frustration

this in-between land of 16

2004-06-22T04:00:50+00:00

From an email I sent to Val today:

I'm really struggling with the weightlifting, and something just doesn't seem right. I've had to lay off lifting a bit this month because of Atlanta trips, but I'm getting exhausted during weightlifting sessions and it's not the kind that I get a second wind and bounce back from. Something's not right, and I don't know what.

There was more said than that, but it's unimportant. Val's response was unequivocal:

You are tired. When tired, you're more likely to injure yourself. Take a week off and we'll start fresh next week.

I dunno, folks; I feel like I'm admitting defeat here, but maybe it's time I did. I've had very few good, solid workouts in the past month; most of them have been squarely in the "I toughed them out and I hope this is worth it" category, and it just hasn't been improving.

It's hard not to look at the silk dresses in my closet, those $3 and $4 rescues from Atlanta-area thrift stores, and hate myself a little because I can't wear them yet. I want the end result, and I want it now, but I'm stuck in this in-between land of 16. I'm not where I was before; I'm much stronger and healthier than I was in January, but I'm not done, and I'm doing a pretty crappy job of accepting that fact.

I know if I'm patient, and I give my body some time to rest, I'll come back ready to fight this fight again, but right now all I hear is my mind saying "Every day you're not in the gym is another day before this is over and this weight is off your body."

Secretly, I wanted to be done by January. I wanted to buy a ticket out west to help Chris with TromaDance, knowing that by the time I got out there I'd be done, and we could celebrate. But, realistically, it is not going to happen, not unless one of two miracles occur:

My rate of weight loss drastically increases
I suddenly don't need to lose as much weight as I think I do

Even I know that neither of those two options are likely.

It's hard not to feel one of my major goals - wearing a size 12 by dragon*con, which is the first weekend of September - slipping away. Dragon*con is 72 days away. Given that I am able to drop a dress size every five weeks only under the best of circumstances, I think it's probably time for me to accept that I'm likely to just miss my goal by the barest of margins.

Dammit. I'd really been hoping for that one, too.

Facing that fact has forced me to come to another decision: even if I don't make it to a size 12 by dragon*con, I'm still going to do the Evil Catholic Schoolgirl costume this year. I'm slowly getting more comfortable with the idea of people actually seeing me, seeing my legs, seeing pretty much anything that I previously hid under loose-fitting clothing. With that, I've also become more accepting of the idea that the choice to costume is as much about one's body as it is one's attitude about it.

Size 12 or not, I think I've earned the 'right' to costume this year. I won't embarrass myself and I won't stand out in the crowd as "that girl wearing the costume she really didn't have the body to wear," so the rest is just my learning to take a breath and say, "Screw it. I want to wear this."

For now, though, I just have to be patient - and let my body rest.

Aside: Elenita posed an interesting question in comments attached to this entry. It, and my response, are worth reading in conjunction with this entry.

grace

2003-11-05T06:17:17+00:00

"oh my Lord
why's it taking you so long
to give me grace
and the dignity to right these wrongs"
- Jonatha Brooke, 'Deny' (bonus track from _Steady Pull_, 2001)

It's a chorus, really; voices in my head taking on the voices of two particular friends, taking their words, doubling, tripling them until the sounds of their voices drown out my own.

It's been a long, long week. Week and a half, more like, according to my watch, which says it's going to be Wednesday before I manage two more paragraphs at tonight's snail-ish rate.This site has been silent during the past week and a half, to respect the privacy of two of my friends. I love both of them dearly, fiercely; I don't know any other way. I've spent most of my waking time in the past week and a half watching their friendship literally disintegrate before my eyes; devastation, hurt, and anger made flesh.

I've cried. I've lost sleep. I've talked until I'm blue in the face, and finally, now, I find myself sitting in an empty, paint-fumed house singing back to Stevie Wonder, scratching out thoughts in a text window.

I don't know how to accept that I can't help those I care about when they so obviously need - someone, something. Comfort. Grace. Peace. The friendship that is, for now, lost.

* * * * *

I am in Atlanta, and have been since Friday night. Saturday night's costume lies in my car, wrinkled and in need of a wash...rather like the rest of me. Jeff rode back to Huntsville with a friend, and I stayed in Atlanta with the car, and headed to Jody's to help paint his house.

