Be Done With the Blunders and Absurdities

Remember that part in The Sound of Music when the mother superior tells Maria that whenever the Lord closes a door somewhere he opens a window? I do because I, like my sister and half my cousins, LOVE The Sound of Music. I have yet to be convinced in the existence of a higher power, but I always kind of believed that statement or ate least the gist of it.

We all have bad times in life, and I am no different. During these times I always try to remember that others have been in the same boat, and also somewhere there’s an open window to better times waiting for me to find it. Earlier this week when I was exhausted from lack of sleep — teething baby, work, school, being ill myself — and I was off the charts stressed, a friend pointed me to a discussion forum post containing the following quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson:

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

I’ve been pondering the quote ever since. I do believe I’ve found a new motto. Or just a motto, since I’ve never actually had a motto before. No matter how bad any day gets, all you really need to do is finish it. And it’s over. If you ask me, we don’t even need to get to tomorrow to become too high in spirit. Especially when you come home to this (cue gratuitous pictures of cute toddler)….

Pondering the meaning of it all

Yup, life is good. Even when it’s not.

Poop Talk

Azita has been on hunger strike for the past few weeks. She has gone entire days eating nothing more than a strawberry or two or a toddler-sized handful of cheerios. She even turns down cake and cookies. Just about the only thing she wants is milk, which I do try to limit to around the recommended daily serving size. All of this is to say that Azita is constipated. Yes. I’m going there, people.

Want to know why I am venturing into this usually untouched (at least by me) territory? Well, let me tell you a little story.

This morning Azita was crabby. She hit. She kicked. She screamed. She hit and kicked some more. She threw scrambled eggs in my face. No joke. She even threw her precious pacifier on the floor and kicked it when it was down. Sure she’s a toddler and she’s teething and has therefore been somewhat unpleasant at times. But this morning she took things to a whole new level. I couldn’t figure it out.

And then she pooped. Well kind of. She tried to poop. She lay there and cried and cried while she strained and her face turned scarlet and then even a little violet in color. I felt so horribly for her, and so helpless as I sat there and rubbed her belly.

Eventually, she did the deed. And before I even put a clean diaper on her little bum, she was smiling and trying to tell me a knock knock joke. I even got a big hug and a pat on the head from my little cupcake before she scampered of to the living room in search of fun.

It was at that moment that all became clear. Next time I face a surly customer support person or a tantrum-throwing husband or a grouchy, demanding coworker or any other person exhibiting an unpleasant demeanor, I can only assume they are are constipated. Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to offer them a nice tall glass of Metamucil?

Things I Wonder

  1. Do people really like the taste of whiskey or gin? Or do they just like the way it makes them feel?
  2. Why did Pepperidge Farm decide to make a cheese cracker into the shape of a fish?
  3. Why do cats and dogs and drunk people like to throw up on things, like shoes, purses, couches, or ATMs?
  4. Exactly how hungry was the person who looked at a sea urchin and decided to give it a taste?
  5. What exactly is the allure of an all you can eat buffet? Why do the same people who need a doggie bag at a regular restaurant think they can somehow fit 5x more than they can usually eat in their stomachs?
  6. What’s so mini about minivans? They look about as large as a regular van to me.
  7. Why do parents who spank their kids get angry at their kids when they hit other people?
  8. Why did people wear woolen underwear? Was wool not itchy back in the day? Or were peoples’ nether regions impervious to the itch?
  9. Would Diet Mountain Dew taste as good if it wasn’t fluorescent green?

A Life Unheard

I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. Partially because a great plague has befallen our family, and it truly sucks. I’m a bit of a hyper, always on the go sort of person, and this illness has stopped me in my tracks, and it’s made Azita a big old grumpy puss. I’m not used to this because she’s almost always happy and cheerful.  Luckily this bug seems to be on its way out. But my general malaise remains firmly planted. This morning on my way in to work, as I sat there dreading the rest of my day (a regular occurrence as of late), I realized why.

I live a life unheard.

I walk through my days piping up when I think I have something to contribute to a conversation, and no one hears me. I go to work 5 days a week and have discussions in my area of expertise, and I leave the conversation realizing that no one listened to anything I had to say. My thoughts on the subject had no bearing on any outcomes. So I spend my days implementing other peoples’ ideas, and it’s frustrating. It’s frustrating because I went to school for a really long time. Too long. And in 8 years of my decade of higher education I studied the same thing to death, and then I found a job in the same field and worked in a career doing these things. And 13 years later none of that matters. I’m doing mindless work, and I don’t have a mind that likes to sit still.

Then I go home and things aren’t much better.

Let me preface what’s to come with a statement that I think I have a great husband. He does laundry and dishes, and he even scrubs the bathroom floor. With bleach, just how I like it. But he doesn’t listen to me.

