Head Start on New Year's Resolutions

In less than two weeks, it's likely most of us will be declaring our New Year's Resolutions to family, friends and collegues. 

Or, if you're more like me, you may scribble the resolutions down perhaps in a private journal -- a kind of insurance to make sure nobody knows whether or not you have succeeded by the end of the year.

Admit it -- most of us have high expectations. We want to lose (insert pounds/kilos/stones), we want to do more, be better, pass the exam and get the promotion. We want to look like and actually be one of the 'successful' people. 

A few years ago, I made myself a goal book. I had some lofty goals in mind. I wanted to read one book a week, lose weight, do various photography projects, and get rid of other 'baggage' in my life -- all in one go! 

I definitely had some high ambitions. Throughout the year I referred to the book and kept a tally of how far behind I was on various projects. At the end of 2010, I looked back on my goal book and felt like a failure. I read half as many books as I wanted to, lost only a few pounds (and then gained them all back) cooked less than I planned to, and still had some baggage lurking, both proverbially and physically. 

My procrastination skills got the better of me in 2011 and instead of creating a new goal book, I revisited the 2010 book and focused on what I DID actually accomplish. I realized that although I didn't read 56 books that year, I still read 25 -- and that was better than not reading anything. I noticed that while I didn't get to all of the recipes I wanted to try out, I still cooked and baked a slew of new ones. I was so focused on what I didn't get done that I totally missed the things I actually accomplished. 

For 2012, I casually kept track of the new recipes I tried on a piece of paper on the fridge, wrote down the books I read in the back of my journal, and took photos of every crafty project I completed -- more out of being a pedantic record-keeper than anything else. After a while, without the 'pressure' of checking to see that I was fulfilling my quota of goals, the resolutions actually became a habit. 

While I came up with generic mottos for the year: read more, write more, walk more, eat healthier, love others -- along the way I discovered that by letting go of measuring myself, I had actually completed more -- and the 'more' was in fact better quality. 

I'm a firm believe in writing down your goals -- I don't remember who proved the theory or when, but apparently you have a much higher chance of reaching your target if you physically WRITE down your goals -- even if you never look at that piece of paper ever again. 

(This own theory has been proven in my life. During my third year at University, I wrote down a page worth of what seemed to be impossible and absurd things I wanted to do in life. Ten years later, I found that piece of paper and nearly passed out. Nearly everything except 'learn the guitar' had actually happened...)

However, I do think New Year's Resolutions are often in a special pressure-cooker category. I think sometimes we compare ourselves to others, or even our own image (past, present and what we think should be the future), so much that we forget that a resolution or goal is a process and doesn't often happen overnight. 

So we make a resolution, and by January 31st, we feel like a failure because we didn't go to the gym three times that week, or because we devoured two helpings of chocolate cake, or because we got angry with a family member. And then we throw in the towel.

The truth is, resolutions are not easy. They take time. Bear in mind that you may fall off the resolution horse. But then you get back on.

As a child, I had a pony. She wasn't the most obedient thing -- she ran away once and she used to do numerous things at horse shows to purposely embarrass me, I think. She also bucked me off several times. Each time, my mother made me climb back up on her. 

I used to believe it was so I wouldn't be scared of riding after the fall. In reality, I had to get back on my stubborn pony to show her that I was still in charge -- and that she wasn't the boss of me. 

So as you plan your New Year's Resolutions, keep that in mind. No matter what pitfalls January brings, you still have 11 months after that to climb back onto the horse. (Then again, who made the rule that you have to get it all done in 12 months?) Just because your goal book is only half full at the end of this year or even next, it doesn't mean you've failed. It simply means that some things may take a little longer -- and that's okay.

Above all else, stop comparing yourself to others. I did that for a long time -- and once I actually stopped, I saw far more potential in myself than I realized. Read that story here.  

(Of course, this is my own method for accomplishing my personal New Year's Resolutions. Maybe you have a different story -- how do you stay on track?) 

Fred and Ed

A few months back, the Sailor and I decided to dabble in some terrariums. I don't remember where we got the idea, but I do know he and I purchased some plants, dug up some ferns and then we both trawled the thrift stores looking for the perfect glass containers. 

First, we put some moss and a fern into the 'cheese globe', as I called it. We affectionately named it Fred. 

Then came, Ted, Ned, Ed and the little cactus, Red. 

They thrived for quite some time. We kept the lids on the glass until Ted decided to make a break for it seemingly overnight. There was no containing him after that.

Then the Sailor departed for work and I left to visit a friend for 10 days. The plants were not neglected -- my mom watered them regularly and made sure they got their Vitamin D. But apparently my absence still took its toll, because within days of my arrival home, both Fred and Ed bit the dust. 

Honestly, I think they had been on their way out the door, right as I was leaving. The Sailor has a much greener thumb than I do, and Fred and Ed looked a little sickly 24 hours after he left. I long for the day when we have somewhere to plant a vegetable garden, but then I wonder if anything will actually grow once the Sailor leaves for work and I have to take over?!

