OK, so I wanted to do the A-Z challenge and started halfway through the alphabet. Then I lapsed more. Lots of determination and motivation here! So I thought I’d give a little catch-up of sorts. I started and left off with “K.”
Next, “L.” The only word that came to mind was “loser.” And what better way to express my feelings on that subject is a little tune my beloved introduced me to years ago. I love it and proclaim the chorus often when I’m feeling particularly Loser-ish.
“M” = Mom. Not goin’ there today.
“N” = Nana. Not goin’ there today either, but I’ve got a letter in store for a star quality grandma, aka Nana. She’s not my grandma, but she is one, and I’ll bet the rent she’s in a pickle with her life choices. Stay tuned on that.
Which brings us to today’s letter, “O.” “O” = Opinion. Someone once said, “Opinions are like assholes. Everyone’s got one and they all stink.” I know a woman who thrived on discussing things with her contemporaries. Except all of her contemporaries are dead by now and she’s got no one to discuss with anymore. Here’s the thing about discussing…it’s only a discussion/opinion debate when you listen to your discussion mate instead of constantly thinking about how you’re going to prove them wrong the whole while they’re discussing/opining. There’s where I missed the boat. I should have listed my “L” challenge word as “Listen.” Alas, the words are down and there’s no taking them back. Same with opinions. You put them out there, you’re responsible for what you say. If your opinion isn’t up to task for debate, then it ain’t worth shit. I know a handful of people who have opinions that aren’t fact-based, opinions that trigger deep emotional scars, and opinions that are a desperate attempt to prove intelligence and superiority, both of which are sorely lacking. Don’t care who you are, opinions are emotionally-based and aren’t worth the effort of arguing. And that’s my opinion.
The End
I’ve been gone so long I totally forgot about the April A-Z Challenge presented by WordPress. It’s a great way to get writing with just a wee bit of focus.
Too bad for you I’ve been writing nasty letters and negative things since I’ve been back. Sorry about that. And also, too bad for me I missed ten days of the challenge. So today I begin with K.
There’s someone I know named Kami. She’s smart, enthusiastic, and a vault of information (relevant information or not she’s got it). She built a fabulous family with her husband and looks after them, as well as her family of origin, with diligence, duty, love, and acceptance.
Kami, I am proud yet sheepish to say, is my rock when it comes to psychological feedback. She and I are on opposite ends of the pole, me being the kind who reacts with emotions, she being the kind who reacts with logic. I think we compliment each other very well, especially when it comes to issues we have to deal with together.
One thing I love about Kami is she’s been giving me advice and showing me by example how to react to life’s travails from a logical standpoint for years now. The older I get the more I can appreciate the value of taking a step back, assessing a situation, and not expressing my innate, gut, emotional response to everything that crosses my path. I’ve learned from her example and my experience that emotional responses are often regretted, because they trip the trigger to the mouth. I’m talking about losing shit in the heat of the moment. Oh the shit I’ve lost.
Kami has the patience of a saint but no tolerance for bullshit. She’s direct, but not cruel. She leads people in directions that make sense. She’s a valuable resource for people who want answers for just about anything. She loves fun and values friendships and is loyal to a fault. She’s got a smile and a personality that is enjoyed by many, including me.
It’s often that we only assess what others can do for us. In the case of Kami and me, I think we share an appreciation of how we can help each other when it comes to “dealing.” She has inquired more than once, “how do you see this situation from your standpoint?” She knows she’s less on the emotional scale than I am, and I can give her some insights on how I see and approach situations we have in common.
Yes, sometimes we knock heads. For the most part I think we’re a peach of a pair. Opposites attract. Different views from a person one respects are considered. She helps me and I help her.
All in all, Kami is one of my most favorite people on earth, and I’m so fortunate to have her in my life.
The End
How about this? I’ve been on the phone today with people I don’t want to talk to, people who don’t want to talk to me, and my favorite, people who are nice and helpful.
The prospect of making phone calls makes me have sweaty attacks. But when I finally get up the nerve to dial and speak, the business people are nine times out of ten very nice and helpful. They make me wonder why I have phone anxiety in the first place. Then there are some personal calls that blow me through the roof.
I talked to three people today, two of whom I’ve known my whole life and one stranger I called for an answer to a question . When it came to talking to the stranger for business reasons I just had to state my business and ask my question. He answered the question to my satisfaction, and more! It was a very lovely conversation with business resolved.
Then came the two personals. Yikes X10.
So what was it about talking to these two particular people I’ve known forever? First thing is they’re both old as dirt. Second thing is they were both raised in the same dysfunctional household. Third, neither of them know how to speak directly.
As a kid I was taught to only speak when spoken to. I was also taught to respect my elders. But guess what? That kid grows into a rebellious teen. That kid becomes a grown-ass adult who swears and spews on occasion. Perhaps that kid resents those lessons taught about speaking and respecting. And perhaps that kid learned that elders aren’t all-knowing. Perhaps that kid finally decided fuck you all I’m gonna do what I want because none of those childhood scoldings have any relevance once reaching…middle age.
