That's right. Some people just plain old suck. And I'm a sucker for people who suck. I always seem to look beyond what they are on the surface, to what they can be underneath. Most of the time this sort of insight is helpful, most of the time it's wonderful to have a kind heart. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes, it really sucks!
But it's got me to thinking about life, and how we invest ourselves into things or people or hobbies that we believe will return to us some sort of profit. We invest our money, hoping to reap a return; we invest in our hobbies, as they make us feel good. Then there's people (who can really suck, in case you missed that earlier) who we invest in...people have the potential to be the best or the worst investment...sometimes the best or worst investment of a lifetime.
Which brings me to the thought that one should only invest in things that will last. And what will last? Well, faith, hope and love, right? When all else fails, these things always remain. Think about that for a minute. Think about the strongest building you know of, or the biggest Redwood you've ever seen, or the largest piece of machinery. Think about it and know that faith, hope, and love are stronger than your item; they, priceless and yet to be patented, will remain. Or so the Good Book says. Yet, as much as I'd like to throw faith, hope and love out the window right now, I do know, from previous painful experiences (I have several to choose from, just pick a topic), that it is true. It is a fact. It is as real as the very beating of my blood-pumping heart.
Anyway, pertaining to people, it would only make sense that one would invest in another with love, as not to be burned. For if you do something out of a love that asks, expects, nothing in return, then you have nothing to lose but love--which you can't lose because you freely give it away. But then one must ask, "what is love?" for it is such a relative word in our English language. I think of "love" as being an unconditional, I love you for who you are, not for what you do, type of grace-filled, life-giving substance. For, if you love someone simply for who they are, there is great freedom in that love; for the one being loved and for the one who loves. There's a real purity and simplicity about it. But, if you love someone based on what they do for you, how they make you feel, or what they bring into your life, then it is only but a matter of time before your love runs cold; this is the difference between a commitment and a contract. I call this selfish love, because, it really is, ultimately, all about one person: you. I know most people don't share my view. Perhaps some say my definition is too old-fashioned, too risky. But I counter, the greater the risk, the greater the reward. For, if I'm going to love, I'm going to throw all of me in; not just dip a toe into the water. I'll take radical love and deep loss over apathetic love and little gain any day of the week. (And yes, I seem to love being in a constant state of pain.)
But what does the world know of love other than what Hollywood has shown them?
Of course, that's just me. The person who "gives too much of herself to others."
I'm tired. (Gee, that's odd.) And I need to take a quick shower, as my delightful kick-butt workout at the gym tonight has left me salty and sticky (how attractive!). I'd forgotten how I do enjoy my Friday night workouts, as I haven't had one in the longest while. I don't know any of the Friday night people, so I can blissfully crank up my music, sweat and grunt, and push myself to the limit without a single interruption. And the next time another guy interrupts my precious routine to hit on me, I'm going to look him square in the eye and say, "You see these biceps? I'm butch, baby, but the anorexic girl on the elliptical looks to be your type." Then I'll go back to pumping my iron and smile my crooked little smile, chuckling inside in the place where I can laugh without ever being heard.
Now, time to hit the showers.
And no, I don't really 'play softball.'
Let's get that straight right here and now.
And yes: people suck!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Bad To The Bone
Oh, I am SO bad, and I love it.
Today is cheesecake day. Triple Chocolate Cheesecake Day.
You see, I didn't lose any weight this week for my weightloss team, so I, being competitive, had to come up with some brilliant way to not let my team down. That's when the idea came (from heaven, I do imagine) to sabotage the other weightloss teams. If you can't out run your enemy, at least you can outsmart them. Enter cheesecake.
I couldn't think of anything that had more calories and fat than my Triple Chocolate Cheesecake, so that made the choice obvious. Bake a few cheesecakes, deliver them to the other weightloss teams and watch the scales go up; that's the plan. Who knows if anyone will eat the cheesecake; perhaps it will be thrown in the trash. But that's okay. I've missed having the time to bake things and give them away. I like to do that, and this is an opportunity to fulfill that missed portion of my meager existence.
In other news, a meeting with foster dd's teacher was encouraging. Inside dd's folder she wrote, "I love my foster Mom." I never would have guessed that, so to see it written in a black Crayola marker on a purple piece of construction paper alongside a doggie really touched my heart. I needed that at this point in time. She has fanned my flame for fostering; so much of it is thankless work. Stressful work. Tiring work. And yet, one little life has been touched and my heart has been blessed. And that is what it's all about: loving kids who don't deserve the crap they've been given. Crap on a stick. Crap in a lunch bag. Crap in a can. Crap to go. Kids don't deserve crap!!! (I'm thinking of pitching that slogan to Health and Welfare the next time I'm in.)
I'd better go tame my hair before my next stint of running all over town like the crazy woman I am. Tame the fro, sister; tame the fro! Natural curl: blessing or curse?
Where'd I put my Hair Glue?......
Today is cheesecake day. Triple Chocolate Cheesecake Day.
You see, I didn't lose any weight this week for my weightloss team, so I, being competitive, had to come up with some brilliant way to not let my team down. That's when the idea came (from heaven, I do imagine) to sabotage the other weightloss teams. If you can't out run your enemy, at least you can outsmart them. Enter cheesecake.
I couldn't think of anything that had more calories and fat than my Triple Chocolate Cheesecake, so that made the choice obvious. Bake a few cheesecakes, deliver them to the other weightloss teams and watch the scales go up; that's the plan. Who knows if anyone will eat the cheesecake; perhaps it will be thrown in the trash. But that's okay. I've missed having the time to bake things and give them away. I like to do that, and this is an opportunity to fulfill that missed portion of my meager existence.
In other news, a meeting with foster dd's teacher was encouraging. Inside dd's folder she wrote, "I love my foster Mom." I never would have guessed that, so to see it written in a black Crayola marker on a purple piece of construction paper alongside a doggie really touched my heart. I needed that at this point in time. She has fanned my flame for fostering; so much of it is thankless work. Stressful work. Tiring work. And yet, one little life has been touched and my heart has been blessed. And that is what it's all about: loving kids who don't deserve the crap they've been given. Crap on a stick. Crap in a lunch bag. Crap in a can. Crap to go. Kids don't deserve crap!!! (I'm thinking of pitching that slogan to Health and Welfare the next time I'm in.)
I'd better go tame my hair before my next stint of running all over town like the crazy woman I am. Tame the fro, sister; tame the fro! Natural curl: blessing or curse?
Where'd I put my Hair Glue?......
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Magically Delicious
I do like them, Lucky Charms. Oh no, no, no, I never eat them. Only when camping. That's the special occasion to break out the much coveted Lucky Charms. I like the way the milk tastes, too, once you've scooped up the last bit of cereal; sweet, slightly pink colored homogenized, sterilized, falsely fortified cow mucus. (And by the way, I never eat cereal with a "normal" spoon; it's got to be a soup spoon, nice 'n big, or I get a little upset.)
Today has been an interesting day; I'm glad it's almost over. It is interesting to see how my children, home grown till now, are adjusting, adapting, and excelling at school. (Dare I say the words?) Public School. Oldest dd tells me, "We had a test today, and I wasn't quite sure of all the problems; some of them I didn't know. But them we did grammar and the teacher was saying, "What type of words are 'she, he' and, we." And I was like, duh, this is so easy; they're PRONOUNS!" I had to smile. That's my girl, in training to be another wordsmith.
Speaking of words...youngest dd, who happens to be 4, is rather forlorn that she is not old enough to go to school. So, she spent the majority of her day writing on the sticky side of sticky notes. Her letters are very nice and remind me of days when oldest dd was that age. Very proudly, youngest dd brings me the last of her writings. I glance at the page and tell her, "Wow! You're so smart! Look at how nicely you did so many different letters! You write like a five year old." That bolstered her bosom, and she skipped off to torture the cat. I then take a closer look at the top piece of paper and I can hardly contain myself. What has she written in very nice letters? "DAMN." Yes, these are some of the letters she's been learning, and here she arranged them, all on her own, very nicely to spell a word that no one in this house ever says (or knows how to spell for that matter!)
Oh, how I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. That was so refreshing! "DAMN."
Wa ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. "DAMN." Right there in colored pencil on a Barbie Princess sticky note.
"DAMN."
Her writing much reminded me of the time second oldest dd brought me something that she'd written from her Bible; oh how proud of herself she was. For being dyslexic, copy work is very tedious and exhausting, so she should have been very proud. She beamed at me as she showed me her letter. It read: "To pierce my loins." We were in church, barely staying awake through the sermon (we no longer go to that church!), and I could hardly contain myself. I passed the note along the row and pretty soon a whole lot of us were giggling like school girls. And dd kept saying, "What's so funny, Mom? What's so funny."
Now, I must share that this is the same daughter that, about a year before this incident, brought me a drawing she had made. There were three objects on the piece of paper in my hand. One looked like an apple with a brown spot on it, one was a child's rendition of a candy cane, and the last object was something odd shaped and brownish greenish. I said to dd#2, "Can you tell me about this wonderful picture you drew for me?" as I gently put an arm around her shoulder. She began, "This is a candy cane. This is an apple with a worm in it. And this is something in the toilet."
Something in the toilet.
Yes, that's my child.
Something in the toilet.
What, oh what, captures a child's mind? Obviously, something in the toilet.
I'm sure it wasn't magically delicious...
Well, let's hope that the new chapters of my life that are (forcefully) opening up to me are at least a knock-off version of the original Lucky Charms. I've never been lucky, and I haven't much charm (unless you like pissed off, uptight women). So let's hope, let's just dare to hope, that this new chapter of life has a "sweet, slightly pink colored homogenized, sterilized, falsely fortified cow mucus" type of ending.
If not, I can always get my four year old to spell it out in black and white for me: "DAMN."
May it be a good night.
Good night.
Today has been an interesting day; I'm glad it's almost over. It is interesting to see how my children, home grown till now, are adjusting, adapting, and excelling at school. (Dare I say the words?) Public School. Oldest dd tells me, "We had a test today, and I wasn't quite sure of all the problems; some of them I didn't know. But them we did grammar and the teacher was saying, "What type of words are 'she, he' and, we." And I was like, duh, this is so easy; they're PRONOUNS!" I had to smile. That's my girl, in training to be another wordsmith.