Maybe it’s because he’s a man. We have a conversation, and when I’m talking I can see in his face that he’s thinking about something else. More than likely he’s thinking about the next thing he wants to talk about, because inevitably he interrupts me to express his opinion. And he never remembers anything I tell him, like “don’t forget we have x, y and z this Saturday” or “the doctor said we need to do a, b and c at Azita’s checkup.” He always insists I never tell him these things. Anyone in my family can tell you that I have a freakishly impeccable memory. I can remember conversations I heard when I was 4 years old nearly word for word. I can remember exactly what I wore to the first day of school in kindergarten. I can remember the exact cash register in the exact Giant near my childhood home where my sister bit me when I was 7 and drew blood because she wanted to sit on the bag tray at the end of the register’s conveyor belt. I’m just saying, I have a good memory, and if I remember that I said something, I said it.

My husband never remembers anything I say, because he never listens to it in the first place.

I expect a little of this in life. I know that what I have to say is not always interesting. We can’t always be on all the time. I also know people are sometimes preoccupied with other things. I myself am guilty of not listening quite a lot for this very reason. We are all busy and harried at times. Sometimes I can hardly hear a conversation because my mind is racing and mulling over the million things that need to get done. But when someone talks to me, usually I’m listening AND hearing.

I was raised in a home where children were seen and not heard. As an adult, though, I’m used to being heard.  I mean, in a work setting, I frequently know what I’m talking about. And in a personal setting, well, I think I’m usually nice and pretty damn funny. I’ve been known to entertain a room with my wacky stories, and I think I have an interesting opinion about some things.

I guess I don’t know how I got in this situation. It’s pretty damn lonely life never being heard, and the worst part is that I sometimes think I’ve resigned myself to this being the way life is. But I’m not ready (and I hope I never will) to walk through life like J. Alfred Prufrock. I may be a loner at heart, but I need some engagement to keep me going.

So, today I RSVPed “Yes” for a working mamas playdate. I’m going to make some working mama friends, and we’re going to play in a ball pit with our babies and hopefully talk. And I’m looking forward to it and feeling better about things already, because there’s nothing like taking action in the present to turn life around.

Kissing the Hand That Force-feeds You

Roger and Azita are both napping, which leaves me hanging out alone on the couch with a sleeping baby on my lap mindlessly flipping through channels. There is nothing on t.v. on a Saturday morning. Probably because most people are out and about. I’d like to be out and about, but my entire family is napping (even the cats). So, this is how I ended up watching a History Channel show on hot dogs. And that is how I learned that the Oscar Mayer weiner jingle is so popular that not only has it been the longest used jingle for any product, but people actually used to call radio stations and request that they play it.

Wh-wh-wh-what?

Talk about kissing the hand that is trying to force feed you. This isn’t entirely shocking to me, I guess. I remember when I was a kid, people used to sing that McDonalds jingle that was basically a somewhat musical rendition of their menu. I remember it was also one of the most popular double-dutch rhymes on the blacktop. I’ll admit that I participated in said recitation of the commercial jingle many times, but I LOVED DOUBLE-DUTCH. I had to if I wanted to participate.

I know, I know. Would I jump off a bridge if every else did? Well, actually, I might jump off a bridge if everyone else did. If it looked fun, I would. And double-dutch is fun, so I jumped off the bridge. OKAY? Cut me a little slack. I was 8.

But here’s what I wouldn’t do.  I would never, ever, even if my life depended on it call a radio station and request that they play the jingle for a commercial product. That’s where I draw the line.

I mean, I worked in advertising for two of the most mind-numbing years of my working life, and I can tell you that those people don’t need the American people to inflate their egos any more. Their heads will burst.

So if you ever get the urge to call a radio station and request that they play the Alka-Seltzer jingle or the NFL something or another theme song. STOP. Think of the ad men and their heads. Only you can save them from spontaneous cranial combustion.

This is a public service announcement brought to you by the Council for the Abolition of Corporate Asskissing (CACA).

p.s. I’m talking a big game here, because let’s face it I’ll do what it takes (except for selling my body) to earn a paycheck and put a roof over my and my family’s heads. I just won’t enjoy it. So there.

………………………………
Zahra Safavian
aim:
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m: 571.289.5369
h: 703.351.4424

Baby Feet

I have an aversion to feet. I know I’m not alone in this. Lots of people aren’t fond of these extremities, but perhaps the severity of my aversion sets me apart. I don’t like to look at them, touch them, and definitely not smell them. I don’t even like to get pedicures because it makes my stomach turn to see feet touched. Even my own feet. Crazy, I know. What person in their right mind can’t enjoy a pedicure?

There is one exception to the rule. Baby feet.  I just love Azita’s feet to death. I love the little indents on her toes. The tiny toenails. The pads of fat that fill in her arches. The way her toes wiggle when something touches them. The creases where her ankles meet the top of her foot. I can’t get enough of them. Sometimes I just hold her feet in my hands and stare at them and think, “I made these.” They are so amazing, and I can’t even explain why. Especially given my aforementioned aversion to the foot.

Maybe it’s because they’re so stinking adorable.

BabyFeet

Yup. That must be it.

Finding Me

This morning I took a little time to do something I almost never do — take a look at the search strings that lead people to this blog. Not only did I have a good laugh, but I learned a lot about myself and others.