Then that kid has to care for, or at the very least communicate with, these “elders.” Tell you what, the past lessons haunt and the present day circumstances prick and annoy.
My filter is growing thin, but I try really hard to communicate with my elders with respect because I know their filters are completely gone and/or they’re so warped in the head from their own upbringing and aging brains that they can’t deal with regular people (like me) who might swear occasionally and definitely have phone anxiety. Hell, they probably have no concept of phone anxiety in the first place.
I tried really hard today to be nice to these two people I’ve known my entire life. I tried not to hurt feelings. I tried to get simple answers to my simple questions. I was met with wavering and inabilities to commit to answers to my questions. I was met with my own thinking, why the hell do I even bother?
There’s a thing about duty and obligation. Duty and obligation toward elders is definitely a thing. But I’ll tell you what…you piss me off too much I might just drop an f-bomb on you, don’t care if you squirted me out of your vagina (Icky Lady #1) or if you’re a nun (Icky Auntie Lady #2).
Thank you, guy I did business with today. You were friendly and helpful and the bright spot in my phone conversations. Icky Ladies, well, fuck you both.
The End
Dear Mrs. Thing,
You deserve so much more than a little letter. I can’t even imagine what you might think if you received something like this in the mail.
So, you are the one everyone in therapy blames, and I totally see why.
It’s because of you I learned maladaptive ways of coping. It’s because of you I learned how to fix most of my maladaptive ways of coping because I’m I was blessed with some brains that made me smart enough to realize you were wrong in a lot of the “guidance” you provided. It’s because of you my husband suffers from collateral damage syndrome. That’s a thing I made up after I could see the effects of my mood and behavior had on my partner after spending time with you. I’m your target and your venom spreads to another undeserving person in ways I haven’t been able to control yet. It’s because of you I’m half dead inside. It’s because of you I learned what a narcissist is.
You see, according to you there is nothing more important than yourself. There are no viewpoints that can rival yours. And the biggest paradox of all, despite your level of self-involvement you have zero insight. It’s maddening to witness, especially to someone who suffers your wrath. To make things worse you’re now dependent on others to do so many things for you, yet you claim you’re independent. When things are done to assist you there’s always room for criticism. Your self-importance has been an overwhelming presence in the vicinity of your humble minions for over half a century and has proven to be so strong it transcends your obviously addled mind. Seriously, I ought to salute you for maintaining your obnoxious, condescending, criticizing, mean behavior as you stand in the midst of dementia while the flames of hell beckon you to join the legions of nasty, hateful souls that never bothered to even attempt to traverse the road to self actualization.
Yes, I salute you for feeling superior while you are oblivious to the fact that you are exactly the opposite of who you think you are. You shine in the words Thomas Gray wrote, “ignorance is bliss…’tis folly to be wise.”
Must be nice for you. Sucks for the rest of us.
The End
So, I’m an old-timer when it comes to blogging, but I’ve abandoned it for a while. Seems I’m completely at a loss to the new ways of this, otherwise known as changes with the platform.
Like, when I composed my come-back post I actually added “tags.” You know, those things that alert people to what might interest them. Apparently I lost how to do that in the span of two posts.
So dumb, but I don’t think I’m beneath figuring things out…eventually. I have faith in myself to at least get things written down, tags or not. This is definitely unlike the target of my next post in the series of Letters.
I’m determined to figure out this stuff with time. To keep my mind sharp, keep up with technology, and most of all…get views and likes and followers by the thousands! Haha! Got you there. That last part is not my goal, but if anyone has any comments I’m open to hearing them. Without tags I’m probably not going to reach anyone. Oh well.
The End
PS. See? I lost my bold and underline thingies. Bah!
Dear Terri,
Lucky you! I chose you for the first “target” in my letter series. You were erroneously assigned to me in my search for some clarity, acquisition of mental tools, and guidance in my search for some sanity. AKA, my shrink.
I’ll have to say from the start that our first meeting didn’t leave me feeling especially hopeful. Of course the therapist/client relationship takes some time, but this isn’t my first encounter with professionals. Oh dear, that makes me sound like a complete lunatic, having several therapists in my past, but guess what? I know pretty much from the get-go what will work for me. Yeah, yeah, that can be interpreted as I only want you to say what I want to hear. Sort of, but not completely. Method and style I can connect to, like, right away. I’m all on board with hearing things that are difficult for me to handle, and I’m also willing to take the time to think about those things, take or leave them. Hell, I know I need to face harsh realities and am open to discovering ways to help myself. Your method and style kinda put me off.
I made it very clear (to the person who assigned you to me) I’m not looking for a touchy/feely type of therapy. I’m very fine with directness. However, there’s a difference between directness and being dismissive. In our first meeting I shared stories that were pivotal in leading me to get some help. My dad’s recent death. My mother’s response and expectations following her husband’s death. My dismissing a friend of over 40 years because of her actions toward me. The demise of my identity of an entrepreneur at the hands of a bitter shrew. My lack of motivation and indifference about every day life. That’s kind of a lot to cram into 50 minutes. What I received from you after each of my stories was a smile and shrug of the shoulders. No feedback. No compassion. No empathy. Just the body language that said to me, “yeah, well, get over it.” Instead of questioning or even trying to understand how these things have affected me, you smiled and shrugged.
