Christmas morning and the thought of cooking after a sleepless night was not appealing. I wondered briefly if Mrs. Claus had ever just thrown a biscuit in the microwave after Kris' most-famous annual ride. Something told me that if she'd ever spent a night tossing and turning while her man snored to beat the band beside her, she probably did. Christmas Day or no.
My man lumbered in to the obscured view my cocoon on the couch afforded me, cheerful as though he were the one that was gifted cookies and milk throughout the night. As is tradition in my house, we begin opening a present a night at least three days in advance, leaving the biggest surprises under the tree. Presumably, this is what led to The Man's jolly mood as his largest present still sat under the tree like a saving beacon on a shipwreck night. But I, being that most non-morning person imaginable, could've cared less about a similar package beckoning to me.
I grunted someting about crawling back up the stairs to the bed now that he was done with his baritone solo and flopped on to my other side. Unfazed, his mood faltered only briefly as he sipped his first cup of coffee.
"I want to open my present." He declared.
"Good. Go ahead." I responded, muffled by the pillow I had shoved my face into. Better to block out that strange, bright laser people refer to as morning sun.
"Don't you want to open yours?" He ventured.
"Sure. At some point." I could hear the screaming of his dying holiday spirit as I crushed it out of him. Well, damn. It was Christmas afterall. I pushed myself up and braced against the back of the couch. "Go get 'em." I smiled. Something cracked. Ugh...mornings are for people with no nightlife.
Watching him bring back my present with a huge grin plastered upon his face had me warming up. Gifts opened, exciting surprises and I was almost myself. My stomach grumbled. It hadn't quite caught up with me yet.
"I want to go get Starbucks." Duh. It's an addiction - not like I'm gonna function long without it.
"Starbucks is open?"
"The one in Safeway is until two."
"Safeway is open?"
"Hopefully, or that would be awkward."
The parking lot was almost packed. Apparently the coffee shop and grocery store hadn't kept it a secret for only the priveleged. But, steamy hot chai in hand and I was practically skipping. Afterall, it had been a wonderful Christmas and now I could spend the day relaxing with my man. My stomach grumbled again. The chai was filling enough, I suppose.
"I want breakfast. Let's go somewhere. Wanna go to get something?" I asked as I rolled the car up the driveway.
"They won't be open."
"Oh, yes they are." I backed out again and headed towards my breakfast utopia. The main thoroughfare was quite busy at 10:30 in the morning as people made their way to other locations. We spied a Village Inn with a crammed parking lot. Undeterred, I headed on, looking for the Ihop I knew was just up on the left.
"See?" I beamed, snagging a spot close to the door. It was busy, but we didn't even have to wait for a seat.
"Wow. I remember when nothing was open on Christmas." My man observed with some reverance.
"Yep. But then people began to make a stink. I mean, I understand though. This country is made up of Christians, Buddhists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Athiests, Pagans, you name it. And our constitution separates church and state, yet everything was always closed on Christmas. Must've sucked growing up penalized for a holiday you didn't even celebrate."
He just nodded absently. Being a born and bred Baptist, raised in the church, I could understand that he wasn't exactly keen about Christmas revelers becoming so lax. But my belief system understands the plights of each and I have been taught to respect any personal endeavor that allows someone to be good to him/herself and that which surrounds her/him.
So, for me it's simple: those who do not wish to partake in a celebration or religious practice should not be forced to acknowledge it or limited by it, but for those who choose to participate in certain observances they should be respected and allowed that freedom.
I realized that although I am a bit of a slow starter for the Winter holidays and am not a Christian, I do enjoy the celebrations and thankfully I do not come under the radar of those groups who seek to destroy the beliefs of others. I do not see why Atheists must single out Christians. In my eyes, there is no need for a Catholic to fear a hereditary witch or an Agnostic person to feel the censure of a devout Jehovah's Witness. And so on. These things only seek to weaken us as a people. Me? I'm proud to celebrate my family and friends during this time of year and welcome the festivities closing out another twelve months of experience and learning.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
De-Motivation
When it comes to completing a schedule or a "To-Do" list, I can be my worst enemy. Don't ge me wrong, I'm not the personality type that is too susceptible to creating excuses or just whiling away the time through procrastination. All of my life I have had to keep a body part moving (even in my sleep) and I can get cabin fever rather quickly if I don't keep busy. No, I unfortunately fall vicitim to self-sabotage.
I can crank out the most impressive "Monday To Do List". As a writer, I must spend most of my time writing even on days when I just don't feel like or can't manage to envision where the story goes next. I can read over that list first thing Monday morning (which isn't exactly first thing, mind you) firmly set on knocking out each item in order. But somehow, I get led astray every time.
Okay, fold laundry, take upstairs and put away. That's an easy warm up to my day.
I fold the laundry and trudge up the stairs which can seem like the stairway to heaven some days. I place the pile of warm, folded clothes on the bed, turn to get hangers and spy a used glass lounging by the bed. I think, if I don't take that down to the kitchen now, I will forget and it'll sit there another day. So, back down I go. I rinse the glass out and go to put it in the dishwasher when I realize that last night's now clean dishes didn't get put away. Well, if I leave those, then the man may mistakenly start adding dirties tonight so those better get put up.
Finally done putting away the dishes and wiping down the counters, of course, I realize the dog food bin needs refilling. Well, that's just out the garage door. Grabbing the food and refilling take only moments, but upon replacing the large bag in the garage I spy a box full of office supplies. Now how did that get out here? It goes upstairs in the office/activity room. Better take that up before it gets left out here in the cold and that jacks up the pens and such.
Upstairs I realize that I've left the laundry on the bed, so I go back in our bedroom. The first shirt to hang is winter clothing and of course that goes in the spare room closet across the hall. I hang that and notice the thin layer of dust on the furniture. Already time to dust again. I quickly grab a duster and wipe everything down. I see my old boots that were to get donated to the thrift store. Those shouldn't be up here. They should be down in the donation box.
I traipse back downstairs and drop them in the box. Wait...that blanket doesn't belong there. It's the dogs' ratty sleeping blanket. In the laundry room however, a pile of shirts for drycleaning are laying where the blanket should get deposted. Those better get run to the cleaners or they will never be done in time for wear this week. And I really should get some stuff for dinner while I'm out. It really will be a quick trip and it's still early enough (well...early enough for me) that I can certainly take a quick 15 minutes and get back home.
But it takes more like an hour to get to the cleaners and through the store. And of course, I'm right up the street from that one place that has that Christmas present I should really go ahead and get before it slips my mind, again. A quick glance at the clock leaving that store shows me that it's lunchtime and I should probably run something out to my man since I won't be home in time to get a sandwich pulled together. But I better make it quick or I'm liable to miss that appointment I setup last week and nearly forgot about.