Speaking of words...youngest dd, who happens to be 4, is rather forlorn that she is not old enough to go to school. So, she spent the majority of her day writing on the sticky side of sticky notes. Her letters are very nice and remind me of days when oldest dd was that age. Very proudly, youngest dd brings me the last of her writings. I glance at the page and tell her, "Wow! You're so smart! Look at how nicely you did so many different letters! You write like a five year old." That bolstered her bosom, and she skipped off to torture the cat. I then take a closer look at the top piece of paper and I can hardly contain myself. What has she written in very nice letters? "DAMN." Yes, these are some of the letters she's been learning, and here she arranged them, all on her own, very nicely to spell a word that no one in this house ever says (or knows how to spell for that matter!)
Oh, how I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. That was so refreshing! "DAMN."
Wa ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. "DAMN." Right there in colored pencil on a Barbie Princess sticky note.
"DAMN."
Her writing much reminded me of the time second oldest dd brought me something that she'd written from her Bible; oh how proud of herself she was. For being dyslexic, copy work is very tedious and exhausting, so she should have been very proud. She beamed at me as she showed me her letter. It read: "To pierce my loins." We were in church, barely staying awake through the sermon (we no longer go to that church!), and I could hardly contain myself. I passed the note along the row and pretty soon a whole lot of us were giggling like school girls. And dd kept saying, "What's so funny, Mom? What's so funny."
Now, I must share that this is the same daughter that, about a year before this incident, brought me a drawing she had made. There were three objects on the piece of paper in my hand. One looked like an apple with a brown spot on it, one was a child's rendition of a candy cane, and the last object was something odd shaped and brownish greenish. I said to dd#2, "Can you tell me about this wonderful picture you drew for me?" as I gently put an arm around her shoulder. She began, "This is a candy cane. This is an apple with a worm in it. And this is something in the toilet."
Something in the toilet.
Yes, that's my child.
Something in the toilet.
What, oh what, captures a child's mind? Obviously, something in the toilet.
I'm sure it wasn't magically delicious...
Well, let's hope that the new chapters of my life that are (forcefully) opening up to me are at least a knock-off version of the original Lucky Charms. I've never been lucky, and I haven't much charm (unless you like pissed off, uptight women). So let's hope, let's just dare to hope, that this new chapter of life has a "sweet, slightly pink colored homogenized, sterilized, falsely fortified cow mucus" type of ending.
If not, I can always get my four year old to spell it out in black and white for me: "DAMN."
May it be a good night.
Good night.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Why, I Oughta....
My purse got stolen today. Right after my SUV's window got smashed in. And to think, while someone was using my debit card at Walmart and Target, chewing my gum and tossing out my new $24 lipstick, I was completely unaware that I'd just been violated. There I was, gleefully showering and using my new Sun Valley Vanilla scented body soap, thinking about what a wonderful day it was going to be; less stress, new future. Boy, was I wrong.
WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
So, instead of being at home, fixing hair into pretty braids and curls in anticipation of a new, a first day, of school, I was at the gym filling out a police report; hurriedly stuffing my blow dryer into my overfilled backpack, and frantically calling home to get all the plastic in my wallet canceled. Instead of encouraging little hearts and minds with wisdom and motherly kindness, I was thinking about guillotines, firing squads, and brimstone raining down from heaven.
WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
So I'm flustered, and my hair's a bit more wild than I'd intended, and off we race to school, piling 7 people into 5 seats of the work truck, since I can't drive the SUV with the glass everywhere. And what's the very first thing I get to do at the school? I get to have a meeting with the principal. Dressed for success, I hold my head high, straighten my back, and walk with a confidence I've taught myself to have. I listen to her spiel on what her school's about and think to myself that she must intimidate several homeschoolers who walk in her doors and hand over their children.
I try to sound coherent, even intelligent, as I discuss what I've taught my children. She looks at me with a polite smile and I envision her thinking, "You're not worthy to teach your children, that's a job for us professionals. What a joke you are! See my office, see my degrees? And now, I'll take your children and turn them into real students." She promptly tests my children and in a very unobtrusive way, lets me know that her school is a "safe place," but that my children just might hear or be exposed to "certain things and language" while on the playground. As she pauses, I step in and say, "I do understand what your saying, Mrs._________, and please be assured that though I do believe it is a parental right and duty to shelter and protect one's children while tenderly shaping their character, I also think that if we do not allow them to experience the real world, perhaps in form of a playground, that we offer them no real training for their futures." What does she think I am, a homeschooler?
WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
I'm tired. I've been through the emotional ringer one too many times now. And I haven't even gotten one lick of house work done. I don't have any cookies baked, as was the plan for the post First Day of School event that I had envisioned in my perfect little world. The kids come home to a clean home with oatmeal chocolate chip cookies wafting through the air as they warm themselves in front of the fire and sip cocoa while telling me all the adventures of their day. Instead it's more like, "Umm, here's half a cracker and some moldy cheese. Want some nasty tap water in a dirty cup?"
BLUH! WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
So, let's kick it into gear, shall we. I've been running on empty long enough, I know how to make things happen when I don't have the energy to make things happen!
What's this? What's this I say? I just got some flowers delivered to me. Who could they be from? What a surprise! Oh, look, they're from my brother. My brother in Sweden, nonetheless. And look, what a sweet note. One of the sweetest notes I've ever gotten: "Sorry you had a sucky day. Hope you feel better." Now that, that was a thing of beauty. Thank you brother. And the flowers are beautiful. And fragrant. What's this? I find a smile creeping onto my face...
I can no longer say, "WHAT A CRAPPY DAY."
Thank you.
WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
So, instead of being at home, fixing hair into pretty braids and curls in anticipation of a new, a first day, of school, I was at the gym filling out a police report; hurriedly stuffing my blow dryer into my overfilled backpack, and frantically calling home to get all the plastic in my wallet canceled. Instead of encouraging little hearts and minds with wisdom and motherly kindness, I was thinking about guillotines, firing squads, and brimstone raining down from heaven.
WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
So I'm flustered, and my hair's a bit more wild than I'd intended, and off we race to school, piling 7 people into 5 seats of the work truck, since I can't drive the SUV with the glass everywhere. And what's the very first thing I get to do at the school? I get to have a meeting with the principal. Dressed for success, I hold my head high, straighten my back, and walk with a confidence I've taught myself to have. I listen to her spiel on what her school's about and think to myself that she must intimidate several homeschoolers who walk in her doors and hand over their children.
I try to sound coherent, even intelligent, as I discuss what I've taught my children. She looks at me with a polite smile and I envision her thinking, "You're not worthy to teach your children, that's a job for us professionals. What a joke you are! See my office, see my degrees? And now, I'll take your children and turn them into real students." She promptly tests my children and in a very unobtrusive way, lets me know that her school is a "safe place," but that my children just might hear or be exposed to "certain things and language" while on the playground. As she pauses, I step in and say, "I do understand what your saying, Mrs._________, and please be assured that though I do believe it is a parental right and duty to shelter and protect one's children while tenderly shaping their character, I also think that if we do not allow them to experience the real world, perhaps in form of a playground, that we offer them no real training for their futures." What does she think I am, a homeschooler?
WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
I'm tired. I've been through the emotional ringer one too many times now. And I haven't even gotten one lick of house work done. I don't have any cookies baked, as was the plan for the post First Day of School event that I had envisioned in my perfect little world. The kids come home to a clean home with oatmeal chocolate chip cookies wafting through the air as they warm themselves in front of the fire and sip cocoa while telling me all the adventures of their day. Instead it's more like, "Umm, here's half a cracker and some moldy cheese. Want some nasty tap water in a dirty cup?"
BLUH! WHAT A CRAPPY DAY!
So, let's kick it into gear, shall we. I've been running on empty long enough, I know how to make things happen when I don't have the energy to make things happen!
What's this? What's this I say? I just got some flowers delivered to me. Who could they be from? What a surprise! Oh, look, they're from my brother. My brother in Sweden, nonetheless. And look, what a sweet note. One of the sweetest notes I've ever gotten: "Sorry you had a sucky day. Hope you feel better." Now that, that was a thing of beauty. Thank you brother. And the flowers are beautiful. And fragrant. What's this? I find a smile creeping onto my face...
I can no longer say, "WHAT A CRAPPY DAY."
Thank you.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Quote This
Good humor is the health of the soul, sadness is its poison.
Lord Chesterfield
I'm being poisoned.
In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Actually, it's 3:30AM--he was off by half an hour.
If you board the wrong train, it is no use running along the corridor in the other direction.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Get me off this long, black train!
"Some of them want to use you. Some of them want to get used by you." - Marilyn Manson
I'm the former of the two. Always. I must be mentally handicapped.
" The world's a roller coaster and I am not strapped in. " - Incubus
A roller coaster is a mild metaphor to the ride I'm on.
I'm beginning to hate happy people. Not hate; despise. At least for the moment. Have you ever seen the movie Limminey Snickets: A Series of Unfortunate Events? I love the way it starts out, with happy elves, butterflies and bunnies, gay little music. Then it winds down and says something akin to, "If you want a happy movie, then this is not the movie for you..." And the sad, depressing movie with the children who have lost their parents and are time and again hunted down by a madman who wants to kill them to reach the family fortune begins (and Jim Carey does such a wonderful job!).
And that is much how this blog is. If you want a happy blog, then go somewhere else. If you're looking for sweet little Mrs. B, she's been temporarily replaced by a non-cookie baking, smack talk-walkin', hermit-to-the-max, I can kill you with one look, dirty apron wearing woman. You want soft and fuzzy, go to the petting zoo or put on your slippers. You want real and raw, you're in the right place.
I don't like fake people. Never have. So, you see, that's why I enjoy my own company. I'm just real and raw and yes, I do try to control myself, though sometimes that's easier said than done.
I'm tired. If Pissed Off was a river, I'd be floating it. If Raw Nerve was a city, I'd be the mayor. If Rabid Dog was a delicacey, I'd be serving it. And if Frustrated was a lipstick, I'd be Mary Kay.
You got that, y'all?
Ding dong.
(Door Opens)
Why hello, my name's ___________ and I'd like to show you some Mary Kay samples. Oh, you don't have time right now? Well, that's too bad, cuz I'm here and you're goin' to look at my samples whether you want to or not! I don't care who you are. Now I know where you live! Oh, and look, you have children. You love your children? And what about that cat? You know how good cat tastes over an open flame, like, say, your house burning down? I'm sorry, what did you say? You're going to call the police? Well, I am the police baby and I got two tickets to the gun show with your name on them! Now take a look at my samples or BRING IT ON!!!
That's why I don't work for Mary Kay....that and I never was into make-up anyway.
OK. Time to stir the soup, prep the salad and butter the rolls. Yes, I think Mrs. B has just re-entered the building.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Not Quite Finished
I decided I'm not quite finished....