It's a surprise, see. Kari, his wife, picked out colors for the main floor of their house, and I agreed to come stay with Jody for a few days to effect the transformation while Kari was out of state on a business trip.

I didn't bargain on painting to be a meditative exercise on the futility of trying to make things right. Since Monday morning I have slapped paint up on walls with a vengeance that frightens me, leaves me exhausted at the end of the day, but has not yet slowed the chatter-clack of my thoughts.

The truth is that I'm angry at myself; angry because I understand that the ideas of parallel and intersection are not just mathematical concepts. They are easily demonstrated in a three-dimensional, emotional world, often with devastating results. I knew two months ago when these friends left parallel, aiming slowly for each other, aiming for a confrontation that was as certain as it was going to be horrific.

I'm angry not because I did nothing, but because I did not do enough. I had opportunities to try to correct what might (or might not) have been inevitable, to steer them away from each other. At the time I voiced my concerns as openly as I thought was appropriate, but I look back now and question my conduct. I wonder if but for a few conversations of brutal honesty, perhaps some of this devastation could have been avoided.

(Cassandra.)

I've wanted to shoot them and to comfort them, and that's just today.

* * * * *

The entranceway is done; all that remains is to cut the tape down tomorrow and that section of the job is finished. As soon as I write this entry, I will head upstairs to apply what I pray is the last coat of red paint necessary to complete the dining room.

Red paint is translucent, not opaque. Reaching the intended final result requires time, patience, and multiple layers. The first layer goes on pink, with each additional layer slowly blending away lap marks and deepening the accumulated color toward the intended result.

There's a moral in this somewhere, a moral about friendships and healing taking time and patience, and how standing on ladders and whacking myself with a red-laden paintbrush is supposed to make me see that connection.

I'd be a liar if I said anything but this: I want off the ladder, I want the paint out of my hair, and while I realize that, short of comfort and friendship, there is nothing I can do for my friends, I want some way to make that right, too.

Time wields that paintbrush. Not me.

respect of pointy

2003-06-26T15:42:18+00:00

Attempt number one involved scooping Edmund up and trying to pop a pill in his mouth. Attempt number one ended with Jeff bleeding from two long, ugly scratches on his forearm and Edmund sulking in another room.

Call the vet. Lovely, practical, unruffled vet. "We have a problem."

"He's stressed, so don't try to bring them in today. Tomorrow morning, crush the remaining pill and give it to them with a treat or some food, and maybe that will work."

"All right."

Attempt number two began with a trip to Target and the purchase of a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli. No, we can't explain it either; we suspect that Sir Boyardee's company is secretly lacing its tomato sauce with catnip. Nothing else explains our felines' determination to get their dainty little paws on the tomato sauce.

Attempt number two commenced in earnest at seven a.m. this morning, when I crushed the kitty sedative in the mortar and pestle (note to self: wash thoroughly before using it to crush human food) and added it to the tomato sauce.

I set the bowl on the floor.

"Eat the damn tomato sauce, cat."

Attempt number two ended with Edmund taking one delicate sniff of the tomato sauce and jumping back with the oh-so-expressive Kitty Smells Something Nasty face.

"You realize that if you don't eat that, I'm hauling your ass to the vet and you're not going to be sedated when you get your shot."

Silence. (As if the cat was going to answer me.)

I asked, "Would you please eat the stupid tomato sauce?" but by the time I finished the sentence, Edmund had already left the room with a dismissive tailswish.

* * * * *

At nine a.m., the cat carrier opened for business. Luckily, the brothers Fang believe the cat carrier is a safe and sacred place, and do not fuss when they're placed into it. I tossed them in and closed the door, pretending that I did not see their baleful - and untranquilized - stares.

"You are going to the vet. Deal with it."

Silence. (Again - as if I expect the cats to talk back to me.)

Between the living room and the car, Edmund handed the brain back to Tenzing, who used the increased mental capacity to start complaining. Thankfully, the vet's office is about two miles from our house. My tape loop of "Shush, silly kitty, you're going to be okay" would have started sounding more like "Shut up, dumb cat, it's your own damn fault you're not sedated" had I been in the car for much longer.

