Blah to snow!
Sorry Katie Baker, but that's just the way I feel. This is supposed to be my week alone with Scott because the rest of the family is on vacation during the school break. So, of course, this week I worked an average of two hours a day longer than usual because my boss is going on vacation and has had to show me a bunch of new stuff to do while she's away. This means I need a couple of hours to sort of bounce back from everything (making me hyper right before I go to bed). Also Daniel and Jen have Jen's dog out, but their landlord doesn't know about it. Because their apartment is right above his store, they've been coming here every day. Not that it is a bad thing necessarily--last night we played poker and ate paneer--but it cuts down on the romance significantly. (Plus their dog is huge and full of energy. He's also a bird dog and we have chickens--so he keeps hoping that we'll let him into the back yard. And he thinks that he's Hektor's size or something, because he wants to sit on your lap, etc.) This weekend we're having some of Scott's friends over since it isn't really possible to have people over when my family is all here. So today we have to clean (or avoid cleaning, as I'm doing) and tomorrow we entertain. Again, not a bad thing, but not conducive to alone time. So on one hand, this week's paycheck is significantly larger and we're socially active again. On the other, no romantic dinners.
I've been cooking a lot of Indian food recently. My mom has this awesome cookbook that she refuses to let me steal *sigh* I've been making a lot of paneer dishes (a fresh cheese that doesn't melt, similar in texture to tofu but much better, used frequently in vegetarian Indian cooking). You always start by frying the paneer and I am having the worst luck with it. I think I burn myself every time--and oil burns at that! The food turns out delicious. In fact, it has been impossible to make enough for leftovers because even the kids love it. So it's worth the pain. Still.... Nothing hurts worse than a burn.
My hands have so many little scars and marks on them. My left hand has my seahorse scar (which I am rather fond of), while the right has the scar from when I dropped that knife on myself (luckily it is masked by my writer's callous). Then there is all the little marks that may be permanent or may be temporary--there is no way to tell because even if they go away, a new one takes its place. These are mostly on the top of my hands, but they continue on towards my wrists and arms. Little cuts and tiny burns--things I don't even notice. I have a couple of little moles. Those I've had forever. They are how I recognize my hands. Oh, and my fingers are crooked. My pinkies and pointer fingers point inward. My Oma's do the same. My palms seem rather unaffected, but the undersides of my fingers get dry if I touch a lot of cleaners without using gloves. And on the outsides of where my palms meet my wrists are two calluses--that is where I rest my hands when I'm typing. My hands are so used. I wonder, if you saw just my hands, if you wouldn't think I was in my thirties or even forties.
Sometimes, if I've been reading too many women's magazines, I start to worry. Oh sure I put lotion on them, but probably not frequently enough. I don't have a hand maintenance program beyond occasionally filing my nails. And I certainly don't do that enough, especially this time of year when my nails chip and break because it's so dry. I own cuticle cream. It is sort of like my journal(s). I can get about three nights of use before it ends up in some draw filled with other good intentions.
Genetically I'm not meant to have lovely, delicate hands. Even so, would I be happier if my hands were prettier but less used? What if there were no distinctive marks besides a few moles? Would people love me more or less? Would they think better of me, or rather the contrary? I look at my Oma's hands and I see years of cooking and cleaning. I see her moving rocks, weeding, raking, planting, digging. I look at my dad's hands and I see years of salt water and sun shine, nets, ropes, hooks, tools, and a little bit of surf wax thrown in for good measure. I look at Carl's hands (carbon copies of my dad's) and I see climbing, falling, grabbing, swimming, with total disregard of the consequences. Even Rosemary, with her long fingers, has little scars that prove she ran through the woods and kissed frogs (even if now she prefers texting). There is a lifetime of activities written in my hands. They may not be glamorous. They may not be delicate or lovely. But no one else has hands like mine. They know what I've done and where I've been. They know who and what I've touched. They've held babies and given comfort and love. They've made people happy, cooked fabulous meals and done what they've had to. So what's a few burns and a couple of scars? Nothing but more proof of who I am.
I've been cooking a lot of Indian food recently. My mom has this awesome cookbook that she refuses to let me steal *sigh* I've been making a lot of paneer dishes (a fresh cheese that doesn't melt, similar in texture to tofu but much better, used frequently in vegetarian Indian cooking). You always start by frying the paneer and I am having the worst luck with it. I think I burn myself every time--and oil burns at that! The food turns out delicious. In fact, it has been impossible to make enough for leftovers because even the kids love it. So it's worth the pain. Still.... Nothing hurts worse than a burn.
My hands have so many little scars and marks on them. My left hand has my seahorse scar (which I am rather fond of), while the right has the scar from when I dropped that knife on myself (luckily it is masked by my writer's callous). Then there is all the little marks that may be permanent or may be temporary--there is no way to tell because even if they go away, a new one takes its place. These are mostly on the top of my hands, but they continue on towards my wrists and arms. Little cuts and tiny burns--things I don't even notice. I have a couple of little moles. Those I've had forever. They are how I recognize my hands. Oh, and my fingers are crooked. My pinkies and pointer fingers point inward. My Oma's do the same. My palms seem rather unaffected, but the undersides of my fingers get dry if I touch a lot of cleaners without using gloves. And on the outsides of where my palms meet my wrists are two calluses--that is where I rest my hands when I'm typing. My hands are so used. I wonder, if you saw just my hands, if you wouldn't think I was in my thirties or even forties.
Sometimes, if I've been reading too many women's magazines, I start to worry. Oh sure I put lotion on them, but probably not frequently enough. I don't have a hand maintenance program beyond occasionally filing my nails. And I certainly don't do that enough, especially this time of year when my nails chip and break because it's so dry. I own cuticle cream. It is sort of like my journal(s). I can get about three nights of use before it ends up in some draw filled with other good intentions.
Genetically I'm not meant to have lovely, delicate hands. Even so, would I be happier if my hands were prettier but less used? What if there were no distinctive marks besides a few moles? Would people love me more or less? Would they think better of me, or rather the contrary? I look at my Oma's hands and I see years of cooking and cleaning. I see her moving rocks, weeding, raking, planting, digging. I look at my dad's hands and I see years of salt water and sun shine, nets, ropes, hooks, tools, and a little bit of surf wax thrown in for good measure. I look at Carl's hands (carbon copies of my dad's) and I see climbing, falling, grabbing, swimming, with total disregard of the consequences. Even Rosemary, with her long fingers, has little scars that prove she ran through the woods and kissed frogs (even if now she prefers texting). There is a lifetime of activities written in my hands. They may not be glamorous. They may not be delicate or lovely. But no one else has hands like mine. They know what I've done and where I've been. They know who and what I've touched. They've held babies and given comfort and love. They've made people happy, cooked fabulous meals and done what they've had to. So what's a few burns and a couple of scars? Nothing but more proof of who I am.