Remember that lovely, pink, rose splashed bathrobe from one of my earliest posts? Well, I'm wearing it again. I'm quite the site to behold. I look at myself in the mirror, which is just to my right, and I see a woman with crooked black rimmed glasses (they got tweaked beyond repair when I took a dodgeball to the face several months ago. Don't worry, I have a new pair; I only wear these when no one can see me.), wearing a pink bathrobe with, yes, a brown down vest underneath, a modernized, sweetly striped western shirt under that, and a lovely periwinkle Costco cami under that (and that's as many details as you get, dear Blog). I've got on my jeans, which are now too baggy, and my knee high pink and green striped socks, since I was wearing my "Stipper Boots," and then I have on, of course, my slippers.
I'm eating Sweet & Spicy jerkey and sucking down a diet Cherry Limeaid while alternating between the two foreign chocolates that tickle my pallette. (I love you, Lindt!) I ignore the phone as it rings and rings and the messages pile up on the answering machine. Everyone who knows me knows that I rarely answer the phone. My phone message even says, "...and we'll try to return your call, plus or minus 2 weeks." People think I'm just being funny. Actually, I'm just being honest.
Wholey Crapeoly! 21 grams of fat in 3 pieces???? THREE PIECES!! That's absolutely ridiculous! How many pieces have I had now? I think this is my third...ah, who cares (probably the other members of my weightloss team). Afterall, have you seen how I'm dressed? I'm like the Mad Hatter without the hat. Or the fur. Or the ears. Or the large feet and pocket watch. Or the tea party. Okay, okay! So I'm not at all like the Mad Hatter! Leave me alone already!
You see how that works, don't you? I leave the bedroom door cracked just slightly so I can get some heat in here (who's the retard that put the small little vent in this big bedroom?), and I've already been interrupted 5 times in three minutes. Freeze or be interrupted? A toss up? No, I'd rather freeze.
I get angry sometimes. Everyone wants a piece of me. At least it seems like it: Wash this, clean that, sing this, play that, write this, sign that, help here, help there, create this for me, mend this, make that, bake me more bread, grind more wheat, wash this, clean that...
What was I saying?
Oh yes. I've been frustrated, incase you hadn't gathered that through all the ranting and raving I do. (Truly, Mr. Blog, you are my only friend.) I feel like I need a "Pause" button that I can push. Everyone else has to pause when the button is pushed and I can do whatever I want while nice, blue-colored elevator music (if music had a color) plays in the background. I can smash things, scream, rant, rave, dump buckets of paint on the floor, rip heads off Barbie dolls, throw the couch cushions on the floor and jump on them repeatedly (okay, so I probably couldn't do that), speed through the school zones and let my hair go completely wild (have you ever seen me when I wake up? Just grab and 80's magazine and you'll see me without all the makeup and neon. I rather like it. I think it's only appropreate the my inner person be reflected in my unruly hair).
But no, no, no. I have to smile. Be polite. I'm Mrs. B. Mrs. B writes children's music and bakes the neighbors cookies. She hosts luncheons for distinguished women and tea parties for little girls; and even teaches them the etiquette and manners their own mothers don't know to teach them. She shows them where to place their napkin if they have to leave the table before the dinner is finished, which fork to use first, and how to properly thank a hostess for having you over. She's all about "please and thank you," for "they are the magic words. If you want nice things to happen, they're the words that should be heard." Mrs. B is sweet and kind, she's butterflies and flowers, violins and cellos, bunny rabbits and kittens, sugar and spice and everything nice.
Then there's...Zora. She's the Jekyll of Mrs. B. She's pissed off and eats bunnies for breakfast. She wears camo and has an arm band of flames tatooed on her ripped bicep. When the line of needy people approaches her, she selfishly says, "Get it yourself or die trying!" She's sarcastic and naughty, her hair's punked out and she likes her music loud, hot and hard. Her nails are painted in "Pissed Off Red," she drives a jacked up SUV and hits every mud puddle on the road (and doesn't stop for pedestrians--she tries to run them over). She doesn't take crap from anyone and if you're smart, which you are, you'll just stay out of her way...or join her, as she tramples the butterflies and flowers that aggravate her senses.
How can one person be two people?
I believe there is a psychiatric term for that: Ingenious.
Yup, that's me.
(My limeaid is gone and I am now moving onto the ice. Yeah! What wonderful, perfectly sized and textured pieces of ice! I just ate the cherry. How could I eat such a non-human food thing?)
What was I saying? (I just shivered so much the monitor shook!)
Tulips. I forgot to plant them last fall. I was going to line the yard in red tulips, up along the line of the house. And then I didn't. Instead of purchasing the "Tulip Planter Tool," I was just going to put a large bit on the drill and drill myself some holes. I do so enjoy power tools. (Ahh! Who ate all my ice while I was busy typing? And why are there 5 pieces of chocolate missing?) I am totally pathetic with a hammer (I can always hit my thumb, garaunteed) but give me some power tools and I'm practically Tim the Tool Man Taylor.
Did you know I once dropped a staple gun on my forehead? I did. I was putting up the party lights on the back patio, stapling them into the joists while up on the ladder. Somehow I got interrupted, left the staple gun on top the ladder so little people couldn't find it, then, when I got back to work, forgot that I had placed the gun atop the ladder. Hence, I went to move the ladder to the next location. It was one of those slow-motion moments. As I moved the ladder I thought, "Oh crap," as I watched the staple gun fall smack dab onto my forehead. I didn't try to catch the gun, as I new I'd drop the ladder, possibly break a window or ding the vinyl, so I just took it like a man; I didn't grin, but I bared it. Luckily, it didn't fire. But I did, oh yes I did, have a perfect imprint of the staple end of the staple gun right in the middle of my forehead.
That really hurt.
I wore my hat for the next few weeks, and almost took a male friend to "The Gun Show" when he playfully came up and flicked the brim of my hat. After heavy breathing and nearly ripping his arm off (and scaring him half to death), I took my hat off to reveal my wound, which he'd just aggravated. After his face became unscrunched and the grimace left his mouth, he couldn't stop laughing. How many people do YOU know who've dropped a staple gun on their forehead?
But I'm that type of person. I attract odd disasters like a polyester leisure suit attracts old men in mid-calf black socks and sandels.
And now I'm tired of talking to myself. And I need to get rid of some of that large Cherry Limeaid.
So yes, I am no longer "Not quite finished." I am now finished and will, therefore, go find something more productive to do.
Remember that lovely, pink, rose splashed bathrobe from one of my earliest posts? Well, I'm wearing it again. I'm quite the site to behold. I look at myself in the mirror, which is just to my right, and I see a woman with crooked black rimmed glasses (they got tweaked beyond repair when I took a dodgeball to the face several months ago. Don't worry, I have a new pair; I only wear these when no one can see me.), wearing a pink bathrobe with, yes, a brown down vest underneath, a modernized, sweetly striped western shirt under that, and a lovely periwinkle Costco cami under that (and that's as many details as you get, dear Blog). I've got on my jeans, which are now too baggy, and my knee high pink and green striped socks, since I was wearing my "Stipper Boots," and then I have on, of course, my slippers.
I'm eating Sweet & Spicy jerkey and sucking down a diet Cherry Limeaid while alternating between the two foreign chocolates that tickle my pallette. (I love you, Lindt!) I ignore the phone as it rings and rings and the messages pile up on the answering machine. Everyone who knows me knows that I rarely answer the phone. My phone message even says, "...and we'll try to return your call, plus or minus 2 weeks." People think I'm just being funny. Actually, I'm just being honest.
Wholey Crapeoly! 21 grams of fat in 3 pieces???? THREE PIECES!! That's absolutely ridiculous! How many pieces have I had now? I think this is my third...ah, who cares (probably the other members of my weightloss team). Afterall, have you seen how I'm dressed? I'm like the Mad Hatter without the hat. Or the fur. Or the ears. Or the large feet and pocket watch. Or the tea party. Okay, okay! So I'm not at all like the Mad Hatter! Leave me alone already!
You see how that works, don't you? I leave the bedroom door cracked just slightly so I can get some heat in here (who's the retard that put the small little vent in this big bedroom?), and I've already been interrupted 5 times in three minutes. Freeze or be interrupted? A toss up? No, I'd rather freeze.
I get angry sometimes. Everyone wants a piece of me. At least it seems like it: Wash this, clean that, sing this, play that, write this, sign that, help here, help there, create this for me, mend this, make that, bake me more bread, grind more wheat, wash this, clean that...
What was I saying?
Oh yes. I've been frustrated, incase you hadn't gathered that through all the ranting and raving I do. (Truly, Mr. Blog, you are my only friend.) I feel like I need a "Pause" button that I can push. Everyone else has to pause when the button is pushed and I can do whatever I want while nice, blue-colored elevator music (if music had a color) plays in the background. I can smash things, scream, rant, rave, dump buckets of paint on the floor, rip heads off Barbie dolls, throw the couch cushions on the floor and jump on them repeatedly (okay, so I probably couldn't do that), speed through the school zones and let my hair go completely wild (have you ever seen me when I wake up? Just grab and 80's magazine and you'll see me without all the makeup and neon. I rather like it. I think it's only appropreate the my inner person be reflected in my unruly hair).
But no, no, no. I have to smile. Be polite. I'm Mrs. B. Mrs. B writes children's music and bakes the neighbors cookies. She hosts luncheons for distinguished women and tea parties for little girls; and even teaches them the etiquette and manners their own mothers don't know to teach them. She shows them where to place their napkin if they have to leave the table before the dinner is finished, which fork to use first, and how to properly thank a hostess for having you over. She's all about "please and thank you," for "they are the magic words. If you want nice things to happen, they're the words that should be heard." Mrs. B is sweet and kind, she's butterflies and flowers, violins and cellos, bunny rabbits and kittens, sugar and spice and everything nice.
Then there's...Zora. She's the Jekyll of Mrs. B. She's pissed off and eats bunnies for breakfast. She wears camo and has an arm band of flames tatooed on her ripped bicep. When the line of needy people approaches her, she selfishly says, "Get it yourself or die trying!" She's sarcastic and naughty, her hair's punked out and she likes her music loud, hot and hard. Her nails are painted in "Pissed Off Red," she drives a jacked up SUV and hits every mud puddle on the road (and doesn't stop for pedestrians--she tries to run them over). She doesn't take crap from anyone and if you're smart, which you are, you'll just stay out of her way...or join her, as she tramples the butterflies and flowers that aggravate her senses.
How can one person be two people?
I believe there is a psychiatric term for that: Ingenious.