Once on my way back home, it comes to mind that I promised to send my daughter those pics of the dogs I took over the weekend. I get those posted just as soon as I walk in the door and see a Facebook update email which encourages me to sign in where I inevitably get caught up in all the updates I'm scrolling through. Thirty minutes later and I think, I should take a shower now instead of later so I don't go to bed with wet hair like last night.
And now, well I might as well do my hair and makeup. Better to look good than risk looking bad. By the time I make my way downstairs, the sun is setting and if I don't start on dinner we won't eat until late and that's never a good idea.
Then my boyfriend is home and we chat a bit and catch a quick show before making our way to bed. While turning out the lights and locking up, I spy a sliver of paper about to fall from the table to the floor. I push it back in place and notice it's the list I'd made the previous evening.
To Do:
Put away laundry
Blog
Write
Respond to emails
File paperwork
Organize coupons
Well, damn. I snatch the pen up next to it and draw a line through Monday, scribbling Tuesday next to it before pinning it to the fridge with a magnet where it will most certainly get overlooked completely tomorrow.
I can crank out the most impressive "Monday To Do List". As a writer, I must spend most of my time writing even on days when I just don't feel like or can't manage to envision where the story goes next. I can read over that list first thing Monday morning (which isn't exactly first thing, mind you) firmly set on knocking out each item in order. But somehow, I get led astray every time.
Okay, fold laundry, take upstairs and put away. That's an easy warm up to my day.
I fold the laundry and trudge up the stairs which can seem like the stairway to heaven some days. I place the pile of warm, folded clothes on the bed, turn to get hangers and spy a used glass lounging by the bed. I think, if I don't take that down to the kitchen now, I will forget and it'll sit there another day. So, back down I go. I rinse the glass out and go to put it in the dishwasher when I realize that last night's now clean dishes didn't get put away. Well, if I leave those, then the man may mistakenly start adding dirties tonight so those better get put up.
Finally done putting away the dishes and wiping down the counters, of course, I realize the dog food bin needs refilling. Well, that's just out the garage door. Grabbing the food and refilling take only moments, but upon replacing the large bag in the garage I spy a box full of office supplies. Now how did that get out here? It goes upstairs in the office/activity room. Better take that up before it gets left out here in the cold and that jacks up the pens and such.
Upstairs I realize that I've left the laundry on the bed, so I go back in our bedroom. The first shirt to hang is winter clothing and of course that goes in the spare room closet across the hall. I hang that and notice the thin layer of dust on the furniture. Already time to dust again. I quickly grab a duster and wipe everything down. I see my old boots that were to get donated to the thrift store. Those shouldn't be up here. They should be down in the donation box.
I traipse back downstairs and drop them in the box. Wait...that blanket doesn't belong there. It's the dogs' ratty sleeping blanket. In the laundry room however, a pile of shirts for drycleaning are laying where the blanket should get deposted. Those better get run to the cleaners or they will never be done in time for wear this week. And I really should get some stuff for dinner while I'm out. It really will be a quick trip and it's still early enough (well...early enough for me) that I can certainly take a quick 15 minutes and get back home.
But it takes more like an hour to get to the cleaners and through the store. And of course, I'm right up the street from that one place that has that Christmas present I should really go ahead and get before it slips my mind, again. A quick glance at the clock leaving that store shows me that it's lunchtime and I should probably run something out to my man since I won't be home in time to get a sandwich pulled together. But I better make it quick or I'm liable to miss that appointment I setup last week and nearly forgot about.
Once on my way back home, it comes to mind that I promised to send my daughter those pics of the dogs I took over the weekend. I get those posted just as soon as I walk in the door and see a Facebook update email which encourages me to sign in where I inevitably get caught up in all the updates I'm scrolling through. Thirty minutes later and I think, I should take a shower now instead of later so I don't go to bed with wet hair like last night.
And now, well I might as well do my hair and makeup. Better to look good than risk looking bad. By the time I make my way downstairs, the sun is setting and if I don't start on dinner we won't eat until late and that's never a good idea.
Then my boyfriend is home and we chat a bit and catch a quick show before making our way to bed. While turning out the lights and locking up, I spy a sliver of paper about to fall from the table to the floor. I push it back in place and notice it's the list I'd made the previous evening.
To Do:
Put away laundry
Blog
Write
Respond to emails
File paperwork
Organize coupons
Well, damn. I snatch the pen up next to it and draw a line through Monday, scribbling Tuesday next to it before pinning it to the fridge with a magnet where it will most certainly get overlooked completely tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
What Say You?
It's no joke that as you get older certain abilities begin to fade. And for most of us, hearing seems to be at the top of the list. And while I can't say that mine is wavering just yet, I have found that at my age and through the miracle of motherhood, I have learned how to tune people out. Sometimes without purposely willing it.
I have been blessed with an uncanny hearing ability that has served me more than I could have ever wanted; however, my mind will sometimes fill in words when I'm not paying enough attention or when I can't seem to make out the whole sentence. I assume this mental 'filling in' is a common plague as supported by how many butchered song lyrics we all have in our memories.
Oh, the humorous recollections I have of friends belting out such timeless classics as "there's a bathroom on the right" (Bad Moon on the Rise), "smooth opinion" (Smooth Up in You), and one of my personal favorites - "night aroma!" ("Night, I remember" - Bob Seger sang this at the end of Night Moves).
It's amazing the power the mind has to convince us of truths we do not know. This happens in all aspects of life from memories to sights to sounds. None are more easily corrected or embarrassing as hearing something incorrectly. An occurence that was never more prevalent than in my home a couple days ago:
Dwayne and I were sharing the couch when he notified me that Oklahoma had its largest recorded earthquake.
Too intent on what I was doing to grant him my complete attention, I offhandedly mentioned, "I wonder if my sister felt it."
The awkward silence brought my eyes up to meet his as he asked, "Why?"
"Because she lives in Sac, remember?"
His continued blank stare had me convinced that he had lost a bit of intellect. I employed my hands to help me create a visual. "You know, here's the Bay Area. San Francisco is here, Oklahoma is over here and Sacramento is up north." I smiled sweetly at my challenged boyfriend.
After another bought of silence, Dwayne began slowly. "Let me get this straight..." He put his hands up to emulate mine. "San Francisco is over here," he signaled with a slight wave of his left hand, "and OKLAHOMA..."
I abruptly realized my mistake. We burst out laughing in the absence of a fix for my moronic assumption that we were discussing Oakland. And in the aftermath two things became clear: Oklahoma is not located in California and at least mind is still working (on what project, I have no idea).
I have been blessed with an uncanny hearing ability that has served me more than I could have ever wanted; however, my mind will sometimes fill in words when I'm not paying enough attention or when I can't seem to make out the whole sentence. I assume this mental 'filling in' is a common plague as supported by how many butchered song lyrics we all have in our memories.