What you did offer was the suggestion to search for joy. Um, okay. I’m in a dungeon of depression and anxiety right now. The motivation to search for anything is pretty much not a thing. However, you asked me “what brings you joy?” I answered, very quickly at the top of my head, “writing.” And you made the obligatory assignment. “Go to a coffee house or library with a notebook and pen and write. Get out of the house.” And so I did.
I chose to go to a library where I wouldn’t run into anyone I’d know. I can’t remember the last time I was in a public library, and it was weird. I had a very difficult time even finding the parking lot, which added to my anxiety about doing the assignment in the first place. Once I got in I realized I’ve never been to a place filled with so many people that was so quiet. Then, I found a place to sit, pulled out my notebook, and proceeded to write.
I lasted 30 minutes and wrote pretty much what I’ve been writing here. Found out I’m better with a keyboard than a pen and paper. Resented the fact that I had to put myself in an anxious situation to “find joy.” Kept visualizing that smile and shrug.
The only good thing about the “assignment” was that I decided to write again in this otherwise deserted blog. So, Terri, I guess in a round-about way the assignment proved to be somewhat effective. Yay you and yay me. I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m finding “joy” in writing, but I can keep up my typing skills and get some of my feelings out. I also like my method of writing letters. There’s a focus on specific people who have affected me for good or ill.
Whether or not our professional relationship works out is yet to be seen. I don’t know if I’ll write to you again or if I’ll share any of these letters with you, but I must say it feels kind of good to call you out. I’ll see you again next week to give this endeavor another shot. Who knows? I might just call you out to your face.
The End
It’s been several years since I’ve published a blog post, here and on other accounts. I’m mysterious that way, having multiple identities. Yeah, so there’s that. So here’s the thing…I’ve gone completely mental. One thing I decided to regain my sanity is to start writing again. Interestingly, writing, especially on a platform like this, makes me more mental because 1) I’m basically an introvert, and 2) there’s a special satisfaction in getting my ya-yas out for all to hear. Queue up cognitive dissonance, aka another psychological problem to be examined.
One thing I’ve noticed in the search for sanity is that I fall short in what I say and don’t say to people in my life. On one hand I say too much and get into deep trouble because I tend to be uncouth with a touch of no tact; however, I’ll speak the truth as I see it. To avoid those confrontations I’ve experienced I tend to suppress my expressions, which leads to emotional constipation. So, what I’m dealing with is a choice over verbal vomiting and alienating people or shutting down completely aka, shut the fuck up, just talk about the weather and get no satisfaction, aka emotional constipation.
So, as a nod to my cognitive dissonance I thought, hey, write letters to “some people.” I can express, but not directly. I can spare the people the terror of my wrath in person, while also giving my brain the the laxative necessary to unclog.
So, I present The Letters series. The recipients are to remain anonymous. This is my therapy. This is my anonymous puke and poop fest. I lay myself open for comment, criticism, commiseration, and/or compassion from you strangers in the dark.
God bless my targets.
Plus, I’m not a holy girl, so God forgive me for using your ever loving holy name in in my posts. God’s a thing. Apparently ghosts are not.
Damn I’m a weirdo.
The End
Oh my ever loving God. The last time I posted here was over five year ago.
There was a day, many days, years and years worth of days, that I would spend the down time at my job reading blog posts from so many fun and informative authors. Since I left that job I haven’t been reading my favorite blogs. I still get email notifications of their postings, yet I don’t open them up to read. Seriously, my unopened email list numbers close to three hundred. I love these blogs, but I just don’t read them like I used to. And it’s not because I don’t have time. I’m sorry, my favorites. I’ve become disengaged and mental.
My question to any of you people who have followed me in the past or are still blogging on a regular basis is…is there still a blog-reading audience out there? Is the rest of the world as disengaged and mental as I am?
I have a few drafts in the coffer as I’ve taken to the keyboard recently. I’m not really looking for validation for my posts, I’m just wondering if people still blog. For fun. Apparently so, as I have a shit ton of posts from many authors I like but have not read in a while. But I’d like to hear from actual bloggers who may or may not be getting the same interactions with readers as you did, say, five years ago. Are blog posts still a mode of entertainment/information?
Is blogging still relevant? How is your audience? Does audience even matter to you when you take to the keyboard and screen? Why do you blog? Is there still a blogging community as I remember from years ago?
I’m going to start a series entitled “Letters.” It’s an experiment and perhaps a relaunching of sorts. The Letters series will be intermittent, perhaps intermingled with other, random posts.
Hopefully some of you will see this and give me some insights. I look forward to any comments.
The End
This commentary made a good point about hypocrisy, but didn’t step up to bat regarding the issue at hand – sexual assault. It merely stated, in my interpretation, if the Democrats can sweep it under the rug why can’t the Republicans? In my opinion, sexual assault/harassment/misconduct isn’t something that should be favored or dismissed by either political party.
