and you buy property. And for a second, they even kind of want to be you, just a little bit. They're just a little jealous.
But what's the point if you don't want to be you? What if you only want to be you in a one-bedroom apartment with someone you love and a burgeoning photography business or writing career?
So do what you want. Don't let people tell you otherwise. Get rejected, let it hurt, and then GET BETTER. And keep doing it. Tell yourself you suck, and then keep doing it. Let someone else tell you that you suck. And then keep doing it.
Realize that you'll probably never be fully satisfied with your art because it's your art. And maybe you aren't really supposed to be fully satisfied with it. Because once you're satisfied, then what? Then, realize that not everyone will be satisfied with your art because that's just the nature of art.
So do it. If you do it while you procrastinate, then do it anyway. Find a way. Make a way. Make a list of what you're willing to sacrifice and do it. Be fearless and realize that we only get one chance at this - only ONE CHANCE. Don't be a sissy. Oh, wait - you're 26 with a mortgage and a family? STILL NOT TOO LATE.
The best thing about all of this is that it's never actually too late.
I have to keep reminding myself of that.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Stream of Conciousness, What Inspires Me
I've been trying to decipher the difference between people who are genuinely happy - genuinely contented, genuinely fulfilled - working full-time, clock-in/clock-out kinds of jobs compared to those who are not.
To clarify even further, I don't mean the teacher who is passionate about teaching who works a full-time teaching job, or the mayor who is genuinely passionate about city government working their full-time job ...
... I mean the bank teller, the grocery store clerk, the corporate manager, the telemarketer, the auto salesperson.
I know people that work jobs like that for years ... years ... and they're happy. And the thought of losing their jobs is terrifying to them. They might not always like what they do, but they're not miserable. Not like I was, anyway. These are people with hobbies and interests like the rest of us, who are willing to trade in hours of their lives in order to maintain a particular lifestyle.
I can't think of anything outstanding that isn't presumptuous or narrow-minded. Nothing that really explains what I'm feeling.
See, when I graduated college and entered the workforce, it seemed as though some invisible force came along and snuffed out my muse. Obviously it didn't, as there have most definitely been embers burning hidden beneath the ash all this time, occasionally kindled by something or another, resulting in a song or poem or story idea or even a post like this. But as I became more fixated by my ever expanding to-do list (which seemed to grow more after I left work to stay home with my daughter than to shrink) my ability to produce really dwindled.
I remember being told that my daughter would become my muse. It would be a lie to say that she isn't, because she is, but not like you'd think. She's more of a motivator than anything - a motivator, as opposed to a muse. I look at her and am not inspired to write or create, at least, not on my own. I look at her, and I'm more inspired to spend time in nature with her, to throw some paint around with her, to try a new cookie recipe with her, to clean, organize, declutter, give her a better place to live.
The stuff that inspires me to create hasn't changed. Above all, "love" inspires me. I say "love" in quotes for one reason in particular:
I've never loved anyone like I love my husband. What I feel for him is perhaps the most genuine feelings of affection I've ever felt for anyone, and yet his presence in my life has probably only really inspired a handful of songs, compared to the dozens upon dozens I've written for all the other ones - whatever it must have been that I felt for them.
But ... yeah. "Love" inspires me. Love between others, misunderstood love, complicated love. Angry love. Stupid love.
People are idiots when they think they're in love. They do stupid things. Perhaps what's more stupid are the plethora of things that they don't do.
I'm also inspired by platonic relationships. I'm inspired by the fact that, as a girl - a burgeoning woman at 26, I guess - I still don't understand exactly why girl friendships seem to be so much more egg-shelly than guy relationships. I mean, I have my theories, but they're just theories.
I'm inspired by people ... interacting. Why we are how we are. Why we do what we do. Why not some other way? What's the worst that could possibly happen?
Anyway ... that was all an incredibly awful segue to my main point: I know I'm supposed to live a creative life, but I don't really know what that entails.
I'm terrified that if I start working full-time as a librarian on my master's degree, my financial worries will be quelled right along with what's left of this creative drive I still have.
In my life, I have to write more music. I have to write a film. I have to write some short stories. I have to do all these things. I need to take more risks. I was never so afraid to just do that which comes naturally to me as I am today.
I'm all ready to rip this entry apart because I don't feel like it's particularly well contained, but I'm not. I'm just going to keep drinking my iced coffee and try to be happy that I wrote.
