missing sync

pearlSo I got sick of my BlackBerry Pearl – which I still love unreasonably, by the way – not playing nicely with my Mac and downloaded the Missing Sync the other day. Oh my god, it is cool. My phone suddenly has this whole new level of functionality. I can upload! And download! Things are the same on my computer as they are on my phone. I have this weird computer organization fetish, so this fills me with glee.

Well, and I also geeked out and created thumbnail photo icons for all of my contacts (both on Highrise and in my Address Book), which – viola! – are now in my phone as well, so when people call me I see a friendly little picture of them on my screen. THIS IS SO COOL. (In a related note, yes, I am aware that I am an enormous geek.)

It also lets me easily download all the images from my phone’s camera, so now I have, like, a year’s worth of crappy snapshots to look through. The camera on my Pearl is kind of suck, which is fine – all cameraphones are kind of low-quality, right? – as long as I faithfully ignore photos taken with an iPhone. (The iPhone camera fills me with unattractive envy, so for my purposes it does not exist.)

I do like having a camera on my phone, though. It’s handy, and it makes me feel pleasantly tech-geeky, and I always have it with me, unlike the enormous Nikon which requires its own backpack. But I’m lazy about uploading images because (until now) I’ve had to do it over Bluetooth, which is somewhat lugubrious and effort-intensive. Seriously, only one picture at a time? Who has the attention span for that?

Now, though, I can transfer all my pictures at the same time I’m syncing my phone, so I just uploaded a bunch of badly-lit, poorly composed, out of date images to Flickr. YOU ARE SO HAPPY ABOUT THIS.

matt and ellison in the park mama and baby on the MAX library mama shoes self

So now I’ve got my phone syncing with my desktop, plus the revamped Google Mobile suite (gmail and maps on the go, whee!) which means my phone is, like, the coolest thing ever. I think I might need to make out with it for a little while.

silver bells

The year totally heard me talking smack about it and decided to stack the decks in its favor. This took the form of Not So surprising me with a pre-arranged date at bluehour, the seriously swanky, seriously exciting restaurant I’ve been dying to go to ever since we moved to Portland. He got us a babysitter and everything.  I got to go out on a date with my husband! And…oh my god. Year, you are totally forgiven for all the sucking, because I had THE BEST TIME EVER.

I just finished (almost) all my holiday shopping, and I no longer have a creeping sense of doom about this Christmas, which has got to be good, right? Because Christmas often equals creeping doom. Everyone knows that. We’ve totally failed to impart any sense of holiday spirit to the kid, but he’ll figure it out soon  enough.

Besides, houseful of atheists? Not exactly the best advocates for the socially accepted version of Christmas. In my family, Christmas was a firmly secular affair, which heavy emphasis on a) food and b) Santa Claus (in that order). The only time there was any mention of Jesus or mangers was when we children started spouting Christmas carols. Which I still like. Sort of.

Although this year there’s been a lot more of Mike Doughty’s I Hear The Bells than anything involving wise men or strategically placed stars.

I hear the bells
They are like emeralds, and
Glints in the night
Commas and ampersands
Your moony face
So inaccessible
Your inner mind
So inexpressible

And if that doesn’t say ‘Merry Christmas,’ I don’t know what does.

the mortality express

You’d think that the news of my father’s death would be one of those hugely traumatic things that leaves an indelible mark on my psyche. And, in a way, you’d be right. This is me: I’m marked. But not by his death, which was a long time coming and not exactly unexpected.

Here’s what’s good about my dad being dead:

  • I don’t need to worry that he is going to show up anywhere that I am
  • He isn’t going to demand to meet his grandson
  • There is no chance that he will find my number and call to manipulate me into doing things for him or giving him money
  • He will not find me on the internet and say cruel things on my websites, or try to discredit me in any way
  • I can finally get around to some serious grieving

Because, see, my grief process has been on hold for the past…however many years (10? 20? Longer? I mean, we can date it from when I cut off all contact with him [10], or from when I had enough and ran away from home when I was almost 13 [20], or we can count it from the first time he hit me and made me feel bad about myself, and who knows when that was). I haven’t let myself access any of the good memories I have of my father, because if I did I’d leave myself open to another one of his attacks. I’d be, in the parlance of sleazy lawyers everywhere, asking for it.

Here’s what sucks about my dad being dead:

  • He still gets the last word: my sister and I have to pony up for his cremation expenses, which I can’t help but feel he would have deliberately pre-arranged if he could as a last “fuck you” to his daughters
  • Finding someone who will cremate a 400 lb man is somewhat challenging
  • And now I have to figure out what to do with all the crap he left in the motel room he’s been living in for the past 6 or 7 years, which, if any of his past residences were any indication, is probably a pit of garbage, rotting food, and computer parts

Notice that none of the negatives include “his being dead.” One could argue that being bedridden and alone in a cheap motel room for several years, with his only human contact coming from a state-mandated caregiver, was a terrible way to live, so his death must have come as a relief to him. One could argue that, but I won’t. His death is a relief to me.