I’m ashamed at the turn our government has made. The current President has been accused of several offences which have not come under immediate investigation. Quite the contrary. He, his party and cabinet have been toddling along for two years without a hitch.
What in the hell is going on? It’s a nightmare.
Sexual misconduct/harassment/abuse should not be tolerated no matter the politics of the perpetrator or accuser. It’s wrong and bad and when it comes to our officials it’s a big, huge deal.
Judge Kavanaugh is clearly biased based on the statements and outrages he’s presented to the committee. If I ever told my prospective employers that their process was a sham, I’d be dismissed from consideration for the job immediately. Plus, if Brett Kavanaugh was instead Barbara Kavanaugh she would be out of the running by now based on her emotional responses, not to mention that a woman would never get nominated for the position of Supreme Court Justice by the current President.
I’m ashamed to have a “friend” on Facebook, someone whom I’ve known since grade school, and female to boot, who would post such a piece of drivel on her page. On top of that I’m utterly embarrassed for her. She’s a complete idiot under the guise of patriot? I can’t understand how a woman can stand behind such a misogynist President and those who support him. Well, it might be better to stand behind them than in front of them, if you have boobs and a pussy to grab.
Hey Doreen, wise up and look at the issues as a woman, a voter, an American citizen, and most of all as a compassionate human being. I don’t know if you’re part of the #MeToo club, but as one who is I can say that no man who treats a woman as a play thing or takes advantage of her vulnerable state is above the law. In fact, he’s just a piece of shit and it is he who should be dismissed in front of the entire country.
And you must have shit for brains if you don’t believe it.
I know, the topic of writer’s block has been covered up and down and to the Seven Circles of Hell. Everyone experiences it. Writers, at least.
Who is a writer, after all? Someone who writes, right? One doesn’t need to be on the New York Times best seller list, or even published to be a “writer.” They say those who write are writers. Yeah, well, that ain’t making me feel much better.
I have a personal blog/journal (online but unseen by the public) where I write frequently. It’s nothing to publish, even as a blog post. Or is it? Even as I write this (and dare to publish) I wonder if anyone will be interested in my ramblings and complainy nature.
The reason I’m writing this is because of the dang TV and movies. I see things like Julie and Julia, Under the Tuscan Sun, and Sex and the City, and it looks like it can be so easy to just…write. Those stories about writers make me feel like a schmuck. Really, how hard can it be to just write down your feelings, thoughts, and opinions?
Except it’s not just about writing those things. As I write this I’m already thinking about how to edit it. Grammar, timing, and worst of all, content. What do other people want to read? What do I want to read? It’s about telling stories, and I feel like I have no stories to tell.
I haven’t posted anything on this blog for a long time. I have another blog representing my business and I haven’t written on that either. I’m not writing. I’m blocked.
And then there’s the novel I have in progress. Oh, how long has it been since I’ve worked on that?
So what is it about writer’s block? Does writing about writer’s block cure writer’s block?
The End
The ever-popular blogger Ross Murray, author of Drinking Tips for Teens, recently posted a delightful essay on Canada’s summer of 2017. Did I say “delightful?” Change that to…a delightful spin on what is proving to be the personification of everything disastrous in my lifetime.
I don’t talk about politics much, at least not outside my own home. Suffice it to say disgust and shame filters into my life with every passing day our Lord Cheeto and his minions are all puffed up over their ridiculous antics.
Like Ross, I can save myself only by finding some kind of entertainment or humor in the situation. It’s hard to do these days.
One saving grace is a song that creeps into my mind every time Lord Cheeto rejects scientific facts. The rejection of said facts is a disgrace, but the song is a great earworm and has visited me on an almost daily basis for the past seven months. A slight silver lining around a stupid, fat, cloud.
Now, for the equation: X = Lord Cheeto + Science
The answer is so clear. X = Blinded.
Lord help us all.
The End
Remember those times when we walked in and the thunder made our hearts pound?
Remember that song I screamed at? And you took my hand and led me to the floor?
Remember how I used to buy cheap beers until someone else bought me Heinekens?
Remember when you asked me “how tall are you anyway?”
Remember how you tried to be the guy who would turn me on?
Remember how you called me “doll?”
Remember seeing that guy leaning against the bar on a random weekday? They called him Prince.
Remember when we were in that video of The Wallets’ song “Totally Nude?”
Remember when we couldn’t figure out if Boy George was a guy or girl?
Remember giving me amy on the dance floor?
Remember slamming to The Suburbs?
Remember my spike heels sinking into the hot, summer tar?
Remember when we drove through the intersection of 1st and 7th and you grabbed my thigh as I straddled your machine?
Remember when I was young?
This piece was written about a place, time, and people long gone. While the place is still standing, it’s nothing like it is in my memory. Likewise, the people remain in my mind as they were so many years ago. Those memories are brought back by nothing more than notes on a scale, a voice, and a beat that will shake me to my very core. Music gathers up the years and brings the past to life. Those times are gone, but I still can’t help dancing to the music, remembering the times and people of my youth.