  1. For example, I didn’t know I was incapable of having fun, but there it is — the ninth top search string to find me.
  2. I’d thought I would be alone in finding Apolo Ohno annoying. After all he’s the most winning winter Olympian ever and a dancing star. People love the guy. Well, consider the following search strings: apolo ohno annoying, apolo ohno unattractive, and ohno’s facial hair annoying. And Shaun White doesn’t fare much better according to all the people who found me by searching for Shaun White cocky.
  3. People are really interested in all things catfish, as evidenced by the following searches: do catfish hibernate, where are bye catfish, catfish for toddlers, catfish hibernation, catfish on true blood, catfish bells (huh? really?) and catfish necklace (seriously, wtf?).
  4. I need to do more crafts and write about them. My sparkling bib necklace post gets the most hits, and it’s the second top search string to lead to my blog.
  5. I need to do a better job brushing my teeth it seems. How else do you explain grit in teeth?
  6. Many, many others have been traumatized by kaleh pacheh.
  7. And finally, mother complains whenever I spend money. I don’t even know what to say about that. I guess it’s pretty self-explanatory.

Who knew reviewing search string stats could be so entertaining? Me thinks I’ll be spending a little more time on this activity in the future.

Vocabulary Lesson

Sassy: adj. Lively and spirited; jaunty

Pensive: adj. Dreamily or wistfully thoughtful

v

Skeptic: n. a person who questions the validity or authenticity of something purporting to be factual.

Snowmaggedon, the Sequel

It’s happened again. We’re having a second snowstorm in just one winter. And let me tell you that the entire D.C. metropolitan area is freaking out. I know those of you who live in more frigid parts of the world are scoffing at our fear, but cut us a little slack. Arlington is south of the Mason-Dixon after all. That means we’re somewhat afraid of any precipitation, let alone the frozen kind. Plus add to that the fact that we lack the infrastructure of a city up in the great North to clear the stuff, and I think 24-30″ is a lot of snow no matter where you live anyways.

So, here we are sitting in our homes where we are all sure we will be trapped for 3-5 days. It’s true. The government told us we would be trapped for that long. I’m worried this means that the mailman isn’t bringing disc 2 of season 1 of Battlestar Galactica tomorrow. What am I going to do stuck at home with no BSG? I think even Azita is freaking out about it. She’s on the floor ripping up newspapers as if the world was going to end tomorrow.

Azita_rippingNewspaper

Look at that face. It screams “The end is nigh!” Yup. Surely this is Snowmaggedon.

Winter, I Love You

You wouldn’t know it because I’m one of those people who complains about how cold it is when it’s 70 degrees outside, but I love winter. Yes, winter. The cold season. I love it. I look forward to it all year. I long for it.

There’s something so poetic about winter, and I am a sucker for finding poetry in the world around us. 

Hibernation. I love how the world goes to sleep to ride out the colder months, especially the trees. When I see a tree with no leaves, I feel a little like one does when you hear a particularly joyous song. A tree is beautiful when it displays its plumage in all its glory, but it is a wondrous thing when its skeleton is unveiled for all the world to see. It is beautiful in the same way an abandoned factory or the rundown part of town can be beautiful — naked, raw, true, vulnerable.

The Promise of Snow. I love snow. I love the way it tickles your face as it lands on your skin, and I love the way the world looks blanketed in white fluff. Alas, I live in Virginia, and we rarely get so much snow anymore (ahem, global warming). But winter always brings with it the promise of snow. Even when there is no chance of this promise being fulfilled, it hangs lightly in the air. You can smell it. You know it could happen. And everyone knows (or at least should know) that the best part of getting something you want is waiting for it. It’s feeling the excitement bubbling up to your throat so you feel you can hardly breathe unless you let it out giddily.

Winter Clothes. When Azita was a newborn, she curled up against me so tightly. It was the most comforting feeling in the world. Warm, cozy, soft. Winter clothes feel much the same way. I love the soft and static-y feeling of pulling a thick wool sweater over your head. Sweaters and coats and scarves. They not only feel cozy and comfortable, but they shield you from the world. Even in public you can feel like the sole member of the world, like everything and everyone is blocked out. Sometimes I need this respite. It’s almost like a trip to the spa, but much cheaper.

Warm Sustenance. My favorite foods and drinks are warm. Soups and stews are my favorite thing to eat, and also my favorite thing to cook. Just about every weekend I make a giant pot or two of soup or stew to feed us for lunch and dinner for the rest of the week. I love warm drink equally well. Coffee and tea. Spiced cider. Hot chocolate. I love how warm drinks always have strong flavors, and I love the way they warm your throat and your belly. I would imbibe only warm food and drink all year if I could, but they are not quite as appealing as they are when the air is brisk and cold.

And finally, sometimes all of the above collide as they did this past weekend. And I not only get the promise of snow, but I get actual snow covering naked tree branches. And soft, cozy clothes and warm food and drink.

ZahraAzitaSnow

And I feel flushed and happy like the early days of an intense romance, which is exactly what it is — my romance with winter.