* * * * *

There are several secrets to a successful vet visit.

#1: Kitty drugs.

Proving that your college roommate might've not been quite so off the mark when he said that drugs make anything better. Drugged kitties are limp, utterly stupid beings, capable of noticing that you just gave them a rabies shot but mysteriously unable to care. It's easy to examine a stoned kitty. Just don't show it any munchies.

#2: Prior appointment with the vet.

Calling five minutes ahead of time and saying, "I'm bringing the demons; got an exam room open?" does wonders. For non-stoned kitties, waiting is nothing but an excuse to get their temper and worry levels ratcheted up to "spastic" levels. To be able to waltz right in, going straight from the car to the exam table, makes for less pointy and more happy. (Actual waltzing is not recommended.)

#3: Respect of pointy.

Occasionally, cats feel the need to remind you that they are not domesticated; their choice to submit was freely made and can be revoked at any time. "Any time," of course, being defined as "during vet visits and any other time deemed necessary." At this time, it is best to remember the wise description one of my friends had of a certain cat: "Pointy on all ends, eh?" (Best illustrated by raising one's arms and forming fingers into exaggerated claw shapes while speaking.)

Respect the pointy parts. Leather gloves are a fine way to show your respect.

#4: Cat carrier with multiple openings.

For cats who believe the cat carrier is a safe and sacred space, whose walls serve to protect them from the joys of the vet, it is unwise to attempt to extricate the cat(s) from the carrier. Do not attempt to bring the cat to the veterinarian; bring the veterinarian to the cat. Lift the top of the carrier slowly and carefully, admiring the pleasant growls of greeting, and administer all medicines and vaccines without attempting to move the cat. (See "Respect of Pointy" for more information on this subject.)

#5: Apology feedings.

After gently replacing and re-locking the top of the cat carrier, quickly pay the vet's bill and have the lovely strapping vet's assistant take the cats to the car. Drive home. Administer apologies in verbal and scritchie form for as long as necessary. Apply kitty treats as necessary until annoyance and noisy complaining cease, and cats rediscover papasan chair and settle in for a nap.

* * * * *

Jeff's evidence of his encounter with the pointier bits of Edmund should heal over by next week. The cats have already forgotten the vet visit. The one brain they share between them has a maximum memory retention of ten minutes.

Peace is restored.

Those of you wondering what cats look like under sedation should check the photos attached to the 27 May 2002 entry, "kitty one-upsmanship."

Nibbling at the elephant

2001-08-14T03:39:34+00:00

Geof reminded me today:

"Question: how do you eat an elephant?"
"Answer: one bite at a time."Thus, today, I've been nibbling away at the elephant that is the sum total of my old cat.net entries. I'm trying to get them moved into greymatter format and to make them play nicely with my new ones, but I have to be honest. It's just not happening, and I'm starting to get really frustrated.

The entries are there. But for some reason, my log archives—the weekly groupings of posts—bomb out on the entries from early August. I've opened entries, I've closed entries, I've checked to make sure they have unix line endings and not windows line endings.

The individual entries are fine. But something about their grouping makes them bomb, and bomb hard. Eminently frustrating, especially considering how close I am to finishing.

I keep picturing an ephemeral version of myself delicately nipping at an elephant's leg. At this point, that's what I feel like I'm doing. My consolation, though: if I get this one bug solved, I'm virtually home free, and then cat.net will have been beaten into the shape I wanted many many months ago.

Until then—a hoof or a tail? Dilemma.

Coding day from hell

2001-06-23T04:03:22+00:00

Oh, dammit to hell.

I am so close. I wanted to finish up the skin code for the site tonight and to call it a weekend and walk away. But, instead, I'm stuck with half-working code (the half that works is courtesy of Gareth) and a sick spouse who will probably beg out of our movie plans tomorrow.Lesson: what I attempt to do in thirty lines of code, Gareth can do in twelve or so. Ouch. Guess I got a bit of a reminder of why he's a coder and I do graphics stuff.