The End
Today marked the five-year anniversary of my father-in-law’s death. Knick took me out to lunch at Flameburger, the go-to place for a fast meal when we visited his dad at “the home.” Most notably we, Knick and I, took a quick Easter breakfast at Flameburger in the midst of standing vigil at Faux Pa’s side; it took the guy thirty-six hours to drift off into the big sleep. Fortunately we didn’t miss his passing while we shoveled down greasy eggs and flat pancakes with all the patrons who had nowhere else to go on Easter morning.
We toasted Faux Pa with our big glasses of pop but didn’t talk about him at all during our lunch. I thought Knick would have more to say in the memories of his dad, but no. That seemed kind of strange and a little sad to me, but Knick and his parents were strange and sad in general as far as families go. That’s only my opinion, and I’m sure plenty of people say the same about me and my family. What I miss the most is the stories I could tell about Knick’s parents, how completely absurd they were.
I wasn’t my mother-in-law’s first choice of wives for her only boy, her only child. On the other hand, she never treated him with any more respect than she would treat a dog, and she didn’t like dogs much. I didn’t care much what Faux Ma thought of me because deep down I know she knew I was a good fit for Knicky. She just had to be annoyed at something and I was a pretty clear target.
Faux Pa, on the other hand, well, I think he liked me and was glad to see his son happy in marriage. For as long as I knew Knick’s parents Faux Pa was pretty subdued and succumbed to his wife’s fancies. After studying the dynamic of the family of three I suspected Faux Pa wasn’t as easy-going in his younger days, and through the years my suspicions were confirmed.
The whole family was a frustrated bunch, and they frustrated me. The best thing was, they provided endless blog fodder. The paranoia, the mind games, the passive-aggressiveness, and the food. Oh, the food! Faux Ma was probably one of the worst cooks of any mother I’d ever known.
Knick doesn’t recognize the anniversary of his mother’s death because, sadly, he’s glad she’s dead. Even though his dad ruled a bit more forcefully in Knicky’s youth, Knick has a soft spot in his heart for him. I’ll never pretend to know completely what went on during Knick’s years with his parents, but I’m fairly certain it wasn’t great. If he wants to piss on his mother’s grave, I’ll give him support. If he wants to honor his father on the anniversary of his death, I’ll support that too.
Today’s thoughts reinforce the relationship I have with my parents. Yes, they’re still alive, but besides being very loving and considerate people they’re the most frustrating, aggravating, stubborn people I know. They gave me a good childhood, opportunities at their expense, and support and encouragement throughout my entire life. They’re old now. The least I can do is provide to my parents the patience and encouragement they gave me for so many years. Because for me, being an orphan would suck. Will suck. And the time with them grows shorter with every day.
The End
Honey, you really tempt me
You know the way you look so kind
I’d love to stick around but I’m running behind
You know I don’t even know what I’m hoping to find
Running into the sun but I’m running behind
~ Jackson Browne
What was it about that guy. He was good for you, but so bad for you in the end.
One thing I wish for all women (but for some it may be too late) is that they have that guy. The guy who made a huge impact. The guy you never dreamed you’d ever be with but there you are, with him. The guy who always came back, even years later. Even when you thought you were through with him forever. He caught you again, even though you knew it was wrong.
He challenged you. He did things to you no one else ever did or will ever do again. He made you think, he made you feel. He made a difference. He set a standard, high or low.
I know some women who never had that guy, who never felt such a passion. I feel sorry for the women who only had tender and safe love. Oh yes, tender and safe is a good thing in the long run, but to have that one, angsty, abandoned, turbulent romance…ahh, such are the things real memories can be made.
Those memories last forever. And ever. And you dream about that guy even though you sleep next to the love of your life. He’s the epitome of the zest of your youth. He taught you the meanings of exhilaration and despair.
That guy holds your heart for a lifetime. You’ll love him until the day you die, but he’s not what life is about. He doesn’t give security, he’s too volatile, he isn’t the guy you want to grow old with. You can’t be with him forever, but he’ll never leave your heart. He’s become part of you. You’ll never forget him, and you’ll never want to.
But now he’s gone. He’s moved on, married, has had children, perhaps divorced and moved to the next one. You don’t care, because you’ve move on too, having a life of your own, and a very satisfying one at that. You’re happy with the path you’ve chosen. And yet, just once in a while, you think about him, and the time you spent together. He never goes away.
I wish a very happy birthday to two of those guys. Two friends with the same birthday and who dated two sisters, forever affecting their lives. A toast to the men who made us who we are today. We think of you fondly, and will see you in our dreams.
The End
Where have I been? Hiding under the blankets I presume. Hiding from lots of things – politics, aging parents*, and I’ll never delete myself from the list. Yes, I’ve been hiding from myself.
This week I had two lunch dates with two different friends. One of those friends I’ve known since 7th grade. The other I’ve known for a much shorter time, which friendship was developed in a professional atmosphere. The first friend and I retired within months of each other, last year. The second friend is still working in the same place I used to work. I discovered some interesting things about myself with these two lunches.
