Posts Tagged ‘I’m tired’

Resolution #2

Wednesday, December 28th, 2011

I am sitting with my brother and his girlfriend, watching a very (extremely) weird movie in which the serial killer is a tire.

But that is neither here nor there.

What is here and now is that it’s another day and thus you are owed another resolution. Yesterday we discussed writing, so today let’s tackle what I shall call


* Heal my bladder condition (interstitial cystitis for anyone out there with any tips. It’s been giving me the beatdown this week.)

* Be grateful every day

* Eat a 50-75% raw diet

* Work out daily

* Meditate three times a week

I had what I was pretty sure was a fabulous idea for a blog post this morning, but I no longer remember it whatsoever. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this except to say that obviously my brain ain’t so sharp, but also as a reassurance that perhaps one day I will come up with a good idea and actually remember AND execute it.

So that’s something we can all look forward to.

Until then, brace yourself for tomorrow’s installment of Vanessa’s New Years Resolutions 2012: the year a jaguar god returns or it all comes to a crashing halt or both or neither.

quit smoking Maui

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A Case of You

Thursday, November 17th, 2011

I am Vanessa, and I am addicted to sardines.

Ten days ago I had three cans of Matiz Gallego sardines in my possession…now I am down to one.

The Golem obsession is setting in. You see, I want to eat them, but then I will have none. This is a problem, née, a catastrophe.

Matiz canned sardines

Nom nom nom. Come to Mama...

Enter Amazon: my hero. Of course the sardines are represented; even a case of 25 of them (oh, happy day). However, they’re sold out or no longer available (I signed up for the “notify me when this becomes available” feature…whenever/if-ever that is), so I’m back where I started. Amazon fail.

I pride myself on generally sane behavior and raw eating and healthy habits, but I draw the line at Portuguese/Spanish sardines. If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

If eating them until I stink of them is wrong, put some Tiger Balm under your nostrils, because things are about to get fishy.

If soaking in a bath of the leftover oil from the cans is wrong, well, let’s just go with a don’t ask, don’t tell arrangement…



Tomorrow is the THIRD eye exam for my freaky vision issue. Things are still in flux – sometimes blurry, sometimes clear – but at this very moment I can see pretty well…so here’s hoping.

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Hey, at least I remembered.

Sunday, October 16th, 2011

I was about to go to bed when I remembered: you guys!

I felt gross today, and I spent a portion of that time worrying I had gecko poisoning. I thought they were cute at first, but now they have two major strikes against them
1) that goddamned chirping cackle they like to make at 3am
2) their poo carries salmonella…and they crap all over the place like pigeons on a wire…except in your house! No! Take a gander at what was on my coffee maker this morning.


In other news, the dog is looking fine. As usual. My boy is a rock star: he’s got the moves like Jagger…or at least Meatloaf.


And these were next to the canned menudo at the grocery store. Hard to decide what sounds worse – especially when you already feel pukey – but I think probably the hooves.


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Five Golden Rings

Friday, December 18th, 2009

At last.

A gift I can get down with.


Why didn’t I buy gold when all the ads were insisting that gold was the only rock-solid investment out there?

Because I’m stupid, that’s why. Seriously, I should start an investment service where I tell you what I bought, and you can sell it.

Oh well, easy come easy go.

Actually, it’s more like hard won, easy go.

Or no come, all go.

But such is life sometimes, and I still say the trade off was worth it. Security is lacking, but sense of purpose is high. As someone wrote, “What you have become is the price you paid to get what you used to want.”

In other news, I don’t know much about five golden rings, but I know an awful lot about five dozen cookies. My dad requested a batch of his favorite childhood cookies, and I decided to do him one better (or three better, I suppose) by making a batch using the original Hungarian recipe, a batch using the first-ever American version (a Betty Crocker recipe circa 1950), and a batch using – verbatim – his mom’s recipe.

It’s possibly a waste of time (and no doubt waaaaaaay too many cookies), but there’s something kind of cool about comparing old and older and oldest and seeing if there’s some kind of wisdom to be gleaned from each.

And if that isn’t the big hit I’m looking for, next Christmas I’ll look into turning lead into gold…

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If I had a million dollars…

Monday, November 23rd, 2009

I’d buy your love.

I would.

I might.

Okay, you got me.
I wouldn’t.

I’d quite possibly buy a lot of stuff and most of it I wouldn’t need, but I’d probably take my queues from the super-rich Beatles (as in ‘Can’t Buy Me’ more than ‘All You Need Is’) over the probably-barely-getting-by-anymore Barenaked Ladies and forgo the love buying.

Meanwhile, I must confess that I feel bedraggled and borderline ill. I’m mainlining zinc and  considering another dance with the devil (AmbienCT, which made me puke about ten days ago) in order to get some much needed – if not necessary – zzzzs.

In the meantime, and in the spirit of compensating for over two weeks of doing for others, I spent the day indulging in three of my favorite, pointless activities:

1. Reading cookbooks

2. Watching old episodes of Tony Bourdain’s No Reservations

3. Window shopping online

And the critical word there is WINDOW because I’m not exactly financially solvent at the moment and because I spent two entire days purging a colossal amount of stuff from my closet…and it’s still brimming with a veritable shit load of stuff. Beloved stuff. Precious stuff. Cute stuff. Stuff I love. Stuff I (obviously) can’t part with. And yet the love of new stuff surfaces in the face of so much stuff…

On the surface you might think I’d make a really bad Buddhist, but that’s not the case. Nope. One can love their stuff so long as they maintain awareness that the stuff (both the stuff I have and the stuff I do not have, but would like to have) and I are one. Loving my stuff is self-love.

Allow me to make this a little bit more confusing:

In Buddhism, non-attachment (the ideal state) is the exact opposite of separation. To have attachment, you need two things:

  1. The person who attaches
  2. The thing the person attaches to.

In non-attachment, you’ve unified with the whole universe. There is nothing outside of you. Thus, there’s nothing to attach to and the notion of attachment becomes absurd.

However, because as a species we tend to believe that we are having an autonomous and intrinsic existence within our skin, and what’s outside our bodies is “everything else,” most of us go through life grabbing for one thing after another in an effort to be safe or feel happy.

And the rub there is that we ‘pursue’ happiness because we think it is an external quality, something that lies outside ourselves. And because we think it is ‘out there’ or external, we stress and worry about gaining it…and losing it. Whatever can be found can also be lost.

Which is, in the end, a long-winded way of saying that I am one with the items for sale at Urban and thus looking at them and owning none of them brings me the same level of pleasure as owning them. Although, admittedly, if I had a million dollars, I would own a few of them.

Like this skirt:


And this wallet:


And this jacket:


And this jewelry holder stacked doll chairs thingamabob:


And this sweater:


But in a totally non-attached way…


Honest injun.

Cross my heart and hope to die.

I can’t get this to format how I want, so sorry about that. Sometimes (more often than not), WordPress mystifies me.

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