Cost-Cutting Tips for eBay Sellers - Auctiva Learning Center
As I look around all the corners of my apartment, I realized this time around I subconsciously prepared myself to sell on eBay. The collection of little boxes and shipping bags have accumulated.
William trips quit often so we have begun the task of downsizing. I hate to break boxes down but it seems since we have limited space it will be the only way to condense.
Hmm. It's one of those late nights. I'm volunteering tomorrow, and I don't know what I'll walk into. It's always different. I just never know what I'll be doing. I enjoy it dearly.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Doll Parts or What is it YOU want from ME?
When you get phone calls in the evening, a cozy home is left behind with you usually half-dressed and wondering what now...can you fix this? I have been in the habit of shutting my phone off. Because I realize I'm no longer The Fixer.
Last night, I didn't.
Needless to say, I was up to 2am then rising again at 730am to get more done. Not my normal routine. Many calls and many faces of despair. In my happiest moment of life, I see other's pain so clearly only because my cloud has been lifted.
I was alone once. It took everything I had to make it through. The lesson: I made it through...broken...chipped...cracked...scarred...with character.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Meditation in Barcelona 1908
This video is where I spent my meditation this morning.
I was paying bills online and through my phone while William was getting ready to talk with a former contact about some work.
The night before we shared about his past and I was mesmerized by his stories. Just the stuff you talk about while you are engaged. It's been a while since we just looked at each other and stood still.
I had his legs straddled so I could look up at him. It's one of my favorite things to do. Look at him from a child's point of view. We talked about the long term effects of his aneurysm and how he can't read they way he did before...the connections are broken to process words but he loves old books still.
When I look at our bookshelf personally made by him in construction and contents housed there I just love him more. The last months have been both about revelation for us.
Once when we were waiting for our pizza order at PapaJohn's, he talked about why our relationship works: We teach each other.
He can say the simplest of things in the most unexpected of times as if he is always thinking about us. Now I have been in relationships where it was the other way around.
I was the one with the wheels spinning, but not with hope and jubilation. Instead with sorrow. It is hard to know a relationship is already ending in the very beginning.
Those thoughts are not what I have today. I don't see the end with us just more tomorrows. So that is why I have slowed down to a snail's pace, because there is no need to rush anymore.
Actually I can feel the speed of life and pull back from the accelerator in an instant. Isn't that grand?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Imagining Toronto: Rare Reads: Tracing Toronto's Literary Genealogy
Imagining Toronto: Rare Reads: Tracing Toronto's Literary Genealogy
What attracted me to this book was it cover. It's textured paper is similar to the paper used for charcoal drawings.
The sketch of loose lines reminds me of what all females do have in common: a sense of flow that either is clean and crisp or jagged and wispy.
While talking to my therapst today, I joked about my integrity...in the sense I intentionally would do something different if I felt someone expected they had figured me out.
I asked what he found consistent about me. He said, "Your smile." The heat instantly rose to my cheeks.
First, I was surprised he noticed. Second, it was out in the open. I now knew he noticed. What do you do with a statement like that?
Feel anxious? Especially since the topic was about his anxiety not mine. However, my playfulness is just a coping mechanism for my anxiety...the anxiety of being in a room with a man when you're commited to someone else.
After all the labels are dropped, it comes down to male and female...the tension that is always there.
Now I open my copy of this 1959 first edition, an edition that smells old. I go back 15 hours, back into his office. I see the old books on the shelf, but I also see what makes him a father. To me, those are the hard boundaries. Never break a child's heart, no matter the cost. The presence of his son is there. That's what makes me feel safe.
After many years, I know better to tangle with a married man with a child. It's a sticky web, but alluring. I think about it only now, because I can't sleep.
I have kept myself busy...but now I write this down before I think about reading this book. Just to see if Young writes about this. For some reason, I feel she might.
I'm writing this down, because if she doesn't talk about it maybe I should.
Describing FLOW:
Phyllis Brett Young, PSYCHE
p 14-5 With a vision of feminine legs rampant on a heraldic motif of new cars on the one hand, and a very realistic hangman's noose in bas relief against a sea of accusing faces on the other, he was still struggling in a quagmire of indecision when the opporunity for which he had been waiting presented itself, made to order down to the last detail.
Isabelle Hughes wasn't the only bestselling Toronto novelist of the era who has been forgotten since, either. Phyllis Brett Young, whose excellent 1960 novel The Torontonians, is being reissued by McGill-Queen's Unviersity Press this fall, also wrote Psyche, another set-in-Toronto bestseller, first published in 1959). Young's Toronto-based fictions might be considered as dated and deservedly forgotten as Savigny's Romance of Toronto, except that The Torontonians seems directly to anticipate many of the same proto-feminist themes Margaret Atwood takes up a decade later in The Edible Woman. Indeed, it seems an error to read Atwood's work without looking back to her predecessors and their renditions of Toronto, especially Phyllis Brett Young but perhaps also Hughes and maybe even Savigny.
What attracted me to this book was it cover. It's textured paper is similar to the paper used for charcoal drawings.
The sketch of loose lines reminds me of what all females do have in common: a sense of flow that either is clean and crisp or jagged and wispy.
While talking to my therapst today, I joked about my integrity...in the sense I intentionally would do something different if I felt someone expected they had figured me out.
I asked what he found consistent about me. He said, "Your smile." The heat instantly rose to my cheeks.
First, I was surprised he noticed. Second, it was out in the open. I now knew he noticed. What do you do with a statement like that?
Feel anxious? Especially since the topic was about his anxiety not mine. However, my playfulness is just a coping mechanism for my anxiety...the anxiety of being in a room with a man when you're commited to someone else.
After all the labels are dropped, it comes down to male and female...the tension that is always there.
Now I open my copy of this 1959 first edition, an edition that smells old. I go back 15 hours, back into his office. I see the old books on the shelf, but I also see what makes him a father. To me, those are the hard boundaries. Never break a child's heart, no matter the cost. The presence of his son is there. That's what makes me feel safe.
After many years, I know better to tangle with a married man with a child. It's a sticky web, but alluring. I think about it only now, because I can't sleep.
I have kept myself busy...but now I write this down before I think about reading this book. Just to see if Young writes about this. For some reason, I feel she might.
I'm writing this down, because if she doesn't talk about it maybe I should.
Describing FLOW:
Phyllis Brett Young, PSYCHE
p 14-5 With a vision of feminine legs rampant on a heraldic motif of new cars on the one hand, and a very realistic hangman's noose in bas relief against a sea of accusing faces on the other, he was still struggling in a quagmire of indecision when the opporunity for which he had been waiting presented itself, made to order down to the last detail.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)