Research Before Coffee: Stress

I survived November no worse for the wear. I enjoyed writing my NaNo novel but I didn't win. I never win. My writing group is apparently doing a "Write a Novel in Nine Months: A Labor of Love" and I'm just gonna keep writing on the Candyland theme. I never even got around to wiping the place out, though I did do a fair amount of government overthrow. I'll put some excerpts up dated in November so if you are interested, you'll have to come back and look in the archives.

This morning, however, I designed a flier, wrote a press release, and finished the brainstorm work on a pair of wine glasses.

I also drew a series of five small squares.

You see, I am running out of space in my head because time is moving faster than my production ability. (Perhaps that's what happened in November, too.) Occasionally I have to slow down and do something simple. It can't be reading, it can't be cooking--even making myself a cup of coffee (and no, I haven't had coffee yet today) is more brain power than I can spare. I have a list over here and a digital list and a list over there and a list I have yet to make because I am already losing important bits of information.

I would knit, but I would have to start a new project and that requires brain power. I would watch a cheezy you-tube video but that would require I find one I care to watch, and that is way too short.

So here is how the brain works:

Everyday-style stress functions on the brain the same way perceived danger does.

A battlefield; an abusive parent; the ongoing struggle to make ends meet; a pile-up of unanswered e-mails — stress can take many forms. But stressful situations have something in common: they trigger reactions such as fear and a surge of hormones. nature.com 

So your nervous system sends out your fight-or-flight hormone, then your relaxation hormone. But sometimes not enough of the relaxation hormone.

The trouble is that some stress hormones don't know when to quit pulling. They remain active in the brain for too long – injuring and even killing cells in the hippocampus, the area of your brain needed for memory and learning. The Franklin Institute

Under normal circumstances, the Parasympathetic Nervous System [relaxation hormone regulator] promotes the ability to recover, digest, play, and create. Veronique Mead

Which is telling me that having too many things to create in the next four days and being stressed about it is actually preventing me from creating anything. Or even remembering what I have to do. Seriously, but I could have told you that without the experts--I can see it happening.

So basically, I have too much fight-or-flight hormones and not enough relaxation hormones.  Which means I have to trigger them myself.

1. Eat. Good stuff, not the whole jar of Pringles, which is what I would tend to do.
2. Sleep. Which I can't. Because I'm stressed.
3. Exercise.
4. Think.
5. Don't think.

Yes. Both think and don't think. Do puzzles. 

Solitary indoor games, such as crossword puzzles, word searches, darts and Sudoku, can relieve stress. These games operate just like concentrative meditation, in which an intent focus on an object, activity or sound takes your attention off the stress source. livestrong.com

Though I disagree that "taking your attention off the stress source" is what reduces your stress. Attention to stress does not relieve stress. See, I can lay in bed, increased heart rate, close to a panic, and think only my stress. Then, I solve it. Like a Rubik's cube, I solve my stress. When one is solved, I move on to another. Each thing that stresses us is something we can solve. So sometimes I just get up, do some design work, do some writing, make a list so I know I'm not forgetting anything (often, knowing I'm going to forget something is stressful enough). Checking things off a list reduces my stress--each thing is accomplished. Each stressor gone.

And then don't think. There was this study that observed, for a group treated with mindfulness meditation:

 The treatment group also had fewer overall Symptoms of Stress; fewer Cardiopulmonary and Gastrointestinal symptoms; less Emotional Irritability, Depression, and Cognitive Disorganization; and fewer Habitual Patterns of stress. Speca M, et al, p1.

 Mindfulness meditation has roots in Buddhist Vipassana and Zen practices. It involves moment-by-moment, detached awareness and observation of the continually changing field of perception and its contents. Speca M, et al, p1.

And just when I'm supposed to get to the part where I'm showing you that Doodling is Meditation, I'm out of patience because I have children who are up and asking questions and being--stressful. So I will leave you with this.

A Monk and a designer stumbled upon the idea that doodling is meditative. They made a thing and are selling it to you. The holistic universe is in awe, and I suppose they're spending their health savings dollars on it. But you know what? I would to, if I didn't already have a pencil and a paper

..where I have drawn 5 small squares.