Oh, the humorous recollections I have of friends belting out such timeless classics as "there's a bathroom on the right" (Bad Moon on the Rise), "smooth opinion" (Smooth Up in You), and one of my personal favorites - "night aroma!" ("Night, I remember" - Bob Seger sang this at the end of Night Moves).
It's amazing the power the mind has to convince us of truths we do not know. This happens in all aspects of life from memories to sights to sounds. None are more easily corrected or embarrassing as hearing something incorrectly. An occurence that was never more prevalent than in my home a couple days ago:
Dwayne and I were sharing the couch when he notified me that Oklahoma had its largest recorded earthquake.
Too intent on what I was doing to grant him my complete attention, I offhandedly mentioned, "I wonder if my sister felt it."
The awkward silence brought my eyes up to meet his as he asked, "Why?"
"Because she lives in Sac, remember?"
His continued blank stare had me convinced that he had lost a bit of intellect. I employed my hands to help me create a visual. "You know, here's the Bay Area. San Francisco is here, Oklahoma is over here and Sacramento is up north." I smiled sweetly at my challenged boyfriend.
After another bought of silence, Dwayne began slowly. "Let me get this straight..." He put his hands up to emulate mine. "San Francisco is over here," he signaled with a slight wave of his left hand, "and OKLAHOMA..."
I abruptly realized my mistake. We burst out laughing in the absence of a fix for my moronic assumption that we were discussing Oakland. And in the aftermath two things became clear: Oklahoma is not located in California and at least mind is still working (on what project, I have no idea).
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Change Isn't Always A Good Thing
Imagine this:
You're driving down the road, enjoying the lovely scenic beauty of the mountains with your window down just enough to tussle your hair softly by a cool, comforting breeze and the radio playing a groovy little number on your radio. You're relaxed, no one is driving like an ass and you're able to cruise on down the road. Just then your favorite hip-hop song comes on and you crank up the volume (for those of you anti-hip hoppers out there, just humor me here).
Maybe it's Lady Gaga's new tune and you're singing away when the best verse comes on..."there's only three men I'ma serve all my life and that's my daddy, Colorado and Jesus Christ..." Wait... Colorado? What would Lady Gaga be doing dedicating herself to Colorado? Nothing, that's what. And here you thought the original lyrics were "Nebraska" for some dude from that state.
What is up with this new, irritating trend in music on the radio stations? It seems like every song that remotely hints at a person or place gets changed by the local DJ's to fit their station, names or location. And most of the time it doesn't even sound good - it's a flat, dubbed statement that hiccups the flow of your groove.
Ugh. I'm so over it. Just leave the songs alone already so I don't get stuck trying to figure out why they did that to a perfectly good tune and then spend the rest of it desperately grasping for what the original lyrics were.
You're driving down the road, enjoying the lovely scenic beauty of the mountains with your window down just enough to tussle your hair softly by a cool, comforting breeze and the radio playing a groovy little number on your radio. You're relaxed, no one is driving like an ass and you're able to cruise on down the road. Just then your favorite hip-hop song comes on and you crank up the volume (for those of you anti-hip hoppers out there, just humor me here).
Maybe it's Lady Gaga's new tune and you're singing away when the best verse comes on..."there's only three men I'ma serve all my life and that's my daddy, Colorado and Jesus Christ..." Wait... Colorado? What would Lady Gaga be doing dedicating herself to Colorado? Nothing, that's what. And here you thought the original lyrics were "Nebraska" for some dude from that state.
What is up with this new, irritating trend in music on the radio stations? It seems like every song that remotely hints at a person or place gets changed by the local DJ's to fit their station, names or location. And most of the time it doesn't even sound good - it's a flat, dubbed statement that hiccups the flow of your groove.
Ugh. I'm so over it. Just leave the songs alone already so I don't get stuck trying to figure out why they did that to a perfectly good tune and then spend the rest of it desperately grasping for what the original lyrics were.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Perils of Implants
Ah, the pleasures of implants - selected size, perfect shape... You can find yourself brazenly showing off more than you would have before, revealing glimpses of your new side, a little more bubbly, a little more cheerful. No one can deny that you've had something done. For some it's a preference, a choice to enhance the appearance; for others a necessity to correct a blatant absence.
For me, I was one of the latter folks. I had a need to fill a lack and all because of a meatball. Yes - a meatball. A moist, flavorful, healthy buffalo meatball. I made the whole batch that fateful night by myself. Knew every ingredient that went in, anitcipated the succulent taste and aromatic smells...everything was to be perfect. And then it happened. First bite in and I felt it on the inside. I heard it within my mouth. A loud CRACK! My jaw uncontrollably sagged open, amongst my daughter's disgusted exclamation of "Ew!".
The next few days I tried desperately to convince myself that it wasn't serious. But finally a trip to the dentist was required. Only that wouldn't be my easy solution, oh no. Then an appointment to an oral surgeon (not my first by any means). But that wasn't to be the quick fix either. Instead of a thirty minute, two-stitch ordeal to remove a broken tooth and replace it with an implant, I woke up 45 minutes later with a corset stitch running up the back of my lower jaw, donor bone to correct a dangerously thinned jawbone, and an implant to screw a new molar on to in the near future. That slight change in expectation should have been my warning flag - that subtle hint to tell me that my life would be inexplicably challenged for years to come over the decision to go with an implant.
The next week, while traveling for the holidays, the cap fell off. Then the following week the surgeon had to burn my gums away where they had grown over in the absence of the healing cap. One year later and I sheered off the side of my first crown. Three months after that saw the breaking of my second. And amidst almost constant visits to various dentists, I was also setting my bite off by accommodating the large space of no teeth in my head.
Flash forward, now several years later and I'm still battling the crown curse. As it turns out, the implant was done impeccably well; the original crown, not so much. So, now I've got the right people on task. Only once we finally got the crown built out of the correct material, it was made too long and didn't fit. Then, it fit (with a little finagling) but wouldn't seat correctly because my gums had grown over the implant site again. So, I found myself once again in the oral surgeon's chair and humoring stitches in my mouth. Then, when the crown could be seated correctly, the screw was stripped and one bite down the next morning, had the fake tooth sliding up and down in my mouth like a hobby horse on the merry-go-round. Lovely. Another weekend spent not chewing on the left side and not biting down (really? how do you eat without biting down?) and I was back in the dentist's chair (a two-hour drive round trip, by the way).
Now, I find myself awaiting another trip to the dentist's office to hopefully conclude my implant crown trials but with one more little surprise venture to overcome while there. It would seem that although we may have put my implant issues to rest, because of the offset to my bite, I've once again cracked a tooth. On the other side.
Who knows? Maybe I'll go with an implant.
