On losing faith with my home.

I have lost faith with my house. My safe haven has been violated. The night before last, while I sat chatting at a café, writing on my laptop, someone forced their way into my house. I came home to find my back door wide open, the handle still locked. Knowing that the door is far too sticky to open with the wind, I immediately went outside again, and called my friends Bob and Bobbi,  came over immediately. We walked through the house to ensure that no one was inside. When they went into my office, Bob called out, “did you have a computer in here?” Bingo! There was the violation. My desk was moved out from the wall, the beautiful Apple flat screen monitor, keyboard, mouse, wireless modem all gone. The Tower was disconnected and out of its cubby, ready to be hauled off as well. So did I interrupt him? It seems I may have.

Later I realized that my iPod was missing from the dining room table, where I’d left it when I decided it was too cold to go for a walk earlier. Why did he take its little embroidered bag as well? A gift for a loved one? He put my clothes that were on the dryer door back inside – he touched my clothing. My socks and underpants. My favorite jeans and turtlenecks. Should I rewash them?

So now I want to move. While not exactly fearful, and certainly not interested in sleeping at anyone else’s house to be safer, I do not feel the sanctity of my private space anymore. Now that a stranger has burgled his way in, walked on my floors, touched my clothing and stolen my things, I want to move. This weekend I will go to all the open houses that offer any possibility of sanctuary. Then I will begin looking by appointment. I will make it happen, despite my reluctance to take financial chances.

This is the second time I have written of losing faith with my house. Last August a roof rat made his way in via the open French door, and spent a few days foraging in my kitchen and bedroom. After his demise, I gradually grew back to a comfortable relationship there again. After the new year a tree was blown down and I lost most of my fence. (The open alley is the reason it was easy to break into my home, I am sure. ) The power was off for 8 days at that time, and I cleaned the house and made it cozy again. I was loving the feel of it until now. I think this might be the deal breaker. This is a violation by an outside person, someone who felt free to make my space his own. One’s relationship with home is a powerful atttachment. At least that is the case for me. I love my home. I need a place that is absolutely my cocoon, my safe place. I can deal with the outside if my home is safe. Oddly enough, even with this violation, I can’t quite imagine another place ever feeling quite like mine, like me. I know it has to do with making a place my own. Paint, fabric, flowers. A new entry altar. Have a party, play some music, fall in love there. Maybe not all of that is within my power, but the party, flowers and music are. The altar is. Today I’ll begin my search in earnest.

The exercise ball

So, this week I bought an exercise ball at Costco. It’s a deluxe one, apparently. It came with accessories: a couple of DVDs and some sort of harness. They make it sound like a compact gym. You can use it for all sorts of heinous forms of exercise. For $12.99 I figured, “Why not?” Well, I got it home, and opened the box and sure enough it has all the promised accessories but no pump to put the air in it. How am I supposed to fill it without a pump? They seem to just expect that one will have a pump with a needle valve laying around the house. If I had one of those, maybe I’d ride my bike. Maybe I wouldn’t be so overweight. Maybe I wouldn’t need the ball system. (All those accessories must surely make it a system.) Whatever. I guess I’ll suck it up and borrow one this weekend so I can get started.

Post Script: I went out and bought a ball pump. I attached the needle valve, and took the plug out of the ball: the hole is huge. Way too big for the tiny valve, so I blew it up with my mouth, which was completely ineffective. It left it way too spongy for me to use it for anything other than a comedy routine. So now I am looking for a different sort of ball pump. This is way harder than it should be. Meanwhile, I’ll just keep walking with the (new!) iPod.

Eating on the road

I’ve been traveling for the past week, and at first I did okay.  I counted my WW Points everyday, and I was within a reasonable range.  A little over daily, but not weekly.  But for the last three days I’ve been in  a conference center in Atlanta, at a retreat.  Retreat = too much food.  And mixed food is so hard to quantify.  Wait, not that.  There is no point in trying to quantify the amount eaten because it is clearly over the top.  Scalloped potatoes that seemed to be made with whipped cream, and a bread pudding made from God only knows what.  Topped with caramel sauce and cinnamon ice cream.  I knew what I was doing.  I just didn’t care for those few minutes.  Minutes which turned into three days.  It seems like I could control my intake better when I was driving, and had access to grocery stores.  I could get some fruit, or a frozen controlled portion meal.  (I know, not high quality, but certainly within reason.)  But now that I’ve been driven here, and the only choices are restaurant or nothing, I have not maintained the control necessary to make progress.   Oh well – good to know.  I’ll try to plan for that next time.  Now I’ll just go home and begin again.

The Women’s Department

What’s the deal with the “Women’s” department? You walk into a department store, even a rather upscale one, and notice that the clothing on display in the Misses department is attractive, just the style you’re looking for. You know it would look good on you if it was just a little bigger. So, with hopes raised, you make your way to the Women’s department. It is pretty easy to find, over there between the Petites and the Maternity wear. You begin to scan the racks for the good looking blouses you saw on your way in, or that perfect pair of black pants for work. You move from rack to rack, heart sinking as once again you encounter the cheap fabric adorned with sparkly sequins, gold paint, ruffles and foil thread. Why do the clothing designers think we want to wear that stuff? Being fat does not make one a tasteless hoochie, nor a baby. Do the pants have to be made of stretch polyester with elastic waistbands? Must the legs of the jeans be tapered to emphasize a big bottom? What’s with the sweaters and t-shirts with fake blouses sewn to the sleeves and neck? I don’t see those in the Misses department. Why are the fabrics so sleazy? Built in jewelry? Glaring colors and flamboyant designs do not flatter a larger body. The prices are higher (more fabric?) but the quality is rock bottom. When I read so much about how fat Americans are, necessitating larger coffins, wheelchairs, beds (all accoutrements of longterm obesity, I know) I expect I will see some more satisfactory accomodations being made in the Women’s Department. It’s hard enough to be overweight without having it shoved in our faces every time we try to dress ourselves.

Starting out new

Reduce, reuse, recycle. A good motto for more than plastic milk cartons, I think. It is time for me to rethink the way I do things. I eat too much, buy too much and throw away too much, and it’s time I made some changes. I’ve decided to begin a blog and call it “Reduction Physics.” This is based on the law of physics (I think it’s a law of physics) that states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. If I eat less, I’ll weigh less. If I buy less, I’ll reduce my debt-load and clutter.  (Wait – that is not an opposite reaction, is it?  Anyway.)   I’ll make room for other things that I tend to leave out like exercise, art, music and laughter. Why a blog? Going public (so to speak – will anyone even read this?!) creates accountability, which somehow equates to honesty I think. A step beyond journaling or thinking. I’ve been doing that for years with no noticeable change. So, a blog. Welcome. I’m glad you’re here.