To clarify even further, I don't mean the teacher who is passionate about teaching who works a full-time teaching job, or the mayor who is genuinely passionate about city government working their full-time job ...
... I mean the bank teller, the grocery store clerk, the corporate manager, the telemarketer, the auto salesperson.
I know people that work jobs like that for years ... years ... and they're happy. And the thought of losing their jobs is terrifying to them. They might not always like what they do, but they're not miserable. Not like I was, anyway. These are people with hobbies and interests like the rest of us, who are willing to trade in hours of their lives in order to maintain a particular lifestyle.
I can't think of anything outstanding that isn't presumptuous or narrow-minded. Nothing that really explains what I'm feeling.
See, when I graduated college and entered the workforce, it seemed as though some invisible force came along and snuffed out my muse. Obviously it didn't, as there have most definitely been embers burning hidden beneath the ash all this time, occasionally kindled by something or another, resulting in a song or poem or story idea or even a post like this. But as I became more fixated by my ever expanding to-do list (which seemed to grow more after I left work to stay home with my daughter than to shrink) my ability to produce really dwindled.
I remember being told that my daughter would become my muse. It would be a lie to say that she isn't, because she is, but not like you'd think. She's more of a motivator than anything - a motivator, as opposed to a muse. I look at her and am not inspired to write or create, at least, not on my own. I look at her, and I'm more inspired to spend time in nature with her, to throw some paint around with her, to try a new cookie recipe with her, to clean, organize, declutter, give her a better place to live.
The stuff that inspires me to create hasn't changed. Above all, "love" inspires me. I say "love" in quotes for one reason in particular:
I've never loved anyone like I love my husband. What I feel for him is perhaps the most genuine feelings of affection I've ever felt for anyone, and yet his presence in my life has probably only really inspired a handful of songs, compared to the dozens upon dozens I've written for all the other ones - whatever it must have been that I felt for them.
But ... yeah. "Love" inspires me. Love between others, misunderstood love, complicated love. Angry love. Stupid love.
People are idiots when they think they're in love. They do stupid things. Perhaps what's more stupid are the plethora of things that they don't do.
I'm also inspired by platonic relationships. I'm inspired by the fact that, as a girl - a burgeoning woman at 26, I guess - I still don't understand exactly why girl friendships seem to be so much more egg-shelly than guy relationships. I mean, I have my theories, but they're just theories.
I'm inspired by people ... interacting. Why we are how we are. Why we do what we do. Why not some other way? What's the worst that could possibly happen?
Anyway ... that was all an incredibly awful segue to my main point: I know I'm supposed to live a creative life, but I don't really know what that entails.
I'm terrified that if I start working full-time as a librarian on my master's degree, my financial worries will be quelled right along with what's left of this creative drive I still have.
In my life, I have to write more music. I have to write a film. I have to write some short stories. I have to do all these things. I need to take more risks. I was never so afraid to just do that which comes naturally to me as I am today.
I'm all ready to rip this entry apart because I don't feel like it's particularly well contained, but I'm not. I'm just going to keep drinking my iced coffee and try to be happy that I wrote.
Friday, September 21, 2012
I Can't Tell You Why, but I Know I Loved The Master
With my husband, it's a totally different story. He and several of his friends can quote films they haven't seen in years after only a single viewing. They remember specific scenes, whereas with me, it takes multiple, multiple viewings to be able to retain specific events and dialog. Up to that point, I just know that I "felt feelings" as I'm known to say.
I was so excited about our upcoming viewing of Paul Thomas Anderson's new film The Master that I ended up having an awful dream featuring Phillip Seymour Hoffman and me, held hostage in the "church" of a cult led by him, ending in me having to escape by stabbing a couple guards in the stomach. I specifically remember the "stabbing" feeling as though I was cutting through raw chicken. I have extremely vivid dreams. Not important.
Later, when I was asked to rate it (1-10 scale) I really didn't know what to say. I liked it. I loved it, actually. And it did a lot for me. It didn't do the same things for me that Punch Drunk Love does, but whereas I often feel as though I have a little Barry Egan living in my head, Freddy Quill is not someone I feel like I have ever been. I feel for him, but I don't feel like him.