For me, I was one of the latter folks. I had a need to fill a lack and all because of a meatball. Yes - a meatball. A moist, flavorful, healthy buffalo meatball. I made the whole batch that fateful night by myself. Knew every ingredient that went in, anitcipated the succulent taste and aromatic smells...everything was to be perfect. And then it happened. First bite in and I felt it on the inside. I heard it within my mouth. A loud CRACK! My jaw uncontrollably sagged open, amongst my daughter's disgusted exclamation of "Ew!".
The next few days I tried desperately to convince myself that it wasn't serious. But finally a trip to the dentist was required. Only that wouldn't be my easy solution, oh no. Then an appointment to an oral surgeon (not my first by any means). But that wasn't to be the quick fix either. Instead of a thirty minute, two-stitch ordeal to remove a broken tooth and replace it with an implant, I woke up 45 minutes later with a corset stitch running up the back of my lower jaw, donor bone to correct a dangerously thinned jawbone, and an implant to screw a new molar on to in the near future. That slight change in expectation should have been my warning flag - that subtle hint to tell me that my life would be inexplicably challenged for years to come over the decision to go with an implant.
The next week, while traveling for the holidays, the cap fell off. Then the following week the surgeon had to burn my gums away where they had grown over in the absence of the healing cap. One year later and I sheered off the side of my first crown. Three months after that saw the breaking of my second. And amidst almost constant visits to various dentists, I was also setting my bite off by accommodating the large space of no teeth in my head.
Flash forward, now several years later and I'm still battling the crown curse. As it turns out, the implant was done impeccably well; the original crown, not so much. So, now I've got the right people on task. Only once we finally got the crown built out of the correct material, it was made too long and didn't fit. Then, it fit (with a little finagling) but wouldn't seat correctly because my gums had grown over the implant site again. So, I found myself once again in the oral surgeon's chair and humoring stitches in my mouth. Then, when the crown could be seated correctly, the screw was stripped and one bite down the next morning, had the fake tooth sliding up and down in my mouth like a hobby horse on the merry-go-round. Lovely. Another weekend spent not chewing on the left side and not biting down (really? how do you eat without biting down?) and I was back in the dentist's chair (a two-hour drive round trip, by the way).
Now, I find myself awaiting another trip to the dentist's office to hopefully conclude my implant crown trials but with one more little surprise venture to overcome while there. It would seem that although we may have put my implant issues to rest, because of the offset to my bite, I've once again cracked a tooth. On the other side.
Who knows? Maybe I'll go with an implant.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Downtime and Dogs
My other half has gone out camping - just overnight. This is the first time we've been separated for the night in quite a few months. But, in preparation of his upcoming yearly hunting week, he's out testing the new tent, guns and other fun man/boy toys. So, it's just me and the boys tonight.
As you may know, I've started this 30 for 30 challenge (exercise 30 minutes every day for 30 days) and today marked the beginning of this new venture. To kick my part off, I decided I would take my boys for a stroll through the neighborhood. We were enjoying a wonderful walk when of a sudden, the largest blue pit bitch I have ever seen, ripped her anchor out of the wall on the porch to our left and came across the lawn at the boys. The man reclining came out of his chair so quickly that he tipped it over, stumbled and dropped his drink. She was coming at us so fast and was so formiddable that I froze. Then he barked out a command and just like that the dog dropped to the ground, spinning around to face her master.
The not-so-frightening bulldog he also had kept coming amidst shouts from the man dragging the other dog into that house that he was friendly. The dog ran up to us, but a car was also gaining ground and concern that the little fellow might become asphalt had me grab on to his collar to keep him safe.
That's when I noticed my guys. Sam, the pit boxer, had moved in so close to my right leg that he was leaning on me, his hackles up along his entire spine, his stance bearing for a fight. Mac, our black laborador whom we refer to fondly as our "Meth Lab", had lost all signs of goofiness. He had placed himself directly in front of me, the ridge of his spine also standing on end and he bared his teeth and hunched down as though he were going to launch himself in the direction of the beast that had come at us. I have never in my life seen a black lab look fearsome. I was impressed. Then the little dog made the mistake of stepping a tad too close to Mama. Sam lit in to him, Mac backing up so close to me that he crushed my toes. It took me a minute to get Sam calmed down, much to the relief of the bulldog, I'm sure.
I patted them both profusely and nonchalantly mentioned to the neighbor that he might want to take some time to assess just what takes to control a large, dangerous dog before attempting to look as though he knew how. If that thing would have hurt me or the boys, I would have sued him out of the neighborhood.
Of course true to form, just a mere 5 minutes farther and Mac returned to his usual self - not wanting to stop to pee, he began to pee as he walked, flooding the sidewalk and getting so shook up when I called him on it that in his haste to make it right, that he pissed right across the top of my foot. I was in flip-flops. Lovely. My hero.
As you may know, I've started this 30 for 30 challenge (exercise 30 minutes every day for 30 days) and today marked the beginning of this new venture. To kick my part off, I decided I would take my boys for a stroll through the neighborhood. We were enjoying a wonderful walk when of a sudden, the largest blue pit bitch I have ever seen, ripped her anchor out of the wall on the porch to our left and came across the lawn at the boys. The man reclining came out of his chair so quickly that he tipped it over, stumbled and dropped his drink. She was coming at us so fast and was so formiddable that I froze. Then he barked out a command and just like that the dog dropped to the ground, spinning around to face her master.
The not-so-frightening bulldog he also had kept coming amidst shouts from the man dragging the other dog into that house that he was friendly. The dog ran up to us, but a car was also gaining ground and concern that the little fellow might become asphalt had me grab on to his collar to keep him safe.
That's when I noticed my guys. Sam, the pit boxer, had moved in so close to my right leg that he was leaning on me, his hackles up along his entire spine, his stance bearing for a fight. Mac, our black laborador whom we refer to fondly as our "Meth Lab", had lost all signs of goofiness. He had placed himself directly in front of me, the ridge of his spine also standing on end and he bared his teeth and hunched down as though he were going to launch himself in the direction of the beast that had come at us. I have never in my life seen a black lab look fearsome. I was impressed. Then the little dog made the mistake of stepping a tad too close to Mama. Sam lit in to him, Mac backing up so close to me that he crushed my toes. It took me a minute to get Sam calmed down, much to the relief of the bulldog, I'm sure.
I patted them both profusely and nonchalantly mentioned to the neighbor that he might want to take some time to assess just what takes to control a large, dangerous dog before attempting to look as though he knew how. If that thing would have hurt me or the boys, I would have sued him out of the neighborhood.
Of course true to form, just a mere 5 minutes farther and Mac returned to his usual self - not wanting to stop to pee, he began to pee as he walked, flooding the sidewalk and getting so shook up when I called him on it that in his haste to make it right, that he pissed right across the top of my foot. I was in flip-flops. Lovely. My hero.
