F is for Frame

After spending time with some of the lovely photos people are posting as part of this A-to-Z Challenge, I was mulling over the importance of framing your shot. Really, you can create so many different moods from the same subject, simply by changing how it’s framed. You can highlight the beautiful or the grimy; draw the eye in to focus in on a small, intriguing detail; or back off and overwhelm with a grand vista, with each change creating an entirely new feel. The framing really does make the picture.

Following that trail of breadcrumbs, I mused on…

“Writers do that, too, except with words...” 

By manipulating words, adding some here, taking some away there, we also frame our scenes, building our worlds, setting the mental landscape, creating an nearly subliminal atmosphere of discrete nuances. Because it's all in what you pack into the borders of that picture, isn't it?

     *mull, mull, muse, muse… angles, vantage point, perspective...*

Wait..., perspective?

"A little to the left, I think..."

And thus was I hit with an Archimedian moment:

You know that life that's got you so discouraged right now, Jz? Maybe instead of trying to change all the details of it all at once, maybe it would be enough for now to simply shift your frame...? (Maybe?)

(OK, that’s kind of a Captain Obvious moment, yet the slight change in approach feels new - and more do-able, somehow.)

Frame, huh…?

Stay tuned! 

E is for Effort

(with apologies to those of you who got caught by my scheduling fubar of last night)

So, I thought I was going to manage it… I thought I had found a way to rise to the challenge of the “E” word that SP had sent me. It was a subject he knew would make me uncomfortable to deal with (like his “C” suggestion) but he wanted to see if I could pull up my socks and make the words flow anyhow.

And, you know, for a while there, I really thought I might pull it off.

I found an approach to the uncomfortable subject that I could handle,

I found the words to express my feelings.

I didn’t exactly write from the… body part that he feels houses my power… (“C”) but I didn’t retreat too far into the safety of academic distance, either.

I actually ended up with quite a bunch of very satisfactory little paragraphs, indeed.

Until I tried to sew them together into a cohesive essay…

      ….at which point, they imploded - each and every paragraph 

Just oozed all over each other until all points were completely obscured.

*sigh*

OK, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

So I went back to square one.

Again, the tone was good, the emotions were expressed, 

     and again, pages later, everything collapsed in on itself.

Again…

Again…

Eight.

Frickin’.

Times. 

Finally, I decided that God simply doesn’t want me thinking so much about erections just yet,

gave myself a pat on the back for the effort, and threw in the towel.

(my head hurts now…)

D is for Dates

(And How I Must Now Abjure Them)

No, not that kind!

C’mon, you guys know I’m on the relationship wagon…
That form of date-abjuring is old news.

No, this time, I’m talking about those dark, yummy, sticky pieces of finger-licking goodness that, unlike the other kind, actually do grow on trees! ;-p

I love dates. (You-all may have picked up on this from the number of date-containing cookie recipes that I’ve exchanged.) They have enough sugar to satisfy a sweet tooth, and enough fiber to be filling. Perfect little satiety pills in natural form, these things.

So reasonably enough, when I was still peckish after dinner the other night - and had enough calories left in my budget to warrant a little treat, my mind turned to thoughts of dates.

Dates with peanut butter, in fact.

So I carefully measured out my spoonful of peanut butter and grabbed a few dates. Several bites later, there was still peanut butter left, so I chomped it down with a couple more dates … and THEN thought to look up how many calories there are in dates.

Holy Mother of God Stabbed With A Knife!

66 calories a PIECE! 

       And I’d had 7!

My "little treat" had just set me back close to 500 calories, not even counting the peanut butter!

I almost had to go lie down in a darkened room…

Dates as Diet-Busters.

Who Knew?

C is for Can Opener

as a side note, I’d asked SP if there were any words he’d like to see me tackle for this little challenge - and he sent me a 26-word long, alphabetically-complete list of suggestions. 

His choice for the letter “C” was “cunt”

Mine is “can opener”

There is much to be read into that contrast, I think…

But on with our story...