So I can't do what my husband does. I think I finally realized that. I love Paul Thomas Anderson, and I love Wes Anderson - I'd easily, easily say that these were my two favorite directors - but I can't line up their films and tell you which ones I thought were the "best" based on whatever criteria. I can tell you, however, which ones touched me the most and why.
Tonight in the car, driving back from the theater, when asked to comment I could really only think of one thing to say. The film will be memorable to me because, as I've experienced with all the PTA films I've seen and clearly remember, his actors deliver impeccable performances. My favorite parts of nearly all his films involve moments where no one is talking. They don't necessarily have to be silent, but at any rate, dialog becomes indecipherable or non-existent.
At this point, my mind is sort of awash with eight hundred things I want to say about both Paul Thomas Anderson and Wes Anderson's films that makes each one of them mean so much to me for varying reasons, and I can't clearly articulate them. On the whole, though, I feel like both directors notice the same things I notice about life. They're tiny things that make me sad, but so tiny that I can't really tell anyone because I don't think anyone would understand. And the same for tiny things that make me happy. Sometimes it's a type-o on a street sign or the way someone takes just a second too long to answer to an easy question.
As with other things, if I can create a cohesive, articulate list, I'll try and share it.
Until then, watch something by one of them. Especially if you're feeling particularly deep. The greatest joy I get from these directors is when I watch one of their films and encounter a moment where I can't stop smiling because it's exactly what I had been needing to see or hear. Usually it's something so insignificant in the whole scheme of things, but then again, everything kind of is when you really think about it.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
"Mommy" culture
Mommy culture is weird to me. At times I wish I were more knowledgeable or articulate so that I might have an easier time expressing what I mean with sentiments like that. But it is. It's weird to me.
I don't understand why I feel the need to question a woman exclaiming something like, "Oh, that's just life as a mom!"
Just ... "life as a mom."
Maybe it's the fact that people tout the marked difference between BEFORE kid and AFTER kid for more than the simple rite of passage that it is.
And "mommy-blogging" ... that in and of itself is just a whole other thing. It's a sea of women looking for their fifteen minutes, really, is what it is.
It's one thing to feel and write, in my opinion. It's another thing entirely to ... see, I don't know. I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess it's because I don't see any inherent problems with any of it ... so why, frankly, do I just feel like I wish there were less of it?
In an ideal Melissa world, we would all just be. I don't like to associate with Mommy Culture because I don't want to be anything but me. And I am so much more than just a mom. I've sought my identity, mostly, in spiritual things first ... I feel, deeply, that I was meant to be exactly who I am, where I am, in this moment. I try not to cling too hard to any one thing. It's failed me too often in the past.
I am just Melissa. I'm simple. I like things that are simple and that emphasize the tiny, beautiful nuances of life that often go overlooked. I like films with beautiful stories that can convince me they're real, at least somewhere. I like books that test me. I like people that don't try too hard at anything that doesn't matter. I'm simple, and I just think we should do things from the heart, do things that make us happy, and give as much of ourselves to others as we can afford.
You know, I'm also married and I have a daughter. That's awesome. But my husband and my daughter aren't me. They're things that I love and that make me very happy, but I hope to never confuse them with me. Does that make sense?
I don't understand why I feel the need to question a woman exclaiming something like, "Oh, that's just life as a mom!"
Just ... "life as a mom."
Maybe it's the fact that people tout the marked difference between BEFORE kid and AFTER kid for more than the simple rite of passage that it is.
And "mommy-blogging" ... that in and of itself is just a whole other thing. It's a sea of women looking for their fifteen minutes, really, is what it is.
It's one thing to feel and write, in my opinion. It's another thing entirely to ... see, I don't know. I don't know where I'm going with this. I guess it's because I don't see any inherent problems with any of it ... so why, frankly, do I just feel like I wish there were less of it?
In an ideal Melissa world, we would all just be. I don't like to associate with Mommy Culture because I don't want to be anything but me. And I am so much more than just a mom. I've sought my identity, mostly, in spiritual things first ... I feel, deeply, that I was meant to be exactly who I am, where I am, in this moment. I try not to cling too hard to any one thing. It's failed me too often in the past.
I am just Melissa. I'm simple. I like things that are simple and that emphasize the tiny, beautiful nuances of life that often go overlooked. I like films with beautiful stories that can convince me they're real, at least somewhere. I like books that test me. I like people that don't try too hard at anything that doesn't matter. I'm simple, and I just think we should do things from the heart, do things that make us happy, and give as much of ourselves to others as we can afford.