So now, it's just Ted, Ned, and Red. And of course, my everlasting spider plant. I'm hoping they all last through the winter. 

I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the punch-bowl-turned-terrerium that housed Ed, just yet. I put it to seasonal use, instead.

Cyrillic Signatures

This week, I sent a card to a Ukrainian friend. And when I went to sign my name, I got as far as the equivalent of 'Bren...' in Cyrillic and stopped.

I couldn't for the life of me remember how to write out a 'D'. I'm still not sure I have it right. 

I felt like I was losing my marbles a bit. 

You see, I know how to write my name in Cyrillic. I've written it out hundreds of times. It's the one thing I can actually spell in Cyrillic.

In 1995, I entered Ukraine for the first time to teach English on a summer trip. Only English teachers and a few students seemed to be speak English, at least where I was. The Soviet Union had since collapsed, but to me, as a naive American college student, things still seemed shaky.

I didn't have a lot of control over the entire summer situation, so I wanted to at least have a little control over how I communicated. Until that summer, I had never felt like a strong communicator -- I was born with a cleft palate which left me a little nasally. Kids made fun of me throughout school and in fact when I applied to work in Ukraine I was initially turned down because the organizer felt that people wouldn't understand me. 

(I was a little baffled by this, considering that it seemed nobody would understand anybody who spoke English, in any case.)

I think deep down, I wanted to prove people wrong. I could communicate. And I would do it well. That first summer there I struggled. People spoke Russian, Ukrainian and their own dialect of Transcarpathian. Some days, I returned to our house, proud of myself for learning three new words, only to discover I had learned the same word -- just in three different tongues. 

From then on, I decided to only learn Russian. While I know I offended a few nationalists along the way, I figured that I would get to use Russian far more in my life than Ukrainian. And indeed I have. Russian came in handy many times and still occasionally does.

Conversationally, I was pretty good. I was able to at least communicate which tomatoes I wanted in the market, where I was going and when I may actually get there to my friends, and I could give some pretty decent directions and the time of day to complete strangers. 

Something was missing though. I needed to learn how to actually write these foreign letters. 

In between summers trips to Ukraine, I took a short Russian course in England to force myself to learn to write. I had the alphabet down, but nobody actually prints in Cyrillic. Everyone writes the equivalent of cursive -- and the cursive Cyrillic alphabet is very different to the printed one.

Eventually, I learned how to write enough Cyrillic to get by. My name, of course was essential. I was proud of myself for being able to fill out the Cyrillic customs forms and to sign my name at border crossings, so non-English speakers could read it. 

You can understand then why it came as a great shock to me when I couldn't even remember how to write my first name this week. 

I'm giving myself a little slack, since I haven't been to Ukraine for seven years. I'm hoping the recipient of my card on the other side of the world cuts me some slack too. I suspect I ended up spelling out 'BrenBa' instead of 'Brenda'. Oops.

Tickled Pink

I'm tickled pink to be one of many authors on the Pyrex Collective III blog. While I cannot boast of the collections that are posted there (nor would I have the same kind of space in my kitchen!) I do love to learn more about vintage items and to see other people's marvelous thrifty finds. 

And, of course, I love to write, so I'm excited to be included on the site. 

My first post about this fabulous Pink Daisy casserole from the 1950s can be found here.   

Felt Clogs

In early Spring, I hauled my mom to New York City with me for a day out on the town. We went to the Natural History Museum, ate sushi, walked through Central Park, devoured far too much European goodness at my favorite Ukrainian diner, Veselka, and we spent some time in Knitty City.

I knew I couldn't buy any yarn -- I had previously made a promise to myself that I would diminish the stash significantly before purchasing more. Nothing prevented me from stocking up on patterns, however. After all, how could I use the stash without an idea of something to actually knit? 

The clerk quickly pointed out to me a pile of patterns on sale. I scored this one for Felt Clogs on clearance. 

After our road trip and the Bullion Beach Blanket, I wanted to make something quick and easy, so I found some 100% wool in the stash and proceeded to make a pair. 

Do you see the size of these things?! That foot wearing the hand knit blueish green socks on the right -- that's my size 10 (!) 

(Do not fear dear reader, my left foot is also there, simply inside the other clog...)

I will admit that I used a larger sized needle than the pattern called for, but these things were ridiculously huge. 

However, they felted to near perfection.

They were just a touch too small for my big feet, so I gave them to my mom instead. I had planned to make her a pair in any case. Considering she is the one who handed down to me the Bigfoot genes in the first place (which then multiplied and gave me bigger feet than her), I thought it only right that she got the first pair I made. Fitting, therefore, that she was also with me when I bought the pattern in the first place.

These things are fantastic. And considering I bought the pattern and yarn on clearance, they only cost me a whopping $3 to make (not factoring in the needles, which I think I may have gotten in South Africa for a mere $2 for another project.) 

I love it when thrifting meets knitting. Together, they make quite a pair.