Yup, that's me.
(My limeaid is gone and I am now moving onto the ice. Yeah! What wonderful, perfectly sized and textured pieces of ice! I just ate the cherry. How could I eat such a non-human food thing?)
What was I saying? (I just shivered so much the monitor shook!)
Tulips. I forgot to plant them last fall. I was going to line the yard in red tulips, up along the line of the house. And then I didn't. Instead of purchasing the "Tulip Planter Tool," I was just going to put a large bit on the drill and drill myself some holes. I do so enjoy power tools. (Ahh! Who ate all my ice while I was busy typing? And why are there 5 pieces of chocolate missing?) I am totally pathetic with a hammer (I can always hit my thumb, garaunteed) but give me some power tools and I'm practically Tim the Tool Man Taylor.
Did you know I once dropped a staple gun on my forehead? I did. I was putting up the party lights on the back patio, stapling them into the joists while up on the ladder. Somehow I got interrupted, left the staple gun on top the ladder so little people couldn't find it, then, when I got back to work, forgot that I had placed the gun atop the ladder. Hence, I went to move the ladder to the next location. It was one of those slow-motion moments. As I moved the ladder I thought, "Oh crap," as I watched the staple gun fall smack dab onto my forehead. I didn't try to catch the gun, as I new I'd drop the ladder, possibly break a window or ding the vinyl, so I just took it like a man; I didn't grin, but I bared it. Luckily, it didn't fire. But I did, oh yes I did, have a perfect imprint of the staple end of the staple gun right in the middle of my forehead.
That really hurt.
I wore my hat for the next few weeks, and almost took a male friend to "The Gun Show" when he playfully came up and flicked the brim of my hat. After heavy breathing and nearly ripping his arm off (and scaring him half to death), I took my hat off to reveal my wound, which he'd just aggravated. After his face became unscrunched and the grimace left his mouth, he couldn't stop laughing. How many people do YOU know who've dropped a staple gun on their forehead?
But I'm that type of person. I attract odd disasters like a polyester leisure suit attracts old men in mid-calf black socks and sandels.
And now I'm tired of talking to myself. And I need to get rid of some of that large Cherry Limeaid.
So yes, I am no longer "Not quite finished." I am now finished and will, therefore, go find something more productive to do.
Sick and Loving It
I've never been happier to be ill. I'm not sure if I'm really ill at this point, but I was while sitting on that plastic leather couch while trying incredibly hard to focus on the woman presenting her presentation on "snip, snuff, hug." Candles. She was selling candles. And she kept looking at me, speaking right at me as if I was the only person in the room. I must have been her safe place, a pleasant smile poised perfectly on my face; eyebrows raising melodically with her minuscule voice inflections. Eyes, watching hers respectfully; from the outside no one could tell I was mentally on a Safari in Africa. Or something.
But, back at the present which is now the past, I forced myself to focus! while the woman, who has insecurity issues (don't we all?!) talk with a broken canter. Besides thinking about how she needs to work on her presentation, that her hand shake was weak, and that I, as the consumer, really had very little information or urge to purchase her product, I somehow managed to stay awake through it all.
Then out came the sniffing samples. Instead of "Clean Linen," I thought, "Cheap Bathroom Spray." Instead of "Twilight Rose," I thought, "Cheap Woman Prostituting on Rose Street." Instead of "Midnight Escapade," my very keen sniffer signaled to my brain, "Two Beers, Body Odor, and a Touch of Musk."
I'm SO glad I took the kids. I politely thumbed through the catalog, and waited for the appropriate moment to say, "I'd better check on the children." But first, back to the catalog. Can you say, "Ha!" As in "Ha! Even if I had a kazillion dollars, I'd never, not EVER, spend $74.95 of it--plus shipping, handling and tax--on five glass dollar-store looking votive holders! Do people actually buy these things? If so, WHO? They should be shot or genetically altered, or severely fined for wasting time, money, and thought processes!"
(Please be notified that this rant was sponsored by Low Progesterone, and has now subsided. It is now safe to enter or exit the building, but we do advise that you keep your armor on at all times.)
So, back to the children. I, the concerned mother, of course, checked on the children, and quietly said, "Load up, it's time to go!" Being very obedient, they did as they were told while I pulled the hostess aside, thanked her for a wonderful party (I'm sure it was wonderful for someone), told her I was not feeling well (stick me in a room with 10 other women who think paying way too much for way too little is acceptable, and I'll get sick every time), and that I apologize, but I must be going. Oh, and by the way, the Banana Bread smells delicious and the red table cloth really livens up the dining room.
The farther I got from the party, the better I felt. I did have to reward the children for their prompt obedience (and they didn't get any of the snacks at the party--the REAL reason to go to a party), so Sonic's Happy Hour did the trick for half price. (Do you get giddy with the words "Half Price", too?) And here I am, home, tucked away safely in my much too messy bedroom, in my happy little place while three giggly girls laugh on the other side of the door, injecting into their fragile bodies Red Dye #10, high fructose corn syrup, a formaldehyde cherry, and a Made in Mexico full-of-toxic-pesticides lime wedge (which are all floating gaily in a sea of Sprite). (I do have to admit that I love Sonic's ice. Not too big, not too small. Nice texture, too...do other people think about such things?)
I am so not a people person. If you want to drain the very life from me, stick me in a room with people and watch me be the "most outgoing person ever!" Oh, what a high price tag that carries. People tag me as an extrovert, but they obviously have not read my dirty little secrets that permeate my precious little blog: I am an introvert. Me, introvert. Introvert, me. You like people? Please, GO, be merry, be with people. But leave me here with me, myself and I, and let me be what I am: an introvert. Right, Mr. Google? "Introvert: a person who tends to shrink from social contacts and to become preoccupied with their own thought." Doesn't that sound absolutely splendid?! I do say so, Me, Myself, and I. I do say so.
In other news, today was a 13.5 mile run. It was truly blissful. I so enjoyed it. We ran in the snow. We ran on the snow. We ran under the snow. We ran with the snow on us. Snow, snow, snow! Snowflakes fell on my nose and eyelashes, smudging my cheap mascara and occasionally assaulting my contacts. Eager state employees fulfilled their lust for driving large machines and producing clean roads, and all the while we ran; our little group of spandex wearing, red tipped runny nosed runners. I believe I am a runner now. I wasn't quite sure before. But oh, how good it feels to run. Happy endorphins skip through my head, throwing rose petals and speaking of peace and not war; of candle parties where everything is at cost, and of pasta dishes that are calorie free; of honeysuckles on dirt-path lanes, sunsets in the country, and sheets dried by sunshine. I do so adore my friends Endor and Fin. They always come to visit when my running shoes are on...
You know what? I now enjoy showering. I wasn't much for showering before, I was mostly a tub girl, but now, like mold on a shower curtain, it's grown on me. I highly recommend (especially to anyone who has a multitude of children, pets or neighbors) showering in public. Yes, in public. It's so very peaceful. You, the locker room, the black rubber mat on the floor--the shower you don't have to clean. The water you don't have to pay for. Oh! It's practically euphoric! And best of all, there are (at least to this point) no little people that want to jump in the shower with you, no "Hey Mom's" at the bathroom door, no "Woman, where are my long johns?," no pesky cat meowing because she wants to drink the dirty water (what is WRONG with that cat?). It's just you, peacefully showering in a public place.
Though, it is rather odd to think that you're naked, downstairs, while everyone that sees you everyday is fully clothed, upstairs. At least, I hope you're naked when you take a shower, and that the people upstairs are fully clothed when they are not...
Anyway, I do feel slightly apologetic for the poor person that has to clean the shower I was in this morning, stretching my quads and drinking my protein shake while hot water licked at my cold, wet skin. (I can multi-task on a plane. I can multi-task with a crane. I can multi-task on a bus. I can multi-task while you cuss. I am The Queen multi-tasker, yes I am. Move it or lose it, Sam I am.) Deciding that I'd just rinse out my shaker cup while I was in the shower, I twist off the lid, fill it with water I'm gleefully not paying for, and proceed to rinse the cup. It didn't quite go as I expected it to (and yes, I always have some sort of expectation--uh hum), as chunks of clumpy-chocolate-globbed protein shake went all over the shower. I tried to wash them down the drain, but they kinda just stuck to the walls, floor, curtain...possibly the black rubber mat.
So I apologize, oh great and much un-coveted cleaning person, who not only had to dig my hair out the drain, but also had to, no doubt, scrub the Costco chocolate protein powder off all surfaces pertaining to said shower. I'm sorry, you hear? I'm SORRY!!!
Boy does it feel good to get that off my chest!
I'm tired. Didn't sleep well last night. 5 hours max. Awake at 3:30AM again. Not sure why. Too much on the brain. How do I get rid of it? Is there a dumping station somewhere? "Over Stressed Uptight Dumping Station For Neurotic Introverted Size 8 Females - 3 miles." Why can't it just be that easy? I could even run there, and back, which would really help in easing the over stressed, uptight, neurotic, size 8 part.
Speaking of which; size 6. That's my goal. Being the great hunter I am, I have been snatching up size 6's at the thrift stores, storing them away as the focus of my goal. Size 6 by summer. Sounds like a great slogan, doesn't it? But it doesn't look quite right. Size Six by Summer. There, that looks a little better. Hmmmm. Size Six By Summer. Naw, don't know if I like that so much, as the S's don't stand out while being in competition with the upper case "B."
Yes, this is what I do when I have alone time. You?
Form and function. I think that's probably my life's biggest motto. Followed closely by: I mean waht I say and I say what I mean. I love that. It's black and white, so clear cut, right upfront and honest; refreshing, not confusing. Defined, not wishy-washy. It's a yes, it's a no; it's never a maybe. Why, oh why, can't everyone live by my two simple mottos? I just might become an extrovert if everyone else would just convert to the way I'd like them to be. How do you like dem apples, aye?
And yes, I do like apples. When I get my house in the country, I will, I must, have an apple tree. Perhaps two types. Apples, what a perfect snack. Just the right size, biodegradable, pleasing to the eye, and oh so very versatile. You can eat it whole, cut it up, smear some peanut butter on it, dip it in caramel (I've got the best recipe ever!), make apple pie, apple crisp, apple muffins, apple bread, baked apples, mulled apples, cider, wine, dried fruit, applesauce....are you as excited as I am? And the joy of picking them from your very own tree on your very own land; that's the icing on the cake. Apples have form with function. I do so enjoy that.