You know, I'm also married and I have a daughter. That's awesome. But my husband and my daughter aren't me. They're things that I love and that make me very happy, but I hope to never confuse them with me. Does that make sense?
Friday, June 29, 2012
I've been sort of down, lately.
Is that okay to admit?
There is such a stigma associated with vulnerability in our society. It's true.
I think for me, personally, the fear is that anyone I open up to will assume that I now expect something from them. This isn't the case at all.
I open up when I think people will benefit from my vulnerability, the aforementioned stigma in mind. It isn't that I'm anyone particularly special, but I can be that one person someone might encounter today who I can truly say, "I know that feel." I think that's really all anyone needs at times.
I've been down because I think I'm the most disappointed in humanity that I've ever been.
I'm down because my husband and I work hard in school and are destined to be straddled with debt while people like Snookie and J-Woww are rolling in the dough when they really ought to be paying some kind of dumb b%*#! tax.
I'm down because whenever I check my Facebook feed, it's just always the same crap. Over and over and over again.
I'm down because I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with my life. I know what I enjoy, and I know what I can do well, but the propensity to fail at these things is completely overwhelming.
I'm down because it's summer, and I've been landlocked for three years, and I just want to go to the beach.
I'm down because money really doesn't grow on trees and as much as I try not to, I can't help but worry about our future.
I'm down because sometimes I feel like a phony.
I'm down because it took three years, but I'm finally beginning to really miss everyone I knew in Texas.
I figured that by twenty-six, I would have overcome many of my body image hang ups, and I haven't. And I realize that these things won't get any prettier with age. I wish I could just have a moment seeing myself like everyone else sees me. Or maybe I don't.
Even the "blogosphere" makes me sad. It's hard to find anyone trying to do anything different. It's hard to find anyone trying to be truly novel with their style, or going the complete opposite direction and being totally complacent about style.
By morning I'm usually much better. Sometimes all I need is a good night's sleep. It just seems that lately, that hasn't been enough.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
What's the Focus?
I was a musician for a long time. It didn't pay the rent, but it's how I spent more than half my waking hours for several years. I guess I kind of still am in that I still write music and my husband and I are slowly, slowly piecing together a collaborative project. That being said, occasionally the topic of genre comes up and it's just one of those questions that most of the time, you just don't really know how to answer.
What I'm trying to articulate is that ... I really can't decide on a focus for this blog.
I mean, there's the title: the Cinephile's Wife. I am that. My husband is total nerd pants film geek. Most of our friends are, too. A good 2/3 of our daily conversation has something to do with film, music, books, and the occasional TV series.
But I'm also someone's mom. So then, you know, there's that $%^@ing mommy-blog route.
For a while I was like, yay, now whenever I try a new recipe I can take pictures along the way and post them and talk about it, and blah, blah, blah.
I can pin things on Pinterest and make them and show you guys.
I guess that's okay.
But frankly ... I don't think I can dedicate effort spent writing to something like that.
Writing means a lot to me. There is no other medium like it. None. If not for prose and lyrics I'd be strapped down in some rehab center somewhere. I know that sounds extreme but I'm only just slightly not kidding. That in mind, I just don't think I can bring myself to write about making my own Febreze when I'd much rather be writing about something more meaningful. Not that anyone likes reading about meaningful things, but whatever.
Then there's that other thing. Jesus. "Religion and spirituality." That's major. It's everything to me, actually.
And while he's a fabulous topic, I feel like part of my calling is to draw attention to some of the nuances of life, and of the world, and so therefore this couldn't really be a completely spiritual blog, either.
So ... I hope you're okay with these things.
If you've come here looking for nine thousand photos of my daughter, you probably won't get them. Those are on Facebook. And Instagram.
If you're looking for daily devotionals from a foul-mouthed semi-cynic ... they won't be daily. But they will be meaningful.
If you're looking to see what I wore today ... it just doesn't matter. So, good luck with that.
And film/book/TV reviews ... they're laughable, but I'll try.
We can definitely listen to some music though.
This has seriously been rocking my world for a couple weeks now.
What I'm trying to articulate is that ... I really can't decide on a focus for this blog.
I mean, there's the title: the Cinephile's Wife. I am that. My husband is total nerd pants film geek. Most of our friends are, too. A good 2/3 of our daily conversation has something to do with film, music, books, and the occasional TV series.