The results of today's code-pounding consist mostly of lots of emailed questions to Brad and Gareth, absolutely no graphic design work done, a pounding headache, and nothing new to report. I am a marginal coder at best. At one time, I was better, more logical, more organized, but it seems that since getting married to the Ultimate Engineer[tm] that it's my graphic design side that's decided to take control of my brain.

I'm hoping to go see Memento tomorrow, but I have a sneaking feeling that I will be going alone. Jeff had originally agreed to go with me, but judging the awfulness of this evening's hacking and snuffling, I'd not be a bit surprised if tomorrow he shoos me out by myself.

Thus, I am torn. I wanted to have someone to see the movie with, but if Jeff overexerts himself he'll undoubtedly get worse, not better. The end result would be more tending on my part.

I wish the code had chosen to fall right today. That would've been a bright spot on a day that was more marked by massive code problems than anything else.

It's been a big headache. Originally, I'd had hopes that I could celebrate having a skinnable site by the end of this weekend, but instead, it looks like I'll be taking a weekend away from it in the hopes that some time away will induce clarity.

Soon—I hope.

The hottest job on Earth

2000-12-14T21:16:06+00:00

Stare at the clock in the left hand corner of my screen. 3:25.
Stare at Photoshop. Try to coax out ideas that won't come.
Stare at clock in left-hand corner of screen. 3:50.
Continue staring. 3:51.

Open Illustrator. Actually listen to lyrics coming through headphones. Wonder how Paula Cole got so damn weird. Realize that you're opening a program but don't know what good you can do with it when it opens.

3:52.This is what it feels like to be totally overwhelmed. This is what it's like after you've been here for seven hours, having only stopped for five minutes to eat a burger. This is what it's like to have come in, worked all day, and done nothing but fall further behind than where you were at the end of the day before.

Thus, the journal entry. It would be delusional of me to think that the next ten minutes I give up to organize my thoughts would have any chance of me getting caught up on this day.

This is not burnout. Burnout I know. This is the ugly part of the design business: you fly high, you swoop and soar and amaze your clients with your aerobatic tricks. Then the creative brain stops, the ideas stop coming, and it's time to settle back down to earth and tend to the home front while you wait for that mysterious creative part of your brain to recharge. You don't know how it works, but you know that it's what makes this aerobatic stunt you call "web designing" work.

These problems I can handle.

But adding to this our current staffing problems and you've got two designers who are ready to pull their hair out. We found a designer that we could have worked with. My company made her a lowball offer. She refused it.

So, yet another day of being down several staff members. Welcome to the hell of the dotcom. (Or, in my company's case, the dotnet.) We are being placated by promises of additional help, but my employer won't fork out the cash to get the kind of competent help we truly need. I spent nearly three hours on the phone today, talking with prospective employees.

I am not HR. I am a web designer. But I have the unfortunate gift of being able to look at a résumé for a web position and knowing by the tone and phrasing used whether someone is truly familiar with what they claim to know—or if they are angling for a job that they really don't know how to do. If I don't screen these résumés, we will interview virtually every human that walks in and claims to know HTML. In the end it will waste more of my time. Time that I currently don't have.

If my phone rings again today, I may just try to eat it, just to shut it up. I'm about to that point. I don't want to hear another person calling me back to try to sell me on their fledgling HTML skills; I need someone who will shoot back answers as quickly as I shoot out questions.

For the second job in a row, I'll be interviewing for my supervisor. This was really old after the first time I had to do it. Just once, I want to come out of these interviews saying, "Wow, that's someone who knows more than me. That's someone I want to work with." Not, "I'm twenty-four and I know more than you do. Why, again, did you apply?"

We should have promoted April to manager. I know this. April knows this. Everyone else is beginning to understand this. But the manager position is the least of our worries. We need a new consultant to sell our sites. We need another designer. We need a coder specializing in back-end web development. Once those are hired and trained, my workload (and others') will ease.

Welcome to one of the hottest job markets on earth. Welcome to the ultimate "in" career. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to stick my head back up Photoshop's ass and see if I can pull out graphics for a web portal. While I'm at it, I'm going to look for a six-pack of beer. I figure if I'm going to wish, I might as well make it a GOOD wish.