Well, is that enough gibberish for one day? I do feel oh-so-better, perhaps completely, if not at least partially, recovered from my obligatory party. I'm not always such a prude, I do admit. Or, wait, perhaps I am. I'm kinda leaning towards yes on this one. That's me, I'd rather fantasize about apples in the country than smell someone's rendition of an apple in paraffin.
So tell me, how do ya like dem apples?
But, back at the present which is now the past, I forced myself to focus! while the woman, who has insecurity issues (don't we all?!) talk with a broken canter. Besides thinking about how she needs to work on her presentation, that her hand shake was weak, and that I, as the consumer, really had very little information or urge to purchase her product, I somehow managed to stay awake through it all.
Then out came the sniffing samples. Instead of "Clean Linen," I thought, "Cheap Bathroom Spray." Instead of "Twilight Rose," I thought, "Cheap Woman Prostituting on Rose Street." Instead of "Midnight Escapade," my very keen sniffer signaled to my brain, "Two Beers, Body Odor, and a Touch of Musk."
I'm SO glad I took the kids. I politely thumbed through the catalog, and waited for the appropriate moment to say, "I'd better check on the children." But first, back to the catalog. Can you say, "Ha!" As in "Ha! Even if I had a kazillion dollars, I'd never, not EVER, spend $74.95 of it--plus shipping, handling and tax--on five glass dollar-store looking votive holders! Do people actually buy these things? If so, WHO? They should be shot or genetically altered, or severely fined for wasting time, money, and thought processes!"
(Please be notified that this rant was sponsored by Low Progesterone, and has now subsided. It is now safe to enter or exit the building, but we do advise that you keep your armor on at all times.)
So, back to the children. I, the concerned mother, of course, checked on the children, and quietly said, "Load up, it's time to go!" Being very obedient, they did as they were told while I pulled the hostess aside, thanked her for a wonderful party (I'm sure it was wonderful for someone), told her I was not feeling well (stick me in a room with 10 other women who think paying way too much for way too little is acceptable, and I'll get sick every time), and that I apologize, but I must be going. Oh, and by the way, the Banana Bread smells delicious and the red table cloth really livens up the dining room.
The farther I got from the party, the better I felt. I did have to reward the children for their prompt obedience (and they didn't get any of the snacks at the party--the REAL reason to go to a party), so Sonic's Happy Hour did the trick for half price. (Do you get giddy with the words "Half Price", too?) And here I am, home, tucked away safely in my much too messy bedroom, in my happy little place while three giggly girls laugh on the other side of the door, injecting into their fragile bodies Red Dye #10, high fructose corn syrup, a formaldehyde cherry, and a Made in Mexico full-of-toxic-pesticides lime wedge (which are all floating gaily in a sea of Sprite). (I do have to admit that I love Sonic's ice. Not too big, not too small. Nice texture, too...do other people think about such things?)
I am so not a people person. If you want to drain the very life from me, stick me in a room with people and watch me be the "most outgoing person ever!" Oh, what a high price tag that carries. People tag me as an extrovert, but they obviously have not read my dirty little secrets that permeate my precious little blog: I am an introvert. Me, introvert. Introvert, me. You like people? Please, GO, be merry, be with people. But leave me here with me, myself and I, and let me be what I am: an introvert. Right, Mr. Google? "Introvert: a person who tends to shrink from social contacts and to become preoccupied with their own thought." Doesn't that sound absolutely splendid?! I do say so, Me, Myself, and I. I do say so.
In other news, today was a 13.5 mile run. It was truly blissful. I so enjoyed it. We ran in the snow. We ran on the snow. We ran under the snow. We ran with the snow on us. Snow, snow, snow! Snowflakes fell on my nose and eyelashes, smudging my cheap mascara and occasionally assaulting my contacts. Eager state employees fulfilled their lust for driving large machines and producing clean roads, and all the while we ran; our little group of spandex wearing, red tipped runny nosed runners. I believe I am a runner now. I wasn't quite sure before. But oh, how good it feels to run. Happy endorphins skip through my head, throwing rose petals and speaking of peace and not war; of candle parties where everything is at cost, and of pasta dishes that are calorie free; of honeysuckles on dirt-path lanes, sunsets in the country, and sheets dried by sunshine. I do so adore my friends Endor and Fin. They always come to visit when my running shoes are on...
You know what? I now enjoy showering. I wasn't much for showering before, I was mostly a tub girl, but now, like mold on a shower curtain, it's grown on me. I highly recommend (especially to anyone who has a multitude of children, pets or neighbors) showering in public. Yes, in public. It's so very peaceful. You, the locker room, the black rubber mat on the floor--the shower you don't have to clean. The water you don't have to pay for. Oh! It's practically euphoric! And best of all, there are (at least to this point) no little people that want to jump in the shower with you, no "Hey Mom's" at the bathroom door, no "Woman, where are my long johns?," no pesky cat meowing because she wants to drink the dirty water (what is WRONG with that cat?). It's just you, peacefully showering in a public place.
Though, it is rather odd to think that you're naked, downstairs, while everyone that sees you everyday is fully clothed, upstairs. At least, I hope you're naked when you take a shower, and that the people upstairs are fully clothed when they are not...
Anyway, I do feel slightly apologetic for the poor person that has to clean the shower I was in this morning, stretching my quads and drinking my protein shake while hot water licked at my cold, wet skin. (I can multi-task on a plane. I can multi-task with a crane. I can multi-task on a bus. I can multi-task while you cuss. I am The Queen multi-tasker, yes I am. Move it or lose it, Sam I am.) Deciding that I'd just rinse out my shaker cup while I was in the shower, I twist off the lid, fill it with water I'm gleefully not paying for, and proceed to rinse the cup. It didn't quite go as I expected it to (and yes, I always have some sort of expectation--uh hum), as chunks of clumpy-chocolate-globbed protein shake went all over the shower. I tried to wash them down the drain, but they kinda just stuck to the walls, floor, curtain...possibly the black rubber mat.
So I apologize, oh great and much un-coveted cleaning person, who not only had to dig my hair out the drain, but also had to, no doubt, scrub the Costco chocolate protein powder off all surfaces pertaining to said shower. I'm sorry, you hear? I'm SORRY!!!
Boy does it feel good to get that off my chest!
I'm tired. Didn't sleep well last night. 5 hours max. Awake at 3:30AM again. Not sure why. Too much on the brain. How do I get rid of it? Is there a dumping station somewhere? "Over Stressed Uptight Dumping Station For Neurotic Introverted Size 8 Females - 3 miles." Why can't it just be that easy? I could even run there, and back, which would really help in easing the over stressed, uptight, neurotic, size 8 part.
Speaking of which; size 6. That's my goal. Being the great hunter I am, I have been snatching up size 6's at the thrift stores, storing them away as the focus of my goal. Size 6 by summer. Sounds like a great slogan, doesn't it? But it doesn't look quite right. Size Six by Summer. There, that looks a little better. Hmmmm. Size Six By Summer. Naw, don't know if I like that so much, as the S's don't stand out while being in competition with the upper case "B."
Yes, this is what I do when I have alone time. You?
Form and function. I think that's probably my life's biggest motto. Followed closely by: I mean waht I say and I say what I mean. I love that. It's black and white, so clear cut, right upfront and honest; refreshing, not confusing. Defined, not wishy-washy. It's a yes, it's a no; it's never a maybe. Why, oh why, can't everyone live by my two simple mottos? I just might become an extrovert if everyone else would just convert to the way I'd like them to be. How do you like dem apples, aye?
And yes, I do like apples. When I get my house in the country, I will, I must, have an apple tree. Perhaps two types. Apples, what a perfect snack. Just the right size, biodegradable, pleasing to the eye, and oh so very versatile. You can eat it whole, cut it up, smear some peanut butter on it, dip it in caramel (I've got the best recipe ever!), make apple pie, apple crisp, apple muffins, apple bread, baked apples, mulled apples, cider, wine, dried fruit, applesauce....are you as excited as I am? And the joy of picking them from your very own tree on your very own land; that's the icing on the cake. Apples have form with function. I do so enjoy that.
Well, is that enough gibberish for one day? I do feel oh-so-better, perhaps completely, if not at least partially, recovered from my obligatory party. I'm not always such a prude, I do admit. Or, wait, perhaps I am. I'm kinda leaning towards yes on this one. That's me, I'd rather fantasize about apples in the country than smell someone's rendition of an apple in paraffin.
So tell me, how do ya like dem apples?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Numb
See this? This is me:
In this space. Staring at the wall. Empty. Numb. Just like this space:
I read yesterday that running is better for depression than antidepressants. I set out to do 8 miles yesterday, but that wasn't enough, so I upped it to 10. After the last hill, I decided 10 was enough and reluctantly came home.
Running is a great drug.
Next week the running group is running to the neighboring town. 13 miles it is, me thinks. Even though I have new running shoes, I think I need another pair. My feet ache after I run. I have lost 10 pounds since I bought these shoes, less than a month ago, and now my feet feel differently in the shoe. I think I've got another 5 pounds to get rid of, so maybe I'll wait to get a newer new pair of shoes.
I don't know. I don't care. I'm just numb.
In this space. Staring at the wall. Empty. Numb. Just like this space:
I read yesterday that running is better for depression than antidepressants. I set out to do 8 miles yesterday, but that wasn't enough, so I upped it to 10. After the last hill, I decided 10 was enough and reluctantly came home.
Running is a great drug.
Next week the running group is running to the neighboring town. 13 miles it is, me thinks. Even though I have new running shoes, I think I need another pair. My feet ache after I run. I have lost 10 pounds since I bought these shoes, less than a month ago, and now my feet feel differently in the shoe. I think I've got another 5 pounds to get rid of, so maybe I'll wait to get a newer new pair of shoes.
I don't know. I don't care. I'm just numb.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Nervous Breakdown
Yes, I'm on the verge. Dear Mr. Google, please define "nervous breakdown:" "A time of mental illness when a person cannot think clearly. It often happens after someone has been through a difficult or stressful time."
Ok, it looks like I'm a prime candidate. Sign me up, stamp my forehead and pack my pajamas. (Is fantasizing about being hospitalized in the mental health ward wrong? It does sound like a vacation: lots of sleep, living in your pajamas, don't have to take care of anyone, people make your food for ya, no dishes or laundry, you can drool and no one cares, not shave your legs, run up and down the halls naked and have lots and lots of colorful pills!)
If the last 2 years weren't hell enough, let's just heap on the pain and stress, the stress and the pain, and let's go for a full blown "nervous breakdown." I think I deserve the right, the chance, to have one.