Talking to the first friend, I’ll call her Linda, was a little depressing. We retired within months of each other taking advantage of the very antiquated Rule of 90, the yardstick to retirement in government employment. The Rule of 90 doesn’t exist anymore, as far as I know, and in fact used to be known as the Rule of 80. The “rule” is a formula which adds the employee’s age with the number of years of service; if the sum equals the “rule,” one can retire with full benefits. Nice for those who want(ed) to retire before Social Security age. Luckily for me and Linda we were able to sneak into government service before the Rule of 90 went out of fashion, so we were able to retire before reaching the very ancient age of 62,65, 67, or whatever the proper retirement age is these days. People envied us to the point of hating us. We wouldn’t have had to retire, but we couldn’t stand it anymore so just took the leap.
As Linda and I ate our stir fry, egg rolls and rice noodles, Linda and I compared notes about how our retirement lives are going. We both admitted that so far we haven’t pursued any of the things we said we’d do when we retired. Strangely enough we aren’t even bothered by it. That bothered us. Are we living the dream? I left that lunch feeling stuffed with MSG but empty of dreams.
Three days later I had lunch with the second friend, I’ll call her Heather. She’s working in a place I’m still familiar with. It’s hard to get the people and images and situations out of my mind even after a year of being removed. She can’t even relate to being retired because 1) she’s a bit younger than I am and 2) no Rule of 90. Toward the end of our lunch she told me that on her birthday this year she reflected on her life and decided she has the life she wants. She recently married a man she loves and who loves her, she has a nice home, is surrounded by her beloved dogs, and has a good relationship with her parents. “It’s a good life,” she said. And then she asked me how I felt about my life…
I’d already told her that the retirement life was a big adjustment and I’m still not completely adjusted. I also told her about the conversation I’d had with Linda just days before. But thinking about it for a moment I told Heather, yes, I have a good life and I’m happy with it. Knicky and I love each other and are very good to each other. I have freedom to do whatever I want, or neglect anything I want. I can still spend time with my parents, which a lot of people my age can’t do anymore.
So much can be said for these two lunch dates. One left me depleted, the other uplifted. This is no reflection on the women I had lunch with, but the perspective I had after each lunch date. I’m glad I had lunch with both of them, but am doubly glad I had lunch with Heather after the lunch with Linda. I’m feeling more positive and more inspired now, and am certain I’ll act upon that inspiration. Better yet, I’ll share that inspiration with Linda, my life-long friend, so we both can go forward in our retirement lives with vigor.
I wonder how other people have entered into the retirement years.
*Note – I don’t really hide from my aging parents. They take priority. But sometimes I relish time under the blankets when they don’t need me.
See what others are talking about over coffee by clicking on the linky thing. 
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Today is the winter solstice. I’m just waiting for my pagan husband to dance naked around the trees in the back yard. Won’t that be a treat for the neighbors and their little children?!
Not Knick, but thank you Google Images, for driving the message home.
OK, so Knicky doesn’t really do that, but we partake in the “tree” ritual, as millions of other celebrators of Christmas do. Yes, we have a Christmas tree, which, if you didn’t know, is a pagan thing. Knick also puts fruits and nuts outside on Christmas Eve for our little yard pets (aka: squirrels, birds, deer) to enjoy. He’s such a lover of nature, as we all should be. (Lord Cheeto, take note!)
It’s the holiday season, I’ve got my shopping done, cookies are baked, entertaining has been underway, and I’m feeling like a damn elf at Santa’s castle.
Happy solstice everyone!
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Welcome back! I’ve been remiss in my writing endeavors not only here but everywhere. I haven’t even written out my Christmas cards yet.
This week I was not quite myself as I had to depart from my usual and most comfortable hermit mode. I was social. Very social. Social to the point of scaring myself. It was scary mostly because I enjoyed myself way more than a hermit should when socializing.
Monday I was a cool cat and went to a music cafe to watch my nephews (plus two other band members) perform. The place was great and was filled with family and friends of the band members. There were some people there who didn’t know the band, but it was mostly moms and dads and grandparents and aunties and friends. It was a fun time and I’m amazed my nephews can play instruments they taught themselves to play. I had Johnny Cash songs running through my head the entire next day.
Tuesday Knick and I went to visit and old college friend of his. He and his wife were at our wedding and we haven’t seen them since. Plus, I only met them at our wedding so basically these people were strangers to me. Social anxiety me was kind of nervous about this gathering, but Hein and Susan put me at ease right away. Such wonderful people! I’ve decided I want to adopt them as my BFFs and will be having them to our house in the very near future for another fun night of gabbing and eating. I don’t know why Knicky didn’t keep up with these guys, because they’re without a doubt the nicest people in the universe.
Wednesday I had the night off from social events, which was a good thing because two nights of socializing in a row nearly makes me spontaneously combust.