Because She Said, "Haha, whatevs. I think mostly I will be known as the teacher who dressed really weird."

There are teachers, and then, there are teachers. We can go through and name all our teachers from Kindergarten until we started changing classes, and maybe we can connect a face to a subject to a quirk, and maybe a name after that. Perhaps we remember a teacher for an epiphany we had because of them. (Geometry freshman year, I had my epiphany about sine functions because she actually explained the relationship between a circle and a wave. Mind. Blown. ; English 7th grade, she read my poetry and explained I didn't have to define my pseudonym. It wasn't every day she read a student's entire binder of collected works.)

There are the teachers whose lessons follow us the rest of our lives--the teachers we know we couldn't have lived without. I get to speak with three of such teachers fairly regularly, and unsurprisingly they are all band teachers. I lived, ate, breathed, led, followed, or got out of the way for seven years. Three of the most important, pivotal years of my life were guided by two of these band teachers. I think they may have been pseudo-parents. The third picked up where these two had to leave off because I moved out of state--this third one picked the exact same marching show the other teachers had chosen. This third one met the first two at a convention and brought me back a note written on a napkin or drink coaster or whatever had been available. These three people were leaders of very large families, and I was not only a student but a child of theirs. Whether they know it or not, they helped raise me.

And then there are the teachers that turn us into teachers. The teachers that shaped and molded us into the next generation of knowledge-holders, of Givers, whose skills we can only hope to emulate into a similar level of mastery.

One of my favorite teachers, and a cited reason I teach, was probably certifiably batty. She wore 50s dresses, costume jewelry, and heels every day. She had tape on the floor for the position of the desks and a green grading pen can wherein if she could put her red pen in, she knew one was missing. She had this series of assignments called Photo Physics (science teacher, of course) where we had to provide a pictorial representation of various physical concepts. "Something in the shape of a coil or spiral", "Where 1/3 of the photo is sky", etc. and we had to write a proof, for example, how we measured the linear length of said coil/spiral. She exploded potassium in class, always dressed up for spirit days in a "I can't wait to see what she is wearing" kind of way, and always signed yearbooks with a proper comment. 

A teacher I adopted as my academic advisor and personal counselor dedicated a few minutes at the beginning of every class to a piece of pop music from every era. Evita, Ace of Base, Buffalo Springfield, Harry Chapin... He passed out the lyrics and told us why we should think this piece of music was important. He only taught one class--the rest of the time he was a school counselor. He made us feel worth his time. He never changed our seats even though Ann S. and I (Ann W.)  were on the same line from his desk so if he pointed and said "Ann" we didn't know if he was talking to her or me. Oddly, I can't remember his last name, but I know his first name. I called him from my new school when I moved to Michigan, because my life was still falling apart and I didn't have anyone around that I could trust to talk to about it.

I have a sketch of a teacher hanging a houseplant from the ceiling. She bought her first house, won a Ellen Degeneres look-alike contest, and had us bring in CDs so we could study poetry. She broke us into groups so we could write poetry, write a newspaper, edit each other's work. She made us write letters to each other recommending books instead of book reports. She gave me my first and only grade-point-relevant B in all of public school (6th through 12th). She understood me when I was devastated by the film version of To Kill a Mockingbird because it wasn't good enough. She cried when she read us The Bridge to Terabithia. 

Whether you dance, dress weird, or are just plain weird, it will just be a vessel to remember the things you teach. I can recite the periodic table, Charles' Law & Boyle's Law, I can define a function, I can create a newsletter. And I know how because they taught me how. Furthermore, I use their exact explanations, their exact definitions, their exact lesson plans. Because it works. It worked for them, for years, and it's working for me. It doesn't fail. At least, I'm pretty confident it won't fail. It hasn't so far.

Being Homesick, or, Why Being a Grownup Sucks

I wish I lived in the Ozarks.

I wish I had remembered to apply to schools in Missouri.

I wish I was observant and articulate enough to explain why I wanted to leave Hillsdale.

I wish I hadn't lied to my parents about my boyfriend. Any of them.

I wish I could remember the name of two of the roads in the woods.