Monday, September 26, 2011
...and She Will Have Music Wherever She Goes
I love music. It moves me. I do everything to music - everything I can. And no real music is off limits...well, except ganster rap and death metal. Not music. End of story.
I even wake up with a song in my head every morning. And depending on my mood, or the mood I was in the night before, the song changes. It doesn't even need to be a song I've heard any time in the recent past. Take this morning for example, I woke up at 5 am (not okay with that, just in case you're wondering) with "Sail Away" by the Oak Ridge Boys. Oh, yeah...that's right. No Lady Gaga, Foster the People, Aerosmith, or Trace Adkins for me. Nope...got stuck with some backwoods group that was hot in the 70's and 80's. Lovely.
And no changing the channels either. For whatever reason, I'm stuck with what I tune in to first thing. But, I have noticed that it seems to set my day. If I am listening to a sad song on my mental stereo, I will be a bit melancholy; if however, I have been rockin' a snappy number I'm more likely to have a groovy kind of day. So...this morning's happy tune got me going (and soon the day just sailed away! Maybe tomorrow my music selection will move in to the hip tunes of Sir Mix Alot, Al B Sure, or Garth Brooks from those fascinating 90's.
I even wake up with a song in my head every morning. And depending on my mood, or the mood I was in the night before, the song changes. It doesn't even need to be a song I've heard any time in the recent past. Take this morning for example, I woke up at 5 am (not okay with that, just in case you're wondering) with "Sail Away" by the Oak Ridge Boys. Oh, yeah...that's right. No Lady Gaga, Foster the People, Aerosmith, or Trace Adkins for me. Nope...got stuck with some backwoods group that was hot in the 70's and 80's. Lovely.
And no changing the channels either. For whatever reason, I'm stuck with what I tune in to first thing. But, I have noticed that it seems to set my day. If I am listening to a sad song on my mental stereo, I will be a bit melancholy; if however, I have been rockin' a snappy number I'm more likely to have a groovy kind of day. So...this morning's happy tune got me going (and soon the day just sailed away! Maybe tomorrow my music selection will move in to the hip tunes of Sir Mix Alot, Al B Sure, or Garth Brooks from those fascinating 90's.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Being the Joneses
I am old enough now that I no longer hop gingerly from the bed, crank up the music, and dance around my morning routine. I now must rock back and forth to leverage myself up from the mattress, not unlike a turtle trying to right itself, praying to god that cracking sound is a normal response. Once accomplished, I make the bed (it really does help the room look tidy no matter what may lay on the floor) and amble to the shower, then my whole physical 'fix up' begins. And it doesn't matter the time I choose to grace the day with my presence, either. I still do not have the capacity to burst from the sheets first thing any longer.
Reflection of my youth reveals a time when I could take 45 minutes from wake to walk-out, impressively put together for the day ahead of me. At this stage in my life, I can take 45 minutes to remember what the hell I walked in the bathroom for in the first place.
Now, it's hair appointments to hide the gray, make-up techniques to open the eyes, botox considerations to remove the wrinkles and hours at the gym to "regain what's been lost" instead of "maintain what's been given". It's slippers at the end of the day to relieve the aching feet from the heels I've stuffed them in and a reconsideration before choosing the shorter skirt or lower neckline. Class is now defined by leather and smooth instead of louder and fast. Elegance is embraced where rebellion once reigned and subtle-sexy is the new 'in' thing.
So, why do I do all this? Why bother when it just gets more difficult to achieve, things take longer and require a little something 'extra'? Because I am the Joneses. And so are you. Those of us who have weathered the storm of our teens, beaten the odds (and oddities) of our twenties and even seen clear of our thirties. We now see something we want, we get it and we earn it. We wear what we want and we wear it well. Even those styles that make our audience raise an eyebrow or share a surprise glance.
C'mon, you must admit - the Walmartian donning the too-tight spandex and brazenly blue eyelids may scare you a bit, but it somehow fits her overall image...
So, roll out of bed and pray you don't miss the landing. Grunt or expel some strange sound with every move you make. Forget where you put the keys in your right hand. Refuse to speak to anyone, even by phone or email, until you have had a pot of caffiene. Open the garage door four times before you realize the trash can is already back in it's spot. Neighbors be damned. Because you are the Joneses and you're setting the bar (just make sure that it's set high enough that the rest of us can safely limbo underneath it if we no longer can clear it with a high-jump).
Reflection of my youth reveals a time when I could take 45 minutes from wake to walk-out, impressively put together for the day ahead of me. At this stage in my life, I can take 45 minutes to remember what the hell I walked in the bathroom for in the first place.
Now, it's hair appointments to hide the gray, make-up techniques to open the eyes, botox considerations to remove the wrinkles and hours at the gym to "regain what's been lost" instead of "maintain what's been given". It's slippers at the end of the day to relieve the aching feet from the heels I've stuffed them in and a reconsideration before choosing the shorter skirt or lower neckline. Class is now defined by leather and smooth instead of louder and fast. Elegance is embraced where rebellion once reigned and subtle-sexy is the new 'in' thing.
So, why do I do all this? Why bother when it just gets more difficult to achieve, things take longer and require a little something 'extra'? Because I am the Joneses. And so are you. Those of us who have weathered the storm of our teens, beaten the odds (and oddities) of our twenties and even seen clear of our thirties. We now see something we want, we get it and we earn it. We wear what we want and we wear it well. Even those styles that make our audience raise an eyebrow or share a surprise glance.
C'mon, you must admit - the Walmartian donning the too-tight spandex and brazenly blue eyelids may scare you a bit, but it somehow fits her overall image...
So, roll out of bed and pray you don't miss the landing. Grunt or expel some strange sound with every move you make. Forget where you put the keys in your right hand. Refuse to speak to anyone, even by phone or email, until you have had a pot of caffiene. Open the garage door four times before you realize the trash can is already back in it's spot. Neighbors be damned. Because you are the Joneses and you're setting the bar (just make sure that it's set high enough that the rest of us can safely limbo underneath it if we no longer can clear it with a high-jump).
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Tricks for Treats
With just one word, uttered almost imperceptibly, I can tame the wild antics of my boys - a blonde pit-boxer and a tightly wound lab - in to such pristine poses one would suppose that they always behaved their best. They impress me when there is something to be gained.
Much like all other creatures, even humans. We all seem to want to show our best when we have a target, a want, a desire. Job interviews to social situations, we boast our best manners, style, and charm. Tucking all of our dirty little secrets neatly away from inquisitive eyes.
It is only later, once the connection has been secured that we slip; cracking our facade just enough to let the qusetionable conduct, the taboo behaviors, the realness of our presence seep out in to our surroundings. We become lazier, no longer tidying up our things before we leave the office and letting dishes stack up in the sink at home. We slack off on the 'extras' we originally offered without provocation. But hint at a jeopardy or instability and like magic our best washes over us anew. Not unlike my dogs - one mention of a goody and suddenly butts are planted on the floor, ears are perked up and all hint of slobbering tapers off.