Thursday I took my friend out for a birthday dinner. Yes, I said “my” friend. If I adopt Hein and Susan as BFFs I’ll have accumulated three friends. Told you I was a hermit. Anyway, we went to a restaurant that’s kind of fancy and while we were sitting at our table drinking the cocktails we ordered at the bar before being seated we both acquired the super power of invisibility. We sat there for forty minutes and no one waited on us. The place wasn’t busy, and wait staff continually walked by our table but apparently didn’t see us sitting there waiting to order. We finished our drinks and got up to leave. The manager was at the hostess station and hoped we had a nice meal and I said, “um, no.” Quite frankly I was surprised that he addressed me at all because clearly we were invisible to everyone else. After I told him about the neglect we’d received he offered to pay for our dinner. Aw hell no, and plus I’m going to spread it around town that this place sucks! Friend and I went to another restaurant right down the street, were waited on immediately. Unfortunately our super powers of invisibility were gone, but at least we got to eat and had a nice evening of bonding.
Friday I took the annual trek to a famous holiday bazaar in the city with Charlotte and our mom. It was a great opportunity for me to pick up some unique Christmas gifts and bond with the ladies of my family. Also included in the outing was a lunch consisting of lobster bisque and a visit to Anthony Scornavacco Antiques. We brought the day to a close by having cocktails and dessert. Again, nice bonding, but by this time my introverted hermit self was fit to be tied.
Today I spent some quality time with a frasier fir and did some laundry. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, so I better reserve my resources in the next day or two for a lot more socializing in the near future.
See what others are talking about over coffee by clicking on the linky thing.
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It’s way too late for coffee. Maybe some decaf? Or a glass of wine? I’ll have some wine and tell you what’s going on.
I spent the day playing vendor at a pretty major craft fair today. Despite huge crowds I was a little disappointed with my sales. However, Knick and I gave it our best shots at making the day at least entertaining. What’s more entertaining than people watching?!
One of the first things that happened in the morning, that would be around 7:30 a.m., was a vendor who came in and pretty much told a bunch of us who’d already started setting up our canopies that we weren’t in the right positions. In the craft show world the organizers of the shows tell vendors where to set up. Knick and I set up exactly where we were told to set up, as did the other artisans around us. Mrs. Bossy Boots told us we were wrong. Knicky and I, along with the other half-set-up artisans wouldn’t budge, nor give Mrs. Bossy Boots the time of day. Except for at one point I flipped her the bird while her back was turned to me. I know, I’m a coward, but the vibe sunk in, along with the many glaring looks I gave her throughout the day.
Mrs. Bossy Boots sold pillows. Fleece covered pillows. A steal at $15 for anyone who doesn’t know how to sew a straight line on a sewing machine. I’m pretty sure she made lots more money than I did today, which made me hate her more than ever. Plus, she reminded me of my ex-sister-in-law’s mother, who is a loud-mouthed hillbilly.
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One older lady came into my booth and looked at the cute magnet sets I sell. Sets, meaning themes. Flowers, Barbies, fruits, Drinking Buddies – sets of six magnets pertaining to the same theme. This woman asked me if I had any “team” magnets, as in football teams. I wanted to reach over the craft-filled table and punch the dentures right out of her mouth. I’m not about sports, much less teams, which is completely obvious to anyone who pays attention to my booth contents. I’m about cool and funny and ironic. Grunting sports is not my gig. In my head I told her sports are at least one-half of what’s wrong with our country and she should expand her intellectual and artistic horizons. In reality I just shook my head no. A very definitive NO, without apology.
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There were a few woman throughout the day who led their men around by the nose ring. The guys would come into my booth and see things they thought were cool or funny and their wives/girlfriends/women talked them out of buying what they wanted. That drives me up a wall. Seriously? If a woman can get her guy to go to a craft fair in the first place she should at least let him buy what he wants, right? Guys, take a stand and buy that funny shit!
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Then there are the children. I love the children. One of them was very appropriately told by her mother not to touch anything. Good plan, mothers! Look, but don’t touch, especially if you have sticky fingers. However, this little girl was very interested in the candles I sell, so I would pick up this one and hold it to her nose and let her take a deep sniff. “Mmm,” she’d say. Then she’s point at another and wonder what that one smelled like. “Gingerbread Cookies,” I’d answer, and hold it to her nose for another deep sniff. Kids love smelling candles, and if their parents have the least interest in having candles in their houses the kids can convince them to buy one or two. Unfortunately, this kid didn’t show enough love, or the parent was not about the candles in the house or, especially, if there’s a pet in the house. Alas, no sale, but a little girl who got a couple of whiffs of goodness. Kids love smelling candles, and I get a lot of enjoyment out of watching them experience that.
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Yeah, I have to admit that even though some of the craft fairs I attend don’t result in great revenue they’re at least entertaining. Plus it gets me out in the fresh air for a change. I spend way too much time in the confines of my house and even more, my studio.
Yay craft shows, for giving me more entertainment than Hollywood could ever hope to present.
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To see who else is having coffee just click on the blue linky frog:
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A class you wish you would have taken?
I got really good grades in writing classes in high school and I wish I’d taken more writing classes in college.
What’s your favorite comic figure and why?