I am reaching my breaking point. I can feel it. This is your forewarning, my friend Dell. If you don't hear from me, I may have upped and moved to Mexico, the Bahamas, or Kokomo (if that is, indeed, a real place and not just a Beach Boys song. Oh look, something new for me to Goggle.)
But first, I must go change the laundry loads (again).
Ok, it looks like I'm a prime candidate. Sign me up, stamp my forehead and pack my pajamas. (Is fantasizing about being hospitalized in the mental health ward wrong? It does sound like a vacation: lots of sleep, living in your pajamas, don't have to take care of anyone, people make your food for ya, no dishes or laundry, you can drool and no one cares, not shave your legs, run up and down the halls naked and have lots and lots of colorful pills!)
If the last 2 years weren't hell enough, let's just heap on the pain and stress, the stress and the pain, and let's go for a full blown "nervous breakdown." I think I deserve the right, the chance, to have one.
I am reaching my breaking point. I can feel it. This is your forewarning, my friend Dell. If you don't hear from me, I may have upped and moved to Mexico, the Bahamas, or Kokomo (if that is, indeed, a real place and not just a Beach Boys song. Oh look, something new for me to Goggle.)
But first, I must go change the laundry loads (again).
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Unfurl
Unfurl.
I like that word. I heard it in a song today.
Unfurl.
It's almost fun to say, too. "Unfurl."
Though it relates to ships and sails, Webster also says that unfurl is: "unroll, unfold, or spread out or be unrolled, unfolded, or spread out from a furled state; "unfurl a banner"
Spread our from a furled state. That's me. I need to be unfurled. I believe I'm suffering from anality (which until two seconds ago, I didn't realize was a word). "Anality - Being in an anal state as per psychoanalysis or psychology."
I think too much, but honestly, I don't know how to stop. I analyze too much, but I don't know hot to stop that, either. Sometimes I'm too logical, and sometimes I'm too emotional, and sometimes I'm the perfect blend of both. But not today. Today I need to unfurl, as I'm a bit too anal.
I'm anal about my work. I like things done well and I like them done right. I like to work hard, and I often work too long. And if you're working for me, I expect you to work hard, too. No whiners allowed! ...I'm not really sure I know how to relax. You see, I need to unfurl.
I'm anal about my couch cushions. I will prop them upright several times a day (subconsciously, I might add), just so they look tidy and neat. I'm not really sure why I do that, but, you see, I need to unfurl.
I'm anal about how my towels are folded. In half long ways, then thirds. Same with washcloths. They fit so nicely into the linen closet that way, and look so very tidy. All folded corners go in the same direction; crisp and clean. I'm not really sure why I do this, either, but, as you know now, I need to unfurl.
But, I'm not very good at unfurling, for, in my mind, to properly unfurl, things must be in order. Order for me brings relaxation, and without order, I cannot unfurl. So, to properly unfurl, things must be in the right order and then the unfurling can begin. Oh, how I long to unfurl.
And I've just realized something: I am psychotic.
But at least I know it.
But, let's do take into consideration that I haven't slept properly in...3 weeks. And being up with a fussing baby for 3 hours every night is not helping the situation at all. And I'm still not too terribly hungry. I've lost 7 pounds in the last 2 weeks, too. I hope it's not my much beloved muscle...I keep trying to buy a new pair of jeans, but every time I go shopping for them, I'm in-between sizes. I bought a thrift store (oh, how I love the thrift store!) pair of GAP jeans two weeks ago, they were tight. Now they fall off and look too baggy. But really, I've just realized, who cares.
I ran 10 miles today. I was shooting for 11, but I suppose 10 will do. Actually, no, that's not true. Because of the fact I am anal, I'm rather perturbed by the fact that I didn't do the full 11, as that's what I had set out to do. I let someone talk me out of doing the last mile, and now I regret it. If I didn't have children to watch, I'd lace up my shoes and go run the fitness trail just so I could fall alseep at night knowing that I'd accomplished what I set out to do. I believe I have a word for this: anality. Anality and details, they will be the death of my free spirit.
And yes, I am a free spirit. But not completely. I am an oximoronic free spirit, for a free spirit is: "someone acting freely or even irresponsibly." I can't quite act irresponsibly, even when I am being free. Yes, I beleive that classifies me as an oximoronic free spirit. And no, I don't even know if that's a word, but I like it, so it should be.
I'm feeling overwhelmed lately. And I know why, too. Because things aren't going according to plan. At least, not to MY plan (which has been scrutinized, analyzed, pothesized, and conceptually realized, so how bad of a plan can it be?). You see, once again, I need to unfurl.
And I ask myself at this very moment: why am I typing into cyberspace? About nothing, really. Why do I like this? Why do I do it? Why do I spend my precious free moments in this (as I tell myself) secret little place.....I'm not quite sure.
I don't like to waste time. And I especially don't like people to waste MY time. Like yesterday, thanks to a slip of a caseworker's memory lobe, I had to spend an extra hour at the doctor's office, waiting, with a baby that doesn't like waiting, either. I really don't like waiting. I get antsy waiting. Technically, I get antsy waiting when the clock is ticking. I'm anal: I don't like to waste time. Or money. Or food. Or anything, really. I just don't like waste.
But we know by now, of course, that I need to unfurl. UNFURL. So maybe I'll go try to do that (though I do feel like I need a coach, much like the lazmaze coach who was so good at what she did, I often fell asleep during lamaze class), or maybe I'll do what I know best: be anal and go fold my laundry.
I like that word. I heard it in a song today.
Unfurl.
It's almost fun to say, too. "Unfurl."
Though it relates to ships and sails, Webster also says that unfurl is: "unroll, unfold, or spread out or be unrolled, unfolded, or spread out from a furled state; "unfurl a banner"
Spread our from a furled state. That's me. I need to be unfurled. I believe I'm suffering from anality (which until two seconds ago, I didn't realize was a word). "Anality - Being in an anal state as per psychoanalysis or psychology."
I think too much, but honestly, I don't know how to stop. I analyze too much, but I don't know hot to stop that, either. Sometimes I'm too logical, and sometimes I'm too emotional, and sometimes I'm the perfect blend of both. But not today. Today I need to unfurl, as I'm a bit too anal.
I'm anal about my work. I like things done well and I like them done right. I like to work hard, and I often work too long. And if you're working for me, I expect you to work hard, too. No whiners allowed! ...I'm not really sure I know how to relax. You see, I need to unfurl.
I'm anal about my couch cushions. I will prop them upright several times a day (subconsciously, I might add), just so they look tidy and neat. I'm not really sure why I do that, but, you see, I need to unfurl.
I'm anal about how my towels are folded. In half long ways, then thirds. Same with washcloths. They fit so nicely into the linen closet that way, and look so very tidy. All folded corners go in the same direction; crisp and clean. I'm not really sure why I do this, either, but, as you know now, I need to unfurl.
But, I'm not very good at unfurling, for, in my mind, to properly unfurl, things must be in order. Order for me brings relaxation, and without order, I cannot unfurl. So, to properly unfurl, things must be in the right order and then the unfurling can begin. Oh, how I long to unfurl.
And I've just realized something: I am psychotic.
But at least I know it.
But, let's do take into consideration that I haven't slept properly in...3 weeks. And being up with a fussing baby for 3 hours every night is not helping the situation at all. And I'm still not too terribly hungry. I've lost 7 pounds in the last 2 weeks, too. I hope it's not my much beloved muscle...I keep trying to buy a new pair of jeans, but every time I go shopping for them, I'm in-between sizes. I bought a thrift store (oh, how I love the thrift store!) pair of GAP jeans two weeks ago, they were tight. Now they fall off and look too baggy. But really, I've just realized, who cares.
I ran 10 miles today. I was shooting for 11, but I suppose 10 will do. Actually, no, that's not true. Because of the fact I am anal, I'm rather perturbed by the fact that I didn't do the full 11, as that's what I had set out to do. I let someone talk me out of doing the last mile, and now I regret it. If I didn't have children to watch, I'd lace up my shoes and go run the fitness trail just so I could fall alseep at night knowing that I'd accomplished what I set out to do. I believe I have a word for this: anality. Anality and details, they will be the death of my free spirit.
And yes, I am a free spirit. But not completely. I am an oximoronic free spirit, for a free spirit is: "someone acting freely or even irresponsibly." I can't quite act irresponsibly, even when I am being free. Yes, I beleive that classifies me as an oximoronic free spirit. And no, I don't even know if that's a word, but I like it, so it should be.
I'm feeling overwhelmed lately. And I know why, too. Because things aren't going according to plan. At least, not to MY plan (which has been scrutinized, analyzed, pothesized, and conceptually realized, so how bad of a plan can it be?). You see, once again, I need to unfurl.
And I ask myself at this very moment: why am I typing into cyberspace? About nothing, really. Why do I like this? Why do I do it? Why do I spend my precious free moments in this (as I tell myself) secret little place.....I'm not quite sure.
I don't like to waste time. And I especially don't like people to waste MY time. Like yesterday, thanks to a slip of a caseworker's memory lobe, I had to spend an extra hour at the doctor's office, waiting, with a baby that doesn't like waiting, either. I really don't like waiting. I get antsy waiting. Technically, I get antsy waiting when the clock is ticking. I'm anal: I don't like to waste time. Or money. Or food. Or anything, really. I just don't like waste.
But we know by now, of course, that I need to unfurl. UNFURL. So maybe I'll go try to do that (though I do feel like I need a coach, much like the lazmaze coach who was so good at what she did, I often fell asleep during lamaze class), or maybe I'll do what I know best: be anal and go fold my laundry.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Screaming, Crying, Passing Out
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
You woulnd't be able to tell from looking at me directly, as I look completely calm, cool, and collected (of course), but I am infact (you wanna get me started, aye?), totally freaking out.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
You'll never hear me scream or yell (though I do raise my voice a tad), so I'm very glad that I have this little secret place to express myself.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I'm not having a good day. Things are not in order; my LIFE is not in order, and it causes me great grief.
I cry when I'm frustrated. I'll also cry if you're crying, because I'll feel so badly for you, since you're crying, but to cry when I'm sad......I'm still working on that. Mostly, my tears are red-hot angry tears, borne from frustration that is too calm, cool, and collected to explode into a million tiny pieces, so it spills out my eyes; mostly silently.
Come, my little Dell, and cry with me.
Which brings us to the topic of passing out. I'm so exhausted. But I can't sleep, dagnabit! (And for some reason, as hard as I try, I just can't curse, either.) I tried to take a nap today, but failed. I don't like to fail at things, but I failed at napping. Frustrated with life, and especially with failing at such a simple task, I started to cry becuase I'm more frustrated now than I've ever been in my entire life, I think; so out come the tears. And, because I didn't nap, I'm ready now to pass out, as crying makes me ever so tired.