Are we really so malleable that we stop slacking off only when we need to earn the "treat"?
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Oh, Those San Francisco Mornings
Fall is my absolute favorite time of the year. The cooler temps, the robust colors, the smell...in my mind, it's a little piece of paradise. For me the mornings are the best. The clean, crisp air and clearer blue skies - it's all like the world is cleansed anew and I wake during this time every morning with a deep breath and a stretch. It always takes me back to when I first experienced this phenomenon.
I was raised in the South and throughout my early grade school years heat and humidity was all I knew. This was only broken up by a two and half year stint in hotter and more humid South America. I loved my time there, it feels more like a child fantasy now when I look back on it, but it was definitely the land of bigger, larger, more. More heat, more humidity, bigger bugs (um...BIG-GER), larger animals, grander thunderstorms. As a kid it was total exotic splendor. As an adult? No, not so much.
In my teenage years, I moved in with my father and stepmother in San Francisco. It was the first time I had experienced a lack of humidity, good hair and cool mornings. In Houston, it can be 87% humidity at eleven at night and still at that percentage at 6:45am the next day. But in Northern California the mornings dawned bright and clear and comfortably chill. The kids wore shorts, flip flops and hoodies to school. It was then that I realized I could never be comfortable in high-degree temps again.
I'm a well-insulated girl, so even operating at optimum weight and fitness levels, I perform better in cooler weather than warmer. And as the days get cooler, I find my motivation increases. I want to do more, wake earlier (I didn't say early folks, I said earlier), be happier and more active.
So, I say bring on the Autumn, the cool fronts, the color displays. I will embrace them all with my best face on...and maybe a pair of heels someday real soon.
I was raised in the South and throughout my early grade school years heat and humidity was all I knew. This was only broken up by a two and half year stint in hotter and more humid South America. I loved my time there, it feels more like a child fantasy now when I look back on it, but it was definitely the land of bigger, larger, more. More heat, more humidity, bigger bugs (um...BIG-GER), larger animals, grander thunderstorms. As a kid it was total exotic splendor. As an adult? No, not so much.
In my teenage years, I moved in with my father and stepmother in San Francisco. It was the first time I had experienced a lack of humidity, good hair and cool mornings. In Houston, it can be 87% humidity at eleven at night and still at that percentage at 6:45am the next day. But in Northern California the mornings dawned bright and clear and comfortably chill. The kids wore shorts, flip flops and hoodies to school. It was then that I realized I could never be comfortable in high-degree temps again.
I'm a well-insulated girl, so even operating at optimum weight and fitness levels, I perform better in cooler weather than warmer. And as the days get cooler, I find my motivation increases. I want to do more, wake earlier (I didn't say early folks, I said earlier), be happier and more active.
So, I say bring on the Autumn, the cool fronts, the color displays. I will embrace them all with my best face on...and maybe a pair of heels someday real soon.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Downhill Race
It seems as though life goes in cycles - smooth sailing and constant chaos. While the easy-going pace of the 'up cycle' can be calm and pleasant, chaotic uncertainties can encourage us and push us to new levels. We never seem to be prepared for these abrupt changes in our lifecycle but it also never seems as though the abrupt good changes affect us like the gut punches do.
One minute we are cruising through, the next a shocking phone call stops our breath. Or an accident or illness. Mother Nature erases your plans for the day. An abrupt change of work status - whether good or bad - is announced.
No matter what, these times not only define our current path but help to define ourselves. They give us those moments to reflect and decide whether or not we like the person we are currently and if there are changes that should and could be made towards betterment.
So, as my life goes bumping along as though I'm cruising down a dirt hill in a cardboard box, I try to remember that these moments help to shape me further, making me stronger and wiser.
One minute we are cruising through, the next a shocking phone call stops our breath. Or an accident or illness. Mother Nature erases your plans for the day. An abrupt change of work status - whether good or bad - is announced.
No matter what, these times not only define our current path but help to define ourselves. They give us those moments to reflect and decide whether or not we like the person we are currently and if there are changes that should and could be made towards betterment.
So, as my life goes bumping along as though I'm cruising down a dirt hill in a cardboard box, I try to remember that these moments help to shape me further, making me stronger and wiser.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Mum's the Word
Its dance time in the South and all the school-age girls are beginning to plan their wardrobe, hair, makeup, shoes, accessories, etc. It's a crazy time all over the nation but somehow made bigger in the South. And what dance would be complete without a corsage? However, in Texas, it’s not a small rosebud with a sprig of baby’s breath. It’s called a mum and it’s huge. Literally. It’s like a cluster of corsages having group sex.
I can remember my first high school dance. My mother was so excited. It was all about ‘the mum’. They were displayed in storefronts like some kind of livestock award: a large blooming middle with streaming ribbons hanging down. Only the mums for school dances are usually white or school colors. My mother went on for the whole week, and I admit – I was excited about my first mum too.
My first mum was large and with red and white streamers. How I stood up with it pinned on, I will never know. However, not to be outdone by any other Texas mother, mine also sported small cow bells and little blinking white lights. Nope, not kidding. I looked and sounded like an electric Bessie. I swear.
And now my daughter is of age for the mum-madness to begin. Only she’s even luckier than I was then. She’s got two women vying for the privilege of adorning a mum to her bosom for prom. She’s a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing but I’m having a great time with it. Imagine – two mums pinned to her chest. She’s going to look like a mobile flower shop. But as awesome as it is, I have warned her not to go outside during the day or she may just become consumed by bees. Through it all, at least I can take some solace in that her boyfriend won’t be able to get too close to her on the dance floor as long as she’s got the floral armor pinned to her front.
Friday, September 2, 2011
To heel or not to heel...
After gimping about for more than a week, I finally made the trek to my doctor's office. I show up on time (miracle) and in just a few short moments, in she comes. She looks at me, then back at the chart in her hands and once again up at me, this time her expression revealing a bit of confusion. "Tee, what brings you in today?" She asks.
"Oh, my left foot is bothering me." I pick up my leg and point to the area in question. "So, I thought I better rule out a hairline fracture or something."
"Uh-huh." She responds. "So, you show up in 3-inch heels?"
I looked down at my shiny white patent wedges. "Well, yeah. I have a client after this." Everyone knows you show your best face to clients, especially when you're masking an injury or illness. At least that's how we do it in the South.
"Of course you do." I distinctly detected an eye roll.
I pointed to the troublesome spot again. "Last Thursday, I was vacuuming and kicked the bed frame, I don't know if you can see it or not," I began.
"You mean the red protrusion there on the outside?" I might be mistaken, but I could swear there was a sarcastic tone applied to her question. "Come on." She exited, placing my chart on the counter. "Let's get that x-rayed."
