My face stinks

I have worse acne now than I did as a teenager. In fact, as a teenager, I enjoyed (read: took for granted) a nearly perfect complexion. Although I do not have a serious problem now, it is enough to have made its way onto my self-consciousness radar which, for a woman who cuts the back of her own hair without using a mirror, should be regarded as at least somewhat significant.

I have been fighting the good fight with benzoyl peroxide and have in the process created many, many bleachy spots on towels, shirts, and various other things that contact my face. Miraculously, the fuscia pillowcase from Ikea has been spared. Ryan likes to point out that slathering my face in a carcinogenic goo every night may be sabotaging my efforts to prevent all disease using primarily blended spinach as prophylaxis. Perhaps, he suggests, I should increase my chances at disease-free success by not dipping my face in toxic, bleaching, burny solutions.

He may have a point.

Thus, last week at the supermarket, I decided to take a gander at the offerings of the "natural" products aisle (I scoff at and enquotiate the word natural because uranium is natural, people, and we need to be conscientious enough to read our labels, but I digress). I found a vial of tea tree zit prevention somethingorother and determined that all of its ingredients were edible, so I bought it. I anointed my face with it. It is more effective than the benzoyl peroxide ever was, and the linens will thank me.

But it makes me smell like a hippie. I don't care how many times I have been accused of actually being a hippie for reasons including my distaste for meat, political views, or thoughts about western medicine in general, though I do think it strange to be a called a hippie when I don't smoke pot. I do, however, mind that my own face smells like the love child of a health food store and a Phish show.

But I don't mind it enough to stop, at least for now. Sorry if you have to smell me; at least your eyes won't be offended by my blemishes. Blemishes!

His and Hers

Hers:
1 spinach smoothie
1 giant salad with strawberries, red onions, and homemade fat-free dressing
1 small bowl of cooked vegetables

His:
4 plates corned beef and cabbage with potatoes
2 large protein shakes, double thick
1 large spinach salad with roasted vegetables
1 acorn squash stuffed with quinoa
1 tabbouleh side salad
1 southwestern bean salad
1/2 of an artichoke
1 garden burger with all the fixin's
1 pint strawberries
1 fruit punch gatorade
1 giant oatmeal raisin cookie
2 bowls chocolate cheerios
1 orange
1 handful sunflower seeds
1 peanut butter sandwich

If there is a famine, I win.

International Women's Day

An interesting discussion of the relationship between feminism and animal rights activism here.

Now go hug your mom :)

Guest

Hello everyone.

A delightful friend of mine, Ann, is doing a series on her blog about woman-love and asked me to participate. The post is up, and you can read it here. While you're over there, I recommend you check out her photos which are beyond beautiful. The whole blog is beautiful.

Also, if you are so inspired to write a list of your own, please send it to Ann at lady.of.lorien9@gmail.com. I know she'd love to read them all!

Beloved Community

Ryan is out of town.

But it's ok.

I have my blogs.

For the last couple weeks, Ryan and I have managed to eat dinner together every night. This habit has been facilitated by his unprecedented and much-reinforced willingness to make the dinner. While I am out fretting around town, cursing the day I applied to my Masters program instead of getting knocked up like a normal person, he is home making vegan split pea. I come home in a panic; he washes the salad. We sit down to eat and I light candles because this, this is special, and who knows how long it will last.

Having a wife rocks.

Tonight I am sitting at the table alone. I made my own salad, and I candied the nuts to make up for the hug that wasn't there when I walked in the door. I sat down to my dinner, and lit the candles. And then I busted out my computer. I'm not one to eat alone.

In high school and college I had things just as I liked them. It was All Friends All the Time. I love friends. I love facebook, superficiality be damned. I love reading blogs. I like to know where you people are. Some of the time, I even like updates on how the toilet-training is going, although I maintain you should keep those posts to a minimum. I read your blogs, even though you most likely don't read mine. I read about your Valentine's Day traditions, your job frustrations, your recipes. I read what you're reading about and why. I read about Ryan's cousins, hobbies I'll never take up, people I hardly know. I read all of it and I read it every day. I love it.

It is only now, in this moment, as I chew my spinach and miss my man, that I realize very nearly all the blogs I follow are written by women. I'm not surpised. I do so love the women.

One day I hope to live in what bell hooks calls beloved community. I want to live intentionally, and I want to live with all of you. In a giant cul-de-sac. We can have potlucks. Ryan will bring the split pea soup.

Until then, ladies, keep blogging.

Helping Others

I have been awake since 3:00 this morning.

This is not unusual. I decided today at 5:15 am that 3:00 am- 6:00 am are my least favorite hours of the twenty four I have access to, and yet I experience them more than hours I find likable, like 6:00 am- 9:00 am, for example.

I only slept for four hours last night, too.

I generally wake up, spend several hours thinking of Very Important Things, compose a list of Action Steps, finally get out of bed to Take Action, and get on facebook instead. After exhausting facebook's entertainment potential, I go back to sleep for just long enough to ensure I will be a complete zombie for the rest of the day.

As soon as I am done with this inane post, I will read the assigned chapters for my class tonight. I will read about theories of career counseling, an assignment designed to help me help others.

At 3:00 this afternoon I will see a client. For some sick reason, I never seem to sleep more than four hours on nights when I have a client scheduled the following day. I don't think the waking is caused by anxiety about the appointment; it feels more like a sick twist of fate to me. Either way, the consequence is that instead of listening to my client and providing helpful feedback or asking relevant questions most likely my focus will remain on willing my body to stop yawning. Can you imagine anything worse than seeing a counselor who keeps yawning through the session? I can't.

I got an A in stats, a class required for graduation. On the other hand, I fail to maintain basic life functioning fairly often. Lucky for me, this is not a graduation requirement. I question the legitimacy of giving a degree in helping others to a person who can't even sleep through the night herself, but I didn't make the rules.

Not a universal solution

Sometimes leftovers taste better on top of a pile of lettuce. The greens have a way of bringing new life to an old grain, or roasted vegetable dish.

Some leftovers just ruin an otherwise perfectly good salad.

I made raw carrot falafel out of carrot pulp leftover from making carrot juice. They looked good and tasted horrible. Consequently, I have a huge bag of them frozen, waiting for inspiration to come along and revive them. Today I tried slamming four of them on top of a pile of mixed greens with tahini dressing. It was completely sick. Out of laziness, I still ate all of it.

Laziness is the trump card in my culinary hand, as it turns out. Bummer. I wish the trump card were a grilled cheese sandwich.