I wish I could have managed to keep that pillow my mother made me.

I wish I knew anything about my mother.

I wish I knew anything about my mother's family.

I wish I knew anything about my Dad's family, for that matter.

I wish I knew how to talk to my Mom about my Dad's family.

I wish I didn't have to explain why I have a mother and a Mom, who are not the same.

I wish I knew how to talk to my Dad about my mother.

I wish I had finished that story about my Dad's mom.

I wish I knew my Dad's stepmom.

I wish I had more visits with my Dad's dad.

I wish I hadn't had so much loss in one year.

I wish I could have saved my dog.

I wish I could spend more time with my little sister.

I wish I knew my baby sister better.

I wish I didn't rebel so much against the like-clockwork order of my teen years.

I wish I hadn't learned how to lie so well.

I wish people hadn't believed me.

I wish I hadn't had to leave Missouri.

I wish I didn't get homesick.

I wish I didn't get Momsick and Dadsick.

I wish for one day of one summer of one year in the life I already lived.

Research Before Breakfast: Doors

This bit of research can only be considered useful, funny, even lucky, if preceded by a little background.

My house is about a hundred and ten years old. It's effective build date is some time later, and it's been remodeled and retrofitted an inestimable number of times. Much of this is actually retrofit vs. remodel, which means that things like plumbing and electrical were installed however it'd fit instead of being installed in a modern way in an old structure. Walking in my basement--which itself is retrofit, dug under the existing structure and the dirt piled under the floor joists on the other side--is for short people. And even short people get their hair tangled in the mess of wires no longer used for things like cable and phone. Each consecutive upgrade left the skeleton of the previous technology. This house really could use some help.

Besides the help we've been offering it over the past five years, we've also taken to remodeling certain portions because of the general small size of the place. We've yanked all the lower cabinets in the kitchen and installed a stainless steel standing sink, and an island. You can have six people in the kitchen having a conversation while dinner cooks now. Before, two people doing dishes was like mining in a coal tunnel. We did something similar in the bathroom, so you don't feel like you're in a port-a-potty.

There's a hall in one of the built-on sections. This hall includes the bathroom, a linen closet, and the entrance to a bedroom. We keep an air filter in the hall during swamp cooler season to scrub the air free of desert grubbiness before we breathe it, but even without the filter there, the doors to the three spaces make the hall extremely irritating to use, and it's got the bathroom--one of the most frequently used doors a house ever has.

Take a jump in space and subject matter over to the new art gallery. My husband is working on a system of sliding doors to cover the entries to the office area--a reception window and a door--so that the gallery has not only more wall space but is unbroken visibly. Options are frustrating. He wants to try out the simple sliding door systems for closets, just to see what kind of weight, effects visible from gravity, and general utility it has. (Spoiler--he did not choose this system for the gallery. That is a-whole-nother research thread.)

Come back to my hallway. This miniature barn-door-style system is now in place for my bathroom door. I'm LOVING it, except that he just used the bathroom door itself as the sliding door, and if you're aware of geometry in any way, you can imagine that the door meant to fit into a space does not effectively cover the space. And it's the bathroom, the place most urgently needing complete privacy, especially when you have guests. And I have a party coming on in a few days.

Remember the retrofit house and the fact that things that would standardly be...standard...are just....not. The concern is that getting a door is going to be a special order or a table saw project. We run a tape measure of what size should cover the space if hung from the track. It might be useful to note that the ceiling is made of plaster over a scrap-wood-like-frame, and this track has its mounting screws every few feet. We combated this in the bathroom by running a long board securely to studs and mounting the towel rack to that, and we have done so again here at the ceiling--so that this slightly-lower-than-standard ceiling results in a slightly lower-than-that door height.

80"

Seriously.

Before we get our hopes up, we check the standard sizes for doors.
Standard Heights & Dimensions: Door Height: 6'8" (80")

In my house of a century's worth of retro-remod-slapshod construction (this was a rental before we bought it), we can buy a standard-sized door.

We're thinking we're going to get this one, if we don't find one at Habitat for Humanity cheaper.