Three frames later, I'm back in the small prison-like cell that all patients invariably kill valuable time in.
She re-enters. "It's broken, as you know. Will you wear a boot if I put you in one?"
"Yes." I say with complete conviction. Then nothing; she's just staring at me blankly. I shift my eyes left and right, re-focus on her face. Nope. Still nothing. Just that stare. I think for a minute. "Yes. I will wear it until I feel better. Then, I'll probably start forgetting to put it on."
"That's what I thought. So, we'll order you a post-op orthopedic foot boot. I want you to be off that foot more than on it. You'll need to cancel that client. You can see them again once you're wearing that shoe."
"Wait. Are you talking about the ugly, velcro, blue thing people wear after foot surgery?" She nodded. I burst out laughing. "That's not a good look." Again, that blank stare. She wasn't budging on this one.
"Just when you're planning to go out."
"That's not gonna happen. I'm not going out with that on."
She studied my face. "Okay, it's either this for the next three weeks or you could possibly suffer long-term, permanent damage and may not be able to wear your heels again."
What?! Was she serious? Without heels on, people don't even know I'm in the room. I'm not exactly an average-height girl and I prefer dress-up to dress-down on most days. She had me. And she knew it. "Okay. You win." I begrugdingly conceded.
Moral of the story? Housekeeping should only be done by licensed professionals and is WAY too dangerous for a layman like me. And if it compromises the ability for girls to wear great shoes? Fix it. No matter what.
"Oh, my left foot is bothering me." I pick up my leg and point to the area in question. "So, I thought I better rule out a hairline fracture or something."
"Uh-huh." She responds. "So, you show up in 3-inch heels?"
I looked down at my shiny white patent wedges. "Well, yeah. I have a client after this." Everyone knows you show your best face to clients, especially when you're masking an injury or illness. At least that's how we do it in the South.
"Of course you do." I distinctly detected an eye roll.
I pointed to the troublesome spot again. "Last Thursday, I was vacuuming and kicked the bed frame, I don't know if you can see it or not," I began.
"You mean the red protrusion there on the outside?" I might be mistaken, but I could swear there was a sarcastic tone applied to her question. "Come on." She exited, placing my chart on the counter. "Let's get that x-rayed."
Three frames later, I'm back in the small prison-like cell that all patients invariably kill valuable time in.
She re-enters. "It's broken, as you know. Will you wear a boot if I put you in one?"
"Yes." I say with complete conviction. Then nothing; she's just staring at me blankly. I shift my eyes left and right, re-focus on her face. Nope. Still nothing. Just that stare. I think for a minute. "Yes. I will wear it until I feel better. Then, I'll probably start forgetting to put it on."
"That's what I thought. So, we'll order you a post-op orthopedic foot boot. I want you to be off that foot more than on it. You'll need to cancel that client. You can see them again once you're wearing that shoe."
"Wait. Are you talking about the ugly, velcro, blue thing people wear after foot surgery?" She nodded. I burst out laughing. "That's not a good look." Again, that blank stare. She wasn't budging on this one.
"Just when you're planning to go out."
"That's not gonna happen. I'm not going out with that on."
She studied my face. "Okay, it's either this for the next three weeks or you could possibly suffer long-term, permanent damage and may not be able to wear your heels again."
What?! Was she serious? Without heels on, people don't even know I'm in the room. I'm not exactly an average-height girl and I prefer dress-up to dress-down on most days. She had me. And she knew it. "Okay. You win." I begrugdingly conceded.
Moral of the story? Housekeeping should only be done by licensed professionals and is WAY too dangerous for a layman like me. And if it compromises the ability for girls to wear great shoes? Fix it. No matter what.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Out of My Element
With my foot still giving me pains and keeping me down for two days, I decided I would try swimming at the gym. I've never been much of a pool person. I am the epitome of Air: I'm a Gemini, in my head all the time, prefer the wind to be blowing and have a penchant for breathing. As it would turn out, there's not a whole lot of air to be had underwater. Ergo, Tee is not much of a swimmer.
To my luck, there was an open lane available for me to pretend I know what I'm doing in the water. I began praying not to look as though I was drowning and while I tried to catch my breath after one lap of intense dog-paddling, a couple sauntered in. They began chatting it up and as I crawled my way back through the water I caught snippets that led me to believe these two were in a bit of a lovers' quarrel. About that time, Pro Swimmer Barbie slipped in to the lane beside me and began to talk about swimming in a very official manner between laps. I had no idea if I was doing the breast-stroke, freestyle, or just frantically trying to keep water out of my nose. But there she was every time I paused, bubbly talking about goggles, strokes and chlorine.
Interestingly, as I coached myself to just keep going, tidbits of the couple's conversation revealed it was escalating with every erratic, uncoordinated slap of my arms on the water. Finally, determined to no longer be the scene of attention, the man stood up and announced that he had to go (regretfully) to a meeting. In response, the girl had a couple of four-letter words to grace us all with and shouted that he had had a meeting last week and he was just brushing her off. Apparently, there is a maximum allotment for meetings each month. Who knew?
Meanwhile, the swimming cheerleader next to me was still mentioning different strokes and techniques all the while I was just trying to wait until I broke the surface before attempting a breath. So, I finally broke down and embarrassingly admitted to the woman, with her own floatation devices, that I hadn't actually been in a pool other than to have a water fight in many years. Just then, to punctuate my whole experience, the abandoned pool-side girl began crying and stormed off as her man escaped to the men's locker room. I fought my way down the length of the pool one last time and as I scrambled gracefully out of the water, I thought to myself: "Man, I've got to come to the gym more often."
To my luck, there was an open lane available for me to pretend I know what I'm doing in the water. I began praying not to look as though I was drowning and while I tried to catch my breath after one lap of intense dog-paddling, a couple sauntered in. They began chatting it up and as I crawled my way back through the water I caught snippets that led me to believe these two were in a bit of a lovers' quarrel. About that time, Pro Swimmer Barbie slipped in to the lane beside me and began to talk about swimming in a very official manner between laps. I had no idea if I was doing the breast-stroke, freestyle, or just frantically trying to keep water out of my nose. But there she was every time I paused, bubbly talking about goggles, strokes and chlorine.
Interestingly, as I coached myself to just keep going, tidbits of the couple's conversation revealed it was escalating with every erratic, uncoordinated slap of my arms on the water. Finally, determined to no longer be the scene of attention, the man stood up and announced that he had to go (regretfully) to a meeting. In response, the girl had a couple of four-letter words to grace us all with and shouted that he had had a meeting last week and he was just brushing her off. Apparently, there is a maximum allotment for meetings each month. Who knew?
