icarusancalion

I've been very happy lately. Inexplicably. Well, almost inexplicably. I have cats.

When Yangthang Rinpoche was here, a friend from my retreat in 2011 flew in from California. We'd had a couple of long talks during the retreat.

The retreat itself was great. Intense, a lot of work, a lot of personal change--difficult, but in a BOO-YAH! kind of way.

So my friend asked me if I was feeling any better.

Hunh?

Apparently I didn't seem "happy" at the time. Well... no, of course it was hard. But I look back on this retreat as Great and didn't understand the question until I was driving home today. He thought that I was doing better when I was happier.

Where did we get the idea that happy = good?

I've been happy lots of times, mostly while watching sci-fi with a cat in my lap. Not accomplishing jack. There's nothing wrong with being happy. I enjoy it. But the times I'm happiest *about* are the so-called tough times when I've gone through a lot of personal change.

On the way home from work it hit me: that's what Shantideva meant. He didn't just mean that one *should* be happy to have enemies. He was genuinely pleased at his personal change. BOO-YAH!

Just saw the latest Star Trek.

Any fic recs?

Kirk/Spock friendship + humor a plus.

I noticed when my arm brushed the tag on my shirt.

H'okay, I may've been tired after chatting till 6am. My shirt was on inside out.

(Good thing there aren't any witnesses. I hustled off to the bathroom.)

Just to prove it wasn't an aberration, minutes later I reached up to drop some bird treats in the bird's food bowl, to top it off.

*Sploop!*

Wrong bowl. And I'd just changed that water.


In other news: I may have overwritten that Star Trek: TOS fic I've been trying to resuscitate. I do lots of creative things ... painting, finishing the OAR (Overly Ambitious Rug, yes, I know I finished the sections months ago but I still haven't latched them together)... but I miss writing.

I've been surprisingly social this week.

I invited Ani S. K. to lunch. ("Sorry it's been over a year," I said. S.K., with her Tennessee twang, "I've been trying not to take it personal.")

Then! I invited myself over for a movie with single-dad-with-two-month-old-oh-he-is-so-on-verge-of-cabin-fever, J (yes, he of the nun!mom grilling). Just friends, BTW, his personal life (note the baby that didn't exist last fall) ... uh. *backs away slowly* He hadn't seen X-Men First Class. *cue shock*

Sunday I went to a late lunch and then Buddhist class with my buddy M.

Monday -- Iron Man 3 with K.

That's a social whirl for me, folks.

In other news ... I feel like writing.

Any advice on how to revive a stale project? I'm busier than I used to be, so more often than not I start a project, and it's weeks before I can type it.

Contractors drive big trucks.

The extended cabins, super-long trailer beds, wheels big enough for armored personnel carriers. They're shiny, new, and well-cared for. These are proud trucks.

Four of them were parked side-by-side in the temple parking lot this am and I could hardly get past in my tiny Honda Civic.

Contractors mean bids, and bids mean stage one of the temple renovation has begun. I didn't even need to ask.

The job's a small one to start: building a firewall to separate the prayer room from the temple, and building two bathrooms. (Bigger contractors drive sedans and the guy who does the bids is never seen at the job site.)

Sure enough, behind the temple: a cluster of big guys in workman-like clothes, dressed for success. Funny they clustered together. Knew each other? Sizing up the competition? Intimidated by a Buddhist temple?

Ani Dawa, also in her work clothes, waved to me and warned: "These are the guys who're going to mess up your paint job!"

After a moment's thought, I raised my arms. "Yay!"



P.S. Kristin tells me that one of the contractors is Amazingly good-looking. I told her all contractors are attractive. It's how they walk (and I admit, I like men who are handy). But she said, "But this guy is dreamy."

This I gotta see. I have a prayer shift today. Maybe he'll be around. *cranes neck*

The little 28" octagon table I'm using as my dining table ... sigh.

It would be nifty (octagon!):

a) if it weren't part of a teak patio set, and
b) if it allowed people to put their legs underneath.

Table + no room for legs = not a table.

It is to be replaced by the simple pedestal table found here. With tablecloth.

I am tempted to get the unfinished version. Or would be if I hadn't screwed up the refinishing of the second chair. Now I have to sand it all down -- again -- and refinish it -- again.

On the other hand, table troubles aside, I would be able match the chairs and table neatly. And the first chair, on the second try, does look nice....

Shoot. Who did I gack this from?

I Am A: Neutral Good Elf Druid/Wizard (3rd/2nd Level)


Ability Scores:

Strength-11

Dexterity-12

Constitution-11

Intelligence-15

Wisdom-12

Charisma-13
( Details for the uber geeky )

Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)



In other news, I have washed a pan. Slowly this place is getting cleaned up, slowly.

I'm down to one bra.*

I have a plentitude of bras. Some of them are even the same size. But my old US Victoria's Secret 32Bs fit like pasties, and while the Victoria's Secret 32Cs kinda fit in the cup (perfect on the left, swimming on the right), the straps are too long and the band feels like I'm a kid trying on my mother's swimsuit.

My UK M&S 30Cs fit like they were made for the doll version of me: the band's tight enough to go SPROIIINNG! when I take it off, and like hell I can fit my boobs into those dixie cups. Yet the UK Valisere 32D fits pretty much like the US 32C, with more room, siiiigh.

And then there's that one US Wacoal 30C petite. Why does it fit when nothing else the exact same size does?

I wanted a different bra. Other options. It's a push-up and thus rather tight. I prefer cotton bras (it's at least cotton lined). I wanted some color options beyond Nude or Black. It's twice the price of my old bras. I'm used to having an unusual but not impossible size to find. Now...

...I give up. I'm happy to find one. I've ordered two more of the pricey things.

Bra sizes make no earthly sense. I want force fields.



*Explanation: I'm not carrying a backpack with 30 pounds of books anymore, not taking buses, and not getting much exercise. So the results are that I've lost muscle mass and am slightly smaller in the band, plus I've filled out in the boob.

The temple's hosting Rinpoche's teaching IN A TENT on the lawn.

Why? Because we still can't hold public assemblies. The current temperature today: 46 degrees.

He's 90 years old and there's a heated, attractive temple not 20 feet away, but the county won't let us.

lauramcewan gave me "17."

When I was 17, I was in 11th grade.

( That year I went to Germany as an exchange student for two and a half months, danced with a soldier in a German disco... )

None of this is covered in the questions.

I lived... in Union Lake, Michigan, also known as paradise. We lived 50 feet from the water and wore bathing suits all summer. My brother and I drove an hour, each way, to attend the Waldorf school in downtown Detroit.

I drove... nothing. My parents wanted me to get my license so they could be spared the two hour per day drive in rush hour traffic. I refused. My brother did get his license, and thought I'd relent and share the driving. I slept on the way instead.

I was in a relationship with... Oh, who was it then? I had a secret fling with Judd, the class "nice guy" who was desperate to be anything but, then later Lars, a German exchange student who didn't speak English but liked to climb. He was vulnerable, unhappy, and had a beautiful chest. (I had priorities.)

I feared... the cool kids who picked on me, and Ian, he of the crush-or-maybe-he-was-a-gay-misogynist. High school sucks.

I worked... at, oh God, other than tutoring clarinet, I think I worked at McDonald's over the summer, and then as a cashier at a drugstore.

I wanted to be... in New York city with a apartment that had nothing but wood floors (for the acoustics) and a piano, working quietly in an art museum. My art teacher thought I had a good shot at a scholarship at the all-scholarship school, Pratt.