My trusty yet venerable electric can opener finally bit the dust. The motor still worked fine, but enough plastic parts had broken off that using this thing required far more manual labor than should be required of an electric machine.

So I put “can opener” on my Christmas wish list - and Santa was very good to me.

But here’s what I learned: (and maybe you all knew this already, and I’m just way behind the curve because of the very age of Ol’ Reliable, but…)

Can openers can no longer be relied upon to perform in a predictable fashion. Nowadays, it is entirely possible to get one that never perforates the top lid but cuts safely along the side, leaving a smooth edge that is much safer for the klutzes among us. (*ahem!*)

But initially, I didn’t realize that's what was going on with my brandy-new device.

So at first, I was simply baffled by its apparent non-performance, because the splendidly advanced design no longer provides you with any obvious indication that the top has actually been cut off. It whirrs and rotates and generally exhibits all the signs of conscientious effort, yet your can continues to dangle there, looking serenely (and wholly) intact. But then I realized that a little “pop” with the fingers (which is possible now, due to those smooooth edges) removes the top in a nice, elegant way.

And I was enchanted.

        …Until I tried to drain the can.

Because another thing that is no longer possible is to simply press that newly-severed lid onto the top of the contents and use it to squeeegee the liquid out of the can. 

        No, no!

Now there’s a nice, rock-solid (and did we mention, oh-so smooth?) ring around the lid, which means that direct pressure no longer shapes the lid gently into a useful strainer but instead, leads you into an undignified grappling match that is strangely reminiscent of trying to fold a diaphragm.

Instead of bending easily and allowing fluids to drain unimpeded along the sides of the can, this stronger, sturdier (and let us not forget, smoother!) lid just redirects the energy and causes a geyser to erupt forcibly from the opposite side. 

Which, generally, is the one that’s up-ended in the direction of the person holding the can.

I cannot tell you how many times since Christmas that I’ve gone off to work in shirts that are blotchy with tuna fluids. (Or, more accurately, the removal thereof…)

The Can Opener.

A Device That Progress Should Have Left Alone.

B is for But

That ever-present, condition-imposing, argumentative conjunction.

Often verbalized,  frequently exaggerated

“Yes, BUT…”

Occasionally unspoken, understood by implication.

“I like you…” (but…)

It’s used to soften a blow

“I would, but…”

To explain away

“I was going to, but…”

And sometimes to justify

“Sorry, but I can’t…”

While other times, it accuses

“But you didn’t…!”

I cannot help but notice that “but” packs a whole lot of negativity into three little letters.

I thought conjunctions are supposed to connect - so why do you suppose this is one of the most divisive words out there…?

Since Tomorrow Is "B" Day...

Why not get in the mood a little early?

A is for Ambidextrous

Full Disclosure: This post is about something I’m not.

Because, despite a lot of wishful thinking, “ambidextrous” is simply not one of my adjectives. I do have some degree of cross dominance (and wouldn’t that make great fodder for a tongue in cheek post?!) but when it comes to just my hands, I’m pretty much all-righty, all the way.

Yet there’s a strain of left-handedness running through my family, so I keep thinking, “Perhaps I could train myself to be ambidextrous”… and periodically make the attempt. I do things like brush my teeth left handed, or use my mouse left handed…

Sometimes, I even take a stab at writing left-handed:

(Not really ready for a career in calligraphy yet, am I?)

Abortive attempts are about as far as I get, however. And, woefully short of the mark as my writing may be, that’s not even the activity where I face the greatest left-hand challenge. Because the thing I really can’t do with my left hand? Is to coordinate my movements to an even rhythm. Ask me to do that and all kinds of lurching and stumbling ensues.

Sometimes that awkwardness can be disguised… but where genuine manual dexterity is called for?

     Like knitting,

         playing the piano,

            or when your dom says, “Now, switch hands but don’t stop!”?

Abject failure.

*sigh*

I guess I just need to reconcile myself to ambidextrousnessless…