And it'll be just another night alone with you, my little Dell; the radiation from you being soaked into my body and energizing my depressed cells into cancer cells which will ravage my body in the cruelest of ways. That's it, I'm going to die, aren't I? From too many days and nights alone with my laptop. What's there to live for, I say? Oh cruel, cruel life!!!
What a depressing blog this is, anyway! Gracious!
"Take me home, country roads, to the palce where I belong...."
You woulnd't be able to tell from looking at me directly, as I look completely calm, cool, and collected (of course), but I am infact (you wanna get me started, aye?), totally freaking out.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
You'll never hear me scream or yell (though I do raise my voice a tad), so I'm very glad that I have this little secret place to express myself.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I'm not having a good day. Things are not in order; my LIFE is not in order, and it causes me great grief.
I cry when I'm frustrated. I'll also cry if you're crying, because I'll feel so badly for you, since you're crying, but to cry when I'm sad......I'm still working on that. Mostly, my tears are red-hot angry tears, borne from frustration that is too calm, cool, and collected to explode into a million tiny pieces, so it spills out my eyes; mostly silently.
Come, my little Dell, and cry with me.
Which brings us to the topic of passing out. I'm so exhausted. But I can't sleep, dagnabit! (And for some reason, as hard as I try, I just can't curse, either.) I tried to take a nap today, but failed. I don't like to fail at things, but I failed at napping. Frustrated with life, and especially with failing at such a simple task, I started to cry becuase I'm more frustrated now than I've ever been in my entire life, I think; so out come the tears. And, because I didn't nap, I'm ready now to pass out, as crying makes me ever so tired.
And it'll be just another night alone with you, my little Dell; the radiation from you being soaked into my body and energizing my depressed cells into cancer cells which will ravage my body in the cruelest of ways. That's it, I'm going to die, aren't I? From too many days and nights alone with my laptop. What's there to live for, I say? Oh cruel, cruel life!!!
What a depressing blog this is, anyway! Gracious!
"Take me home, country roads, to the palce where I belong...."
Monday, January 5, 2009
New Tricks
Okay, here's the deal. As a writing assignment, I show my oldest daughter how to create a blog. I get her all set up then step out the door to run a few errands. I come back a little over an hour later and she's got her blog up and running with several posts and pictures--pictures! Man, I'm feeling really old at the moment. So, dear daughter shows Mom how to do pictures, change colors, etc. I didn't think I
was that far behind the times. I guess I am.
Dear Daughter (dd) wanted me to upload this picture of youngest daughter. It's not the best shot, but it does capture the true essence of Little Terror (sometimes I call her Demon Child, Your Father's Child, Booger, or, most often, Squirt). Every picture of Little Terror has some comical aspect to it. I'm glad that years ago I gave up on wanting every picture of my children to be perfect (not so much perfect as un-perfect). This is the child, that in nearly every family photo I've taken, has some sort of look on her face, mostly something unflattering. But that's her, my little spit fire-firecracker; as sweet as a kitten one moment and as wild as a boar the next. (NO, she did NOT get that from me...I'm as sweet as a kitten ALL the time!)
Why do
n't we load a few more pictures, now that the world of uploading has been brought to my attention (and I really should be doing housework right now). Let's see what we can find...Okay, here's what happens when you're the only boy admist the Estrogen Ocean: you army crawl around the house with a sniper riffle, knocking off sisters one by one. The Obster (pronounced Obe-stir) is crawling through my bathroom, which goes from my bedroom into the laundry room into the kitchen, or to the downstairs. I had to step over him a few times while doing laundry, as to not compromise his strategic placement. Goofball. Poor, poor boy. He so needs a brother.
Oh, this is fun!! Let's see what else there is to find! Okay, here's another one. Here's Little Terror again. She dressed herself. She's in her long johns and has two hats on her head. What's so funny about her hats is that the black one is one that I bought when I was in the 8th grade (yes, I was once that young). I'd forgotten that was my hat, tucked into the dress-up box, now being worn by my 4 year old. What a cutie.
Here's Kali. I like this picture of her. My camera died before I was able to do many more pics. Shame, shame. And here's her school picture. My how she grows! She's just less than a head shorter than me now.
And here's Kass, my whimsical, creative, little mommy whom I tell to never get married or move away, as I'd have no one to take care of me:
And now, really I must go be responsible....I heard the other day that our actions define us, that by our actions we become known as who we are. As such, I must go, leave the warmth of my flat screen, and whip this ship into order. Responsible, that's me (unfortunately).
But first, just a few more pictures...just a few. Oh look, here's me and my favorite son. And here's the girls after Christmas dinner. Kass is wearing the Christmas dress I made her (the red one). She was born in the wrong era, too. She needed to be a midevil damsel.
was that far behind the times. I guess I am.Dear Daughter (dd) wanted me to upload this picture of youngest daughter. It's not the best shot, but it does capture the true essence of Little Terror (sometimes I call her Demon Child, Your Father's Child, Booger, or, most often, Squirt). Every picture of Little Terror has some comical aspect to it. I'm glad that years ago I gave up on wanting every picture of my children to be perfect (not so much perfect as un-perfect). This is the child, that in nearly every family photo I've taken, has some sort of look on her face, mostly something unflattering. But that's her, my little spit fire-firecracker; as sweet as a kitten one moment and as wild as a boar the next. (NO, she did NOT get that from me...I'm as sweet as a kitten ALL the time!)
Why do
n't we load a few more pictures, now that the world of uploading has been brought to my attention (and I really should be doing housework right now). Let's see what we can find...Okay, here's what happens when you're the only boy admist the Estrogen Ocean: you army crawl around the house with a sniper riffle, knocking off sisters one by one. The Obster (pronounced Obe-stir) is crawling through my bathroom, which goes from my bedroom into the laundry room into the kitchen, or to the downstairs. I had to step over him a few times while doing laundry, as to not compromise his strategic placement. Goofball. Poor, poor boy. He so needs a brother.
Oh, this is fun!! Let's see what else there is to find! Okay, here's another one. Here's Little Terror again. She dressed herself. She's in her long johns and has two hats on her head. What's so funny about her hats is that the black one is one that I bought when I was in the 8th grade (yes, I was once that young). I'd forgotten that was my hat, tucked into the dress-up box, now being worn by my 4 year old. What a cutie.
Here's Kali. I like this picture of her. My camera died before I was able to do many more pics. Shame, shame. And here's her school picture. My how she grows! She's just less than a head shorter than me now.
And here's Kass, my whimsical, creative, little mommy whom I tell to never get married or move away, as I'd have no one to take care of me:
And now, really I must go be responsible....I heard the other day that our actions define us, that by our actions we become known as who we are. As such, I must go, leave the warmth of my flat screen, and whip this ship into order. Responsible, that's me (unfortunately).
But first, just a few more pictures...just a few. Oh look, here's me and my favorite son. And here's the girls after Christmas dinner. Kass is wearing the Christmas dress I made her (the red one). She was born in the wrong era, too. She needed to be a midevil damsel.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Double Ugh
My last post was titled "Ugh," so I only find it appropriate that this blog be titled "Double Ugh," since "Ugh" was already taken and I couldn't think of anything else that captured the moment.
My fingers are cold. No, not just cold; COLD. Brrrrr. If I wasn't so darn cheap, I'd turn the heater up, but for some (unidentifiable) reason, I'd rather have cold fingers than see the heating bill go up 2 cents. Yes, I am THAT pathetic. (At least I'm honest, give me some credit for that!)
My Christmas Break is over, back to school tomorrow. Part of me looks forward to the scheduled days, the fulfillment (why does "fulfillment" only have three l's and not four?) of a job done well, and the other part of me loathes the intense emotional drain that comes with such a big responsibility. Sometimes I think I'm insane to homeschool my kids, but at the same time, I'm very concerned about the lack of education that "The System" brings...or doesn't bring, amongst other things.
I've considered stopping this blog. Thinking that people might actually read it is a bit of an insecurity for me. Odd? Of course. Weird? Yes. Why? I'm not sure. If I don't know you, say you're from China, and I'll never meet you, then you have permission to read my blog and know all about me. I'm okay with that. BUT, if you're someone I see every day, say someone from the gym, then I start to squirm a little. You see, I'm a very honest person, just not a very "open" one.
And I'm not sure why.
Perhaps it comes with my personality? Perhaps I just haven't found the right person to "unlock" me? Perhaps I'm deficient or damaged? Perhaps I'm perfectly normal and it's the rest of you sickos that are whacked out. Why yes, I think that's it. And here I was begining to think that I was the one with the problems. (Did I offend you? I hope not, for I don't like to offend people.)
Which brings me to another thread within myself. How is it that a person who doesn't shy away from conflict doesn't like to offend people? Is that a curse or a gift? (Let's go with gift, okay?) I love people, honestly I do. When I pass you, I'll smile and say, "Hi." I'll hold the door open for you and offer to take your shopping cart back into the store if I'm headed that way. I'm always the person who stands up for the underdogs of society, who helps Grandmas across the street, who has compassion on the broken hearted. I do love people. But, to be around or with people, that's a different story. I don't like that so much.
Infact (which is technically two words and not one), the holidays almost killed me. First there was vacation which contained people, then there were parties and more parties, which contained people, and get togethers, which contained countless people, then invitations to dinner, which contained people. People, people, they're EVERYWHERE!
(I'm just having a moment, I'll be done soon.)
So, here I love people, even disturbed people like Jason (the man who was going to set himself on fire in front of my neighbor's front door), yet I don't like people. I am a work of art, ain't I? And to think, not only did I leave my warm cozy house to go across the street and persuade Jason, the crazy man doused in gasoline to drop the lighter he held posed in his hand, I then tell the crazy man, "It's okay, drop the lighter and come to me." Yes, I actually told the six foot two gasoline drenched man to "come to me." (Now, let's really evaluate who's insane here.) And, as I hold my arms out to him from the side of the road and say very calmly, "Jason, come to me, come over here, " what do I, the person who doesn't like people do? I hug the insane man as he embraces me and sobs into my hair and shoulder, the smell of gasoline so powerful I want to vomit on my new best friend. Yes, I hold him like a mother holds a frightened child, gently rocking him back and forth and speak softly into his gasoline-reeking ear.
AND I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE.