But I'm also someone's mom. So then, you know, there's that $%^@ing mommy-blog route.
For a while I was like, yay, now whenever I try a new recipe I can take pictures along the way and post them and talk about it, and blah, blah, blah.
I can pin things on Pinterest and make them and show you guys.
I guess that's okay.
But frankly ... I don't think I can dedicate effort spent writing to something like that.
Writing means a lot to me. There is no other medium like it. None. If not for prose and lyrics I'd be strapped down in some rehab center somewhere. I know that sounds extreme but I'm only just slightly not kidding. That in mind, I just don't think I can bring myself to write about making my own Febreze when I'd much rather be writing about something more meaningful. Not that anyone likes reading about meaningful things, but whatever.
Then there's that other thing. Jesus. "Religion and spirituality." That's major. It's everything to me, actually.
And while he's a fabulous topic, I feel like part of my calling is to draw attention to some of the nuances of life, and of the world, and so therefore this couldn't really be a completely spiritual blog, either.
So ... I hope you're okay with these things.
If you've come here looking for nine thousand photos of my daughter, you probably won't get them. Those are on Facebook. And Instagram.
If you're looking for daily devotionals from a foul-mouthed semi-cynic ... they won't be daily. But they will be meaningful.
If you're looking to see what I wore today ... it just doesn't matter. So, good luck with that.
And film/book/TV reviews ... they're laughable, but I'll try.
We can definitely listen to some music though.
This has seriously been rocking my world for a couple weeks now.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Weekend Playlist
Here are some songs I haven't been able to get out of head this week. To be honest, I've been reminiscing a lot this week. Most of these songs probably won't be particularly new to anyone, because they aren't new, period. But even if you aren't, I hope they take you back. They definitely take me back.
And now I just want to be in a movie or something.
And now I just want to be in a movie or something.
Having My Cake and Eating it in Moderation | My Weight Loss / Weight Watchers Experience
This is my "10 pounds lost" photo. I plan to take a photo in this outfit for every 10 or so pounds I lose!
I was probably on some kind of diet at all times from the age of 16 until about 23 or so. Not kidding. I won't go into where I think it stemmed from, because to be completely honest, I don't know. I had a certain standard I set for myself as a girl that I never felt I could meet, I guess. Add that to being a musician and, about once a year, being involved in acting in some way or another ... I was in the public eye a lot, and very critical of myself.
I have literally done everything from Atkins to these weird pre-surgery fasts I do not recommend. I've even done Weight Watchers back when you actually had to count your fruits and veggies and you got just enough Points to sustain yourself. And I never once made it past around 10 days without completely screwing everything up.
I've weighed at least 140 since the 8th grade. 140, which I always thought was just huge- I now realize that's hardly the case at all. Now that I've been pregnant and survived pre-eclampsia which sent me home from the hospital at 205 libres, anyway. Yeah, I have stretch marks on my calves. True story.
Sometime right around my move to Indiana in 2009, I was just done with dieting. I honestly became a little phobic of it, I think. I had tortured myself with diets for so many years that I finally just resigned myself to eating whatever it was that I felt like eating since my boyfriend thought I was hot and everyone kept telling me that I didn't need to lose weight in the first place. At the time I was still around 135, my lowest weight since 125 which I reached during a time of great dumped-ness.
Fast forward to post E, and I'm at 160, a number I swore I'd never see, not ever. I mean, I once went on a consultation for arm liposuction when I lived in Houston - yes, I did that! The baby/water weight was gone, and I was left with what I had done to myself, because I love the crap out of food. I just do.
Why did I kept screwing up?
First and foremost, my perception of time was so, way off. If I'd been dieting for a week, it seriously felt more like a month and I wanted to know why I wasn't skinny right now. Second of all, I was surrounded by beautiful girls who were on average at least twenty pounds lighter than me, and they were able to eat whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted to eat it. More importantly, my expectations were skewed. The notion that "it's a lifestyle, not a diet" was somehow impossible for me to grasp. Impossible. So as long as I ate "differently" than my peers, I was not in a world I enjoyed very much.
So what's different now? I've been on Weight Watchers for eight weeks, I've lost nearly 15 pounds, and I'm more than ready to keep going. Why this has worked this time and not other times for me is really, really important for me to think about. There's that saying, "If I can do this, you can." I'm not kidding. I'm seriously, seriously, seriously not, though.