Maybe I sound ice-maiden like, which would just figure, since I feel raw and unfettered for the first time, oh, ever. I could be pedantic and list all the things he did to make things the way they are, and follow them with an even longer list of reasons why I’m justified in feeling however I feel. But what would be the point of that?

I’m sad, but I’m not sad that he’s dead. I’m sad because he’s dead; because I can finally let myself love him without him hurting me.

boots: acquired!

ZOMG, so after yesterday’s abortive boot-shopping expedition, I managed to find not only the Franco Sarto boots in my size (which, unfortunately, were somewhat more toe-crunching than I had anticipated so I’m especially glad I didn’t just buy them on the internet like the voices in my head were telling me to) but a pair of the cutest, comfiest, most flattering boots EVER at Nordstrom, for – get this – $69. Seriously. Not on sale or anything.

bp mattie

I got a pair, my sister got a pair. We rocked the matching boots. It was glorious.

It’s funny, too, because we totally weren’t going to go into Nordstrom. We’d gone to the downtown Nordstrom last night and found absolutely nothing of any import (except a snotty saleslady who informed me loftily they she didn’t even need to check to know they wouldn’t have anything in my size, while trying to woo my obviously wealthier sister into buying some Josef Seibels that she totally got later that night on eBay) so why bother going into the one at Lloyd Center, right? But we’d exhausted all our other boot possibilities, and I was already feeling grumpy and fatalistic since the one pair I’d been keen on at Macy’s (not the Franco Sartos, but a very riding-bootish pair from Bandolino) would have to be special-ordered and therefore would not qualify for the sale price OR give me anything resembling instant gratification. And really, if I wanted to order boots, wouldn’t I have done so from the comfort of my own home? Would I really have bothered to make my way through a crowded mall?

But we went, and behold! A whole juniors shoe section! Which apparently involved all the shoes that were both cute and affordable! Who would have guessed? We emerged, bootified and victorious, and met up with the boys for a round of ice skating.

As far as days go, this was pretty good.

boots: denied

francosartotempest

I’ve had my eye on this pair of Franco Sarto boots from Macy’s since before my trip. They’re incredibly cute, what with the little retro heels and the buttons up the side, and totally impractical, what with the little retro heels and the buttons up the side. But did I mention the cute? Cute totally trumps practical, especially when you’ve been drowning in practical and only just managed to actually paint your nails again, after 3 years of not bothering.

So they’re on sale at Macy’s, the boots are, and they have been since before my trip, but I’ve been so ridiculously busy (and/or enfeebled by migraine) that I haven’t made it out there until today. And today I sat in the Macy’s chair and waited for the incredibly lackadaisical Macy’s employee to bring me a pair so that I could try them on, be dazzled by their cuteness, and purchase them, using my hard-earned dollars. That was my plan, and it was a pretty good one, I though.

Except for one tiny detail: they were sold out of my size. And the size below. The closest size left, I was informed, was an 8.5. Yes. The size my feet USED to be, before I got pregnant.

It’s totally a sign. I will be wearing Danskos and Uggs until I die.

threadless loves me, and you should too

ETA: Aaaw, I didn’t make it past the first round…but thank to everyone who voted for me! I’ll just have to come up with something fabulous for next time…

I have a design in the running on Threadless! If it gets picked, it’ll be a Threadless tee, and I will achieve infamy and fortune. Or at least infamy.

My Threadless.com Submission

Vote for me, won’t you? And tell all your friends. And your friends’ friends. And your friends’ friends’ friends…

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refine this

In Slightly Less Unhealthy news, I’ve once again decided to go on a fresh food/less sugar kick. The reasons are similar to last time (moodiness exacerbated by sugar, extreme crankiness, general sense of malaise) but with one added bit: low sugar diets can help with migraines.

Studies show that when a migraine person eats refined sugar, their blood sugar level goes up very high, then quickly comes down again. […] Natural sugars, such as fruit, completely unprocessed sugar cane juice, etc. do not cause this effect.

Natural Migraine Treatment FAQ

Since I am disinclined to argue with such an authority as Teh Interwebs, I figure I ought to try and cut out as much refined sugar as I can. This is somewhat challenging, since I like refined sugar. It’s so…refined. So crystalline and white, like wee little diamonds that you can eat. And such delicious things are made from it, such as chocolate, and things made out of chocolate.

Do I like it enough to have one or two migraines every month? Accompanied by mood swings and bitchiness?

Can I get back to you on that?

So far the diet change has been a piece of cake, and by cake I mean angel food. We had a lovely dessert of angel food cake, fresh berries, and a little bit of unsweetened heavy cream whipped with mascarpone cheese, and – wow. Not completely sugar-free, since there’s sugar in the cake, but certainly not on a par with anything made by Hostess. Which leads me to believe that I can totally do this, as long as we eat just like that for the rest of my life.

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