Meanwhile, the swimming cheerleader next to me was still mentioning different strokes and techniques all the while I was just trying to wait until I broke the surface before attempting a breath. So, I finally broke down and embarrassingly admitted to the woman, with her own floatation devices, that I hadn't actually been in a pool other than to have a water fight in many years. Just then, to punctuate my whole experience, the abandoned pool-side girl began crying and stormed off as her man escaped to the men's locker room. I fought my way down the length of the pool one last time and as I scrambled gracefully out of the water, I thought to myself: "Man, I've got to come to the gym more often."
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Escapism
I have a dog. A crafty creature, unbelievably smart and cynical (like some other members of my family) and apparently related to Houdini. That dog will find a way out of a straight jacket and he doesn't even have opposable thumbs. Even still, I rely heavily on him, so much more now that my daughter isn't living with me. It's like he's my child stand-in while she's away. So, whenever I don't feel well or have hurt myself, which sadly happens more often than not, I mope about my house and metaphorically lean on him the whole day. So, any time I needed to whine after I hurt my foot last Friday, I would sit on the couch and pet Sam who diligently sat beside me.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning, hobbled down the stairs and realized my dog had weaseled his way out of the back yard again. Dang. I had to get dressed and pour my 'wake up juice' down my throat. Unfortunately, I failed miserably at that and ended up wearing it instead. Not exactly my best color - caffeine brown against the teal backdrop of my tank top. Joyously, the story ended well enough though - I got my dog back after looking for over an hour AND managed to drink my replacement morning chai.
We have a huge back yard and plenty of room in the house but he still can't stand the sight of a fence. It's like the minute he sees it, he has to find a way to get out. I suppose people are like that too: give them all the space to roam and they will set up a homestead and often stay within 20 miles of it. But, put up a boundary and most will try to find a way to extend it, get around it or bring it down altogether.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning, hobbled down the stairs and realized my dog had weaseled his way out of the back yard again. Dang. I had to get dressed and pour my 'wake up juice' down my throat. Unfortunately, I failed miserably at that and ended up wearing it instead. Not exactly my best color - caffeine brown against the teal backdrop of my tank top. Joyously, the story ended well enough though - I got my dog back after looking for over an hour AND managed to drink my replacement morning chai.
We have a huge back yard and plenty of room in the house but he still can't stand the sight of a fence. It's like the minute he sees it, he has to find a way to get out. I suppose people are like that too: give them all the space to roam and they will set up a homestead and often stay within 20 miles of it. But, put up a boundary and most will try to find a way to extend it, get around it or bring it down altogether.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Egotistical Frustration
Here I am again, sitting in front of my laptop almost completely blank. I say almost because my mind never really shuts up. Of course, the Buddhists, psychologists, and metaphysical researchers would fervently tell me this was nothing more than my ego. But, direct reasoning says that I'm just talking to myself. Thinking aloud in my head. I don't know about others, but my creativity stalls when I can't shut my thoughts up.
I'm supposed to be hashing out the verbiage for my new website. Instead, I'm staring unproductively until the thoughts begin again: "I need to get more lunchmeat for next week." "Am I truly ready to launch this website?" "I should get a pedicure." Ugh. It goes on and on yet through the haze of all these manic thoughts, I manage to at least slowly put the layout pieces of the website together.
And around all this, I wonder...how important is the ego? If it should be solely used for defense mechanisms, why do we seem to have more trouble with it sabotaging us instead?
I'm supposed to be hashing out the verbiage for my new website. Instead, I'm staring unproductively until the thoughts begin again: "I need to get more lunchmeat for next week." "Am I truly ready to launch this website?" "I should get a pedicure." Ugh. It goes on and on yet through the haze of all these manic thoughts, I manage to at least slowly put the layout pieces of the website together.
And around all this, I wonder...how important is the ego? If it should be solely used for defense mechanisms, why do we seem to have more trouble with it sabotaging us instead?
Thursday, August 25, 2011
So, here I am
Alright, so I'm a writer and apparently I need to blog just as much as the next guy/gal. But I haven't done any of it yet, so I'm a newby. I found myself bogged down with thoughts like "I need to focus on one subject, just one overall topic that each of my posts should pertain to however vague" and "I need to find out how many words is standard for a daily blog post". I hit the internet intent on finding the answers in some clear-cut, well defined article. Um...wow. Way too many requirements, suggestions, and guidelines out there for bloggers. It made my head spin. I decided right then and there that I would use this for me and focus on life as a misfit writer and therein just blog away!
Okay, I'm Tee. I do have a professional website that highlights my technical and professional skills and services. I will attach it to the blog in the very near future. I also author novels. Hopefully I'll have them published on a grand scale one day really, really soon.
I've also been handed a doctor's demand to adjust my entire diet. Not because of a weight issue per se, but because I'm losing my voice. Kind of ironic for a writer to slowly begin to lose the ability to vocalize, huh? I have to cut out acids, dairy, spearmint, peppermint, chocolate (what the %*## for?!), alcohol and caffeine. Just shoot me. Don't even apply a blindfold, just hold the muzzle to my head and pull the trigger. Obviously, transition has not been easy or complete. I'm lagging horribly on the caffeine deal. It's just not a polite thing to ask of somone. And the smoothies I've been trying to compensate with are challenging...anything that my brain defines as liquid should NOT be chewy. Period.
That's me in a nutshell, other than being addicted to The Housewives and Big Rich Texas reality shows. And may I say, being a Southern bred woman, I am initially appalled at these women's behavior, but secretly I love, love, love it! Women behaving badly makes me smile, 'cause it's not me but I've been the girl that so badly wanted to act that way before. All I can really say is, "Bless their hearts."
Until again - t
Okay, I'm Tee. I do have a professional website that highlights my technical and professional skills and services. I will attach it to the blog in the very near future. I also author novels. Hopefully I'll have them published on a grand scale one day really, really soon.
I've also been handed a doctor's demand to adjust my entire diet. Not because of a weight issue per se, but because I'm losing my voice. Kind of ironic for a writer to slowly begin to lose the ability to vocalize, huh? I have to cut out acids, dairy, spearmint, peppermint, chocolate (what the %*## for?!), alcohol and caffeine. Just shoot me. Don't even apply a blindfold, just hold the muzzle to my head and pull the trigger. Obviously, transition has not been easy or complete. I'm lagging horribly on the caffeine deal. It's just not a polite thing to ask of somone. And the smoothies I've been trying to compensate with are challenging...anything that my brain defines as liquid should NOT be chewy. Period.
That's me in a nutshell, other than being addicted to The Housewives and Big Rich Texas reality shows. And may I say, being a Southern bred woman, I am initially appalled at these women's behavior, but secretly I love, love, love it! Women behaving badly makes me smile, 'cause it's not me but I've been the girl that so badly wanted to act that way before. All I can really say is, "Bless their hearts."
Until again - t
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