It's suitably boring, has no doorknob holes (the doorknob in the temporary door has been one of the most entertaining things when we have guests--they all try to open or close the door like normal. That is, if you like making fun of people), and can be painted however we like. It won't collect dust from the aforementioned swamp cooler's air drawn from the dusty world. We'll put a cute little handle on it or something so it's easy to move. 

I like these:

Research Before Breakfast: Hat Pins

 This is a new column that may induce a bit more daily to the 365 format of this series of blogs. The idea is that I'm brewing while I'm catching up on all the activity that happened between when I went to bed and when I woke up, and in this global society where I have friends in more than 10 time zones at any given time, and my local friends have friends in multiple time zones, there can be a lot of activity during my sleep. But before my coffee brews, I will find some question to answer, some thing to look up. Welcome to the first edition of this column.

Wear a Bowler Hat Day was designated yesterday. I'm not sure where it came from, but our Tuesday Muses writing group came decked in rounded caps. You can find them on Facebook if you must see. 

http://www.target.com/p/men-s-
adult-bowler-brown-hat/-/A-11317331

But Wear a Bowler Hat Day is not just a random hat you've bought at Target. No, this group has craftiness up its sleeves and there are things you must do to your bowler hat. You must make a clip, or some decor. Peacock feathers, gears, roses, buttons... you name it. And when you've made your hat-garnish, you must show it off, and there are limited number of people showing to the writers group and you know your friends in all those time zones will wish they'd have been there to see it. So you take a picture of your newly crafted clip modeled on your bowler hat. You post it, and people start talking about it. Then the conversation gets a little strange.

Someone asks if you need a hat pin, because they had been thinking of making one. No one in the conversation knows what a hat pin is for. The knowledge pool is limited. I have a hat pin in my jewelry box, handed down from who-knows-where. I don't know what to do with it, and it was long before I even knew what it was. I know there are many people out there just like me who have no clue what to do with said object. It's very sharp. Too long for shawls. Not for hair. Not a clue.

http://www.vixen-vintage.com/2012/01/history-of-hatpins.html

(I know what to do with hat boxes. I store my craft supplies in them and they are very chic all in a graduated stack.)

Turns out, Google knows all. Vixen Vintage is the first result for "How do you wear a hatpin?" They actually show you where to put the pin on different styles of hats, like here:

and here:

http://www.vixen-vintage.com/2012/02/how-to-wear-hatpin.html

and even have a suggestion for what to do if you have fine hair that may cause the pin to slip...

 try crossing bobby pins at the back of your head, and pin through that AND your hair.

 and also some common sense advice about the use of hairpins...

Pins don't secure a hat for high winds and dancing like a madman. 

So now I know, and so do you. And if you would like to purchase a handmade pin, you can find some like this for sale here:

http://www.genaconti.com/Hatpins.htm

35 Days until November 1

Tuesday Muses, if nothing else, is a place to get your muse on. Or, you can just eavesdrop.

"My kind of nutjob is the best kind of nut job. You can trust my nuts."--quote from Tuesday Muses

"Haul tables in heels. Suck it up." --classic quote from Tuesday Muses. 

 "That's NOT what she said. That's the INVERSE of what she said."--classic TM quote

"What was the setting of that show? Post-Apocolyptic Candy Land?"--yet another classic quote from TM.

Turns out, it wasn't the setting of that show. But now it is the premise of my NaNoWriMo novel. So, welcome to the first edition of

Notes Necessary for November Novelling

Post-Apocolyptic Candy Land

Before I reveal too much information and taint your preconceptions, I have a couple questions for you, my audience.

1. What do you remember about the game Candy Land?
2. Did a Candy Land character make you feel uncomfortable at all? Weird you out? Cause minor distress? (You can answer this question here: SodaHead) 
3. Will you be willing to play Candy Land with me?

Turns out, I have to actually ask number 3 because some people are just stuck up about it. I know YOU'RE not one of those people, so let's set a date.

Seriously. Date Night--you, me, and Candy Land.

Fight

I think it should be a rule of parenting that if you get into a fight in front of your kids, you make up in front of your kids. Making up is usually quieter than the fight, so usually all they hear is a fight. Show them the healing. Show them what happens next.