And after I get him over to my front lawn and start rinsing him with the hose (and took off my shirt so he could use it as a rag to block the gasoline from running more so into his eyes), and watch the unfolding of the take down once the police rush in and cuff him, what do I do? I go VISIT the man while he's in the mental hospital. And I bring him clothes and cigarettes, books, music, and yes, I even give him a ride to the train station once he gets out. But, let's remember, that I don't like people.
Are you convinced yet?
(By the way, if you're going to rinse off a man who's just doused himself in 5 gallons worth of gasoline, make sure you do it on your neighbor's lawn, and not yours, as the gasoline will leave a big dead spot on your much beloved green, perfectly manicured grass, which lasts the entire summer--the big dead brown spot, that is.)
Boy I sure am cold.
I've just slipped on my favorite vest, but guess what--the zipper is broken. Broken! I am so forlorn. Whatever shall I do? I was on my way to take a nice hot, steaming bath, but somehow I found myself here, in my secret little place, rattling on about how I love, but don't like, people.
Ya know what one of my reference's put on my foster application? They said that my only fault was that I "Give too much of myself to others." I was bothered by that. And still am. Can it be true that you give too much of yourself to others? The obvious answer may, at first, be "yes," but if you really think about it....Of course, this argument IS coming to you from the person who "gives too much of herself to others."
I give up!
I guess if I gave with the intention of receiving, that'd be one thing thing. But what's wrong with giving just to give? Giving just for the very joy of giving? Is that so wrong? Of course, now that I type this, I do realize that giving is one of the main ways I give and receive love. So perhaps you could use the words "giving" and "loving" as synonyms when it comes to me. (And yes, I did spell that right on the very first try, even with blue, frozen fingers: synonym.)
Okay, I've confirmed it. It being that yes, I am infact (two words!) a fruitcake.
But you love me, don't you, my little Dell? You'll always love me, right? And give me little gifts so I can confirm your love for me. (Lindor truffles {the mixed bag}, silver jewelry, a little love note, a new car will all do the trick. I'm easy. {And yes, I do actually still want a pony...somethings you just don't grow out of!})
Am I really talking to my computer again. That is sad, folks. Just plain old SAD.
But that's okay, isn't it? I can be sad in my own little private place. With cold fingers. And, infact (don't even mention it!), I am shivering now. My teeth are close to chattering. But NO! I refuse to touch the thermostat. I'll freeze before I give Intermountain Gas another dime! Take that! Can't make me!
Okay. That's enough. Off to shave my legs, look at color samples (I can't decide which color to paint the main bathroom, so I have a wall full of taped-up color samples sitting above the tub, for me to gaze at while letting Calgon take me away), and think about whether or not I'll actually sleep tonight.
Which brings me to thinking....all I've had to eat today is half a piece of pizza, a protien shake, a coffee (what's happening to me, I'm drinking a lot of coffee lately!), and breakfast with an egg, hashbrowns, and bacon...why am I not hungry? And not sleeping? I'd say that something's eating at me, but I just have such a hard time eating lately. And sleeping (did I already say that?). Barely eat, barely sleep. A lot on my mind. Haunted. I'm being haunted. By thoughts, memories. Perhaps that's the culprit? Or perhaps I just "give so much of myself to others" that I don't want Mr. Sandman to feel left out. That's it. I'm keeping Mr. Sandman company on all these cold, long, dark, lonely nights. Mr. Sandman and me, out snuggled up in front of the fire together in the late hours of the night and wee hours of the morning (I don't recommend sleeping on wood floors--painful!)
Okay. That's enough already! Fingers, stop typing! Go get in that tub and try not to cut your legs with the new razor this time (in my own defense, I was only half awake the last time I shaved--not a good idea. I only lost a couple gallons of blood, but still--not a good idea).
So, good-bye, good night, may you sleep well, eat well, and live long and prosper.
My fingers are cold. No, not just cold; COLD. Brrrrr. If I wasn't so darn cheap, I'd turn the heater up, but for some (unidentifiable) reason, I'd rather have cold fingers than see the heating bill go up 2 cents. Yes, I am THAT pathetic. (At least I'm honest, give me some credit for that!)
My Christmas Break is over, back to school tomorrow. Part of me looks forward to the scheduled days, the fulfillment (why does "fulfillment" only have three l's and not four?) of a job done well, and the other part of me loathes the intense emotional drain that comes with such a big responsibility. Sometimes I think I'm insane to homeschool my kids, but at the same time, I'm very concerned about the lack of education that "The System" brings...or doesn't bring, amongst other things.
I've considered stopping this blog. Thinking that people might actually read it is a bit of an insecurity for me. Odd? Of course. Weird? Yes. Why? I'm not sure. If I don't know you, say you're from China, and I'll never meet you, then you have permission to read my blog and know all about me. I'm okay with that. BUT, if you're someone I see every day, say someone from the gym, then I start to squirm a little. You see, I'm a very honest person, just not a very "open" one.
And I'm not sure why.
Perhaps it comes with my personality? Perhaps I just haven't found the right person to "unlock" me? Perhaps I'm deficient or damaged? Perhaps I'm perfectly normal and it's the rest of you sickos that are whacked out. Why yes, I think that's it. And here I was begining to think that I was the one with the problems. (Did I offend you? I hope not, for I don't like to offend people.)
Which brings me to another thread within myself. How is it that a person who doesn't shy away from conflict doesn't like to offend people? Is that a curse or a gift? (Let's go with gift, okay?) I love people, honestly I do. When I pass you, I'll smile and say, "Hi." I'll hold the door open for you and offer to take your shopping cart back into the store if I'm headed that way. I'm always the person who stands up for the underdogs of society, who helps Grandmas across the street, who has compassion on the broken hearted. I do love people. But, to be around or with people, that's a different story. I don't like that so much.
Infact (which is technically two words and not one), the holidays almost killed me. First there was vacation which contained people, then there were parties and more parties, which contained people, and get togethers, which contained countless people, then invitations to dinner, which contained people. People, people, they're EVERYWHERE!
(I'm just having a moment, I'll be done soon.)
So, here I love people, even disturbed people like Jason (the man who was going to set himself on fire in front of my neighbor's front door), yet I don't like people. I am a work of art, ain't I? And to think, not only did I leave my warm cozy house to go across the street and persuade Jason, the crazy man doused in gasoline to drop the lighter he held posed in his hand, I then tell the crazy man, "It's okay, drop the lighter and come to me." Yes, I actually told the six foot two gasoline drenched man to "come to me." (Now, let's really evaluate who's insane here.) And, as I hold my arms out to him from the side of the road and say very calmly, "Jason, come to me, come over here, " what do I, the person who doesn't like people do? I hug the insane man as he embraces me and sobs into my hair and shoulder, the smell of gasoline so powerful I want to vomit on my new best friend. Yes, I hold him like a mother holds a frightened child, gently rocking him back and forth and speak softly into his gasoline-reeking ear.
AND I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE.
And after I get him over to my front lawn and start rinsing him with the hose (and took off my shirt so he could use it as a rag to block the gasoline from running more so into his eyes), and watch the unfolding of the take down once the police rush in and cuff him, what do I do? I go VISIT the man while he's in the mental hospital. And I bring him clothes and cigarettes, books, music, and yes, I even give him a ride to the train station once he gets out. But, let's remember, that I don't like people.
Are you convinced yet?
(By the way, if you're going to rinse off a man who's just doused himself in 5 gallons worth of gasoline, make sure you do it on your neighbor's lawn, and not yours, as the gasoline will leave a big dead spot on your much beloved green, perfectly manicured grass, which lasts the entire summer--the big dead brown spot, that is.)
Boy I sure am cold.
I've just slipped on my favorite vest, but guess what--the zipper is broken. Broken! I am so forlorn. Whatever shall I do? I was on my way to take a nice hot, steaming bath, but somehow I found myself here, in my secret little place, rattling on about how I love, but don't like, people.
Ya know what one of my reference's put on my foster application? They said that my only fault was that I "Give too much of myself to others." I was bothered by that. And still am. Can it be true that you give too much of yourself to others? The obvious answer may, at first, be "yes," but if you really think about it....Of course, this argument IS coming to you from the person who "gives too much of herself to others."
I give up!
I guess if I gave with the intention of receiving, that'd be one thing thing. But what's wrong with giving just to give? Giving just for the very joy of giving? Is that so wrong? Of course, now that I type this, I do realize that giving is one of the main ways I give and receive love. So perhaps you could use the words "giving" and "loving" as synonyms when it comes to me. (And yes, I did spell that right on the very first try, even with blue, frozen fingers: synonym.)
Okay, I've confirmed it. It being that yes, I am infact (two words!) a fruitcake.
But you love me, don't you, my little Dell? You'll always love me, right? And give me little gifts so I can confirm your love for me. (Lindor truffles {the mixed bag}, silver jewelry, a little love note, a new car will all do the trick. I'm easy. {And yes, I do actually still want a pony...somethings you just don't grow out of!})
Am I really talking to my computer again. That is sad, folks. Just plain old SAD.
But that's okay, isn't it? I can be sad in my own little private place. With cold fingers. And, infact (don't even mention it!), I am shivering now. My teeth are close to chattering. But NO! I refuse to touch the thermostat. I'll freeze before I give Intermountain Gas another dime! Take that! Can't make me!
Okay. That's enough. Off to shave my legs, look at color samples (I can't decide which color to paint the main bathroom, so I have a wall full of taped-up color samples sitting above the tub, for me to gaze at while letting Calgon take me away), and think about whether or not I'll actually sleep tonight.
Which brings me to thinking....all I've had to eat today is half a piece of pizza, a protien shake, a coffee (what's happening to me, I'm drinking a lot of coffee lately!), and breakfast with an egg, hashbrowns, and bacon...why am I not hungry? And not sleeping? I'd say that something's eating at me, but I just have such a hard time eating lately. And sleeping (did I already say that?). Barely eat, barely sleep. A lot on my mind. Haunted. I'm being haunted. By thoughts, memories. Perhaps that's the culprit? Or perhaps I just "give so much of myself to others" that I don't want Mr. Sandman to feel left out. That's it. I'm keeping Mr. Sandman company on all these cold, long, dark, lonely nights. Mr. Sandman and me, out snuggled up in front of the fire together in the late hours of the night and wee hours of the morning (I don't recommend sleeping on wood floors--painful!)
Okay. That's enough already! Fingers, stop typing! Go get in that tub and try not to cut your legs with the new razor this time (in my own defense, I was only half awake the last time I shaved--not a good idea. I only lost a couple gallons of blood, but still--not a good idea).
So, good-bye, good night, may you sleep well, eat well, and live long and prosper.
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