Why am I succeeding now? -- Because it really is a lifestyle. And no one needs cheesecake more than once a week ... no one.
This go-around with Weight Watchers has really taught me something that I never quite learned in the past: nachos are awesome and they are not off limits. The problem is that the average American meal is obscenely starchy and fatty. We love our cheese fries and burgers and fried chicken and huge plates of pasta, and we have no idea that that isn't really how we're supposed to do it.
Think of it this way. Your car runs on unleaded fuel. Treating your car with the swanky SUPER unleaded stuff is extra yummy for it, but you just don't have the budget to do that all the time ... our bodies are similar.
"The problem is that the average American meal is obscenely starchy and fatty. We love our cheese fries and burgers and fried chicken and huge plates of pasta, and we have no idea that that isn't really how we're supposed to do it."
Our bodies love what most people consider rabbit food. Our bodies love lean meats, green veggies, tasty fruits and lots of water ... but an Olive Garden smorgasbord isn't the end of the world for it either. That stuff - the stuff that us Americans consider just an average, every day dinner? That stuff is special occasion stuff. That stuff is swanky, super unleaded goodness that we budget for.
Another great analogy: if you're a shoe connoisseur (and I am not) there's truly nothing wrong with saving up your pennies and dropping $200 on a hot new pair of kicks. But what if you shopped like that every day? Just bought crap, hundreds of dollars worth of crap, ever day? That's taboo. That's a financial disaster waiting to happen. We don't seem to view food the same way.
If you want a Baconator (mmm, bacon) save up for a Baconator. But just know that having one every day is just asking for trouble.
Oh, did I mention I have a daughter? And that she's going to notice how I take care of myself and mimic what I do? And that I want her to see a woman with a sense of self-control and self-confidence she can then take after? Yeah. That's a big one!
Why does it matter? You really aren't that overweight.
It matters because it matters to me. That's why it matters. I no longer think I'm "fat" like I did several years ago, but you know what? I wasn't eating right. I wasn't exercising (that's another entry.) What would happen if I did eat right? What will happen when I do exercise? The goal here isn't what it used to be. Sure, I am paying attention to a number on a scale. I have an ultimate goal of 125, which is a weight I was really happy at several years ago. (Okay, not happy in life, but I felt decent about my body.) That's my gauge there. And if I continue eating how I'm eating and if I keep up with my running (please God, help me keep up with my running) and I never make it to 125, the point is that my body will have figured out where it wants to be. It will regulate, it will have everything it needs and nothing it doesn't. That's what matters the most.
Later, I'll map out what my eating week looks like and any tips I think have helped me out the best.
As for now, I am just going to think about nachos.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Descendants
I cried. That never happens. Never. You could have killed Bambi's entire family and I'd have just told you that was sad, but this movie made me cry. Not a whole lot, but with some effort a tear managed to make its way out of my right eye during one scene in particular, and that's saying a lot.
This is one of those movies I wish I'd written. It's about a family fallen on some hard times - death, teen angst, infidelity - and their journey up and through it. I can't say that everyone would relate to every thing, but but everyone has felt, at sometime, like these characters must feel ... and so, I cried. But, I also laughed! Which is also fairly hard to do. I guess I should have said that in the beginning.
Guys, this movie made me emote.
It's also set in Hawaii. I think that's important because, I don't know ... sometimes it seems like everyone in Hawaii is happy, and, well, I guess they aren't. Hawaiians are real people.
Another thing I really liked is the 10 year old daughter. She's awkward and a little chubby and I was too, at 10. Like you wouldn't believe.
Wow, I'm really trying here ...
Okay, okay. Here's what I think about this movie. I think this movie is awesome. I enjoyed it. I felt something, and my husband always tells me a good movie is not an escapist film, but a film that invokes your emotions, and mine were totally invoked. You'll like this if you like honest movies about families that make it out alive, campiness excluded.
And here's what Austin said about it on Facebook:
"Honestly, the last half of this film is very effective. The first half is a classic Payne "dramedy," but the last half is the best work of his career, in my opinion (although I haven't seen Citizen Ruth or About Schmidt). I am surprised this once best picture at the Golden Globes, but I'm glad a great film won nonetheless."
I say, go see it.
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