A meditation on earrings

Whenever I see babies with pierced ears I want to tell them I HAD TO FIGHT FOR THOSE whereas they just rolled out of the crib one morning and off they went to Claire's for some badass baby studs.

But whatever.

The point is I have always loved my pierced ears because I had to fight for them (although it must be said after TRQ relented and let me get them pierced when I was 14, she got hers pierced the next day).  I never NOT wear earrings.  I may be an indifferent dresser.  I may be an indifferent makeup- wearer.  I may even (some days) be an indifferent-hair comber.  But I always wear earrings.

Except when I'm in the grips of a depression.  Then I'm all UGH.  PUTTING ON EARRINGS TAKES TOO MUCH ENERGY.  And also WHO GIVES A DAMN.  WE'RE JUST ALL GOING TO DIE ANYWAY.

See what good times are to be had when you're depressed?

Anyway, I had a bad siege this summer.  And I stopped wearing earrings.  And then one morning I looked at myself in the mirror and said PUT YOUR EARRINGS ON, DAMMIT.

Which I did.

It didn't cure me.

But it was a start.

What I Learned From Watching THE MARTIAN with Ken Cannon last night

So, Ken Cannon and I finally saw that movie.  At home.  Where, apparently, I like to watch movies these days because it doesn't involve a) me getting dressed so that b) I have to leave the house.

Just put me in a cave, people.  With you know what.  (Donuts.)

Anyway, the movie is pretty intense, and I'm glad I could watch it while knitting socks so I could look away and not be physically ill while people floated around in endless space in space suits, which is one of my paranoid fantasies as I've mentioned before:  accidentally floating off into space in a space suit.

But anyway.  Here's what I learned.

1.  I should have paid more attention in math classes at Provo High School.  Math skills will save you if you get stuck on Mars.

2.  Don't eat any potatoes Matt Damon offers you unless you wash them first.

3.  You have to look like a movie star to work for NASA.

4.  The f-bomb dropped sparingly is much more effective than an f-bomb detonated in every sentence.

I recall learning other things, too, although this morning I can't remember what they were.

I promise this isn't morbid

Last Sunday I read an opinion piece in the NYT (I know!  Me=Smartypants!) by Arthur C. Brooks called "Be Happy:  Think About Your Death."  Anyway, the gist of the column was that being mindful of your own mortality gives you perspective about what matters and what doesn't, what you enjoy and what you don't.  "If this were your last [day, month, week, year, hurrah] would you spend the next hour mindlessly checking your social media, or would you read something that uplifts you instead?"

(I would possibly be checking my social media, actually.  But I would remind myself to notice how much I'm enjoying it.)

I was struck by Brooks' opinion piece because I'd been doing that very thing even before reading the paper.  I didn't feel well much of December.  Also, I had a cousin who died after a brief unhappy relationship with cancer.  So inevitably my mind went THERE.  What if I'm dying?  What if this is the last time I put this ornament on a tree?  What if this is the last time I eat TRQ's famous Christmas tree loaf?  What if this is the last time my boys all get naked and take a Christmas sauna together?

NAKED BOYS!

(Sorry.)

Instead of depressing me, these thoughts helped me to pay attention to the things I was doing.  And when all was said and done, I have to say this past holiday season was full of joy for me.

So yes.  Think about your own death.  And be happy.

Food for the Dudes

Yesterday Ken Cannon called to see if I wanted to meet him downtown for lunch and I was all LUNCH!  So before I knew it we were together at DP Cheesesteaks on Third South ordering cheesesteak sandwiches like a crazy young couple in love.

Anyway.  The place was packed like a New York subway at rush hour.  Very popular, that DP Cheesesteaks.  And not long after we sat down Ken Cannon looked around and told me that aside from the girl at the counter screaming out people's last names, I was the only woman there.  Beyond that everybody else was a guy.  Some of them were even firemen.  WHAT A CLICHE!

And I said what is it about my life that  I can't even go to a restaurant and see my own gender?

Which brings me to this question--is there such a thing as dude food?  And chick food?

Opine, please.  And give examples.  I think this could be a column.  A super sexist column for the new year.

Not in a hurry

I've written before about the time TRQ forgot to take the Christmas tree down.  It stood in the corner of our living room, going full Charlie Brown on us--shedding its needles and dropping its ornaments onto the floor below where they (the ornaments) rolled around on the carpet like a thirteen year-old boy's brains.

In retrospect, I think TRQ was possibly clinically depressed, but at the time I was mortified.  All my friends' Christmas trees had been properly dealt with weeks before--ornaments in boxes, tree on the curb.  But not our tree.  It just hung around, slouching and embarrassing me in front of my friends like a crazy old uncle in mismatched carpet slippers.

Maybe it was in response to this that I used to get my tree down in a hurry--often a day or two after Christmas.  And (I also think) getting my tree down was a way to impose order on a chaotic household full of kids and dogs who used to crawl up on the table and eat birthday cake.  The dogs, not the kids.  I know this because we have a video of one of them doing that.  Except that's not what the video was about at the time.  No oneeven  noticed the dog photobombing the video.  And also eating the cake.

But whatever.

The point is this:  my tree is still up even though we are well into the first week of the new year.  And I don't think it'll come down this weekend either.  It's still remarkably fresh and it smells good.  It's also pretty and shiny, which comforts me at night.

I've changed, people.

Shine on, Christmas tree.