Comic figures are a puzzlement to me. Even as a child I didn’t get into the comics very much. That probably accounts for my cynical nature.
Name something you wish you could like.
There are so many things I don’t like and I’m pretty satisfied with not liking those things. After all, if we liked everything we’d all be the same because everyone would like everything and that would make for a very boring human race. We’d be like androids. Our personalities would cease to exist. Crime would run rampant. There would be no successes or failures in the arts. All tastes in food would be the same.
OK, I get it. The question wasn’t “what if we all liked everything.” I’m just saying I’m perfectly happy with my dislikes and haven’t missed out on anything nor have been shunned for disliking those things I dislike. It’s who I am.
Tell me about your first crush / first date / first kiss.
My first crush/date/kiss were all with the same boy and the date and kiss took place at the same time. Yes, I kissed on the first date! But here’s the story:
I was fifteen and he was sixteen. I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance at school and he accepted. The thing is, the Sadie Hawkins dance at our school was kind of like a Hoedown hillbilly thing (I wore my very sexy overalls). There were mock weddings performed for the couples (a la shotgun weddings) and everyone was pretty much expected to participate. My date and I put off the wedding part as long as we could because we knew he’d have to “kiss the bride,” and we’d never even been out on a date before. We were both very uncomfortable with the idea.
One of the teachers was the preacher. We got married and when it came time to kiss we pretty much pecked each other on the lips. The teacher/preacher said, “come on, you can do better than that!” We tried again, holding the kiss a little longer, but it was a very dry, closed-mouth kiss. The teacher/preacher rolled his eyes and pronounced us man and wife.
Interestingly this boy and I remained friends for a very long time and were even friends with benefits for a while (we were out of high school by then). I don’t know what has become of him by now despite my trying to track him down – he kind of disappeared after I got married to someone else for real (Knicky), over thirty years after that first date/kiss. Maybe he packed it all in when he discovered I’d been the one that got away.
Who was your best friend when you were 10?
Wow, that’s a lot of years ago. My best friend when I was ten might have been Barbie B. She beat me out as the lead in the class operetta we were putting on for the parents. I can still remember the tryout song:
Give me your hand, oh queen so fair
And I will tell you what I see there
Sorrow and grief, and deep despair
Someone is missing for whom you care
I’m not friends with Barbie B. anymore, but I know her mother died, her dad has a girlfriend and doesn’t spend much time with his children, her brothers are generally icky, and Barbie herself married a stoner pretty quick out of high school. She was the star of the 5th grade operetta, but I think my life turned out way better than hers.
What sign are you? Do you believe in astrology?
I am Leo. Below I’ve listed what a Leo is generally like, and in parentheses I’ve assessed how I measured up. Green is a match and red is not a match.
Strengths: Creative (sort of), passionate (used to be), generous (yes), warm-hearted (definitely), cheerful (sort of), humorous (not in my opinion)
Weaknesses: Arrogant (totally not), stubborn (totally), self-centered (totally), lazy (totally), inflexible (have been officially diagnosed as having an adjustment disorder, so totally)
Leo likes: Theater (not so much), taking holidays (only with certain people), being admired (sure), expensive things (not so much), bright colors (orange is my favorite), fun with friends (I’m a self-proclaimed hermit)
Leo dislikes: Being ignored (I’m often invisible to others, which I find curious but not necessarily distasteful), facing difficult reality (there’s the adjustment disorder again), not being treated like a king or queen (totally do NOT have to be treated like a queen; I’m not a diva nor a pretty princess)
According to the Zodiac one of the worse people I could hook up with is a Taurus. Knick is a Taurus and we’ve been married for twenty years.
Interestingly, the boy of my first crush/date/kiss (mentioned above) is a Scorpio, which is also supposed to be a bad match for a Leo. I guess I just don’t know what’s good for me.
Thirteen green (agree) statements versus nine red (disagree) statements. I guess I might believe in astrology a bit according to this little assessment.
This post is long enough as it is, so I’m not going to get into the gratitude part of SYW. Suffice it to say I’ve had a really good week and hope for a good week to come.
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So sorry I missed having coffee earlier today, although I must say I had a delightful time drinking apple cider at an apple orchard festival.
Yes, and I also spent time with some very interesting people.
There was the happy-go-lucky couple, she a tiny slip of a thing and he a cheerful and chatty guy. Knick enjoys playing with Steve; playing entails escaping the crowds for some boy talk and a beer. Debbie and I smile and nod knowingly to each other when our husbands run away to play.
Then there was the gypsy girl who has no permanent residence and travels places most of us can only dream of. She admired my new eye glasses, which makes me think I might be almost as funky and free as she is.
I can’t forget Joyce and Doug, a painting pair. Doug is especially interesting because as a hard-working farm hand with a bum leg, halting speech and a bit of a memory problem you’d never imagine he could paint as beautifully as he does. What he lacks physically he makes up a thousandfold in soul. His professional partner Joyce always has a story to tell. One I heard today was that her husband likes to take pictures of people on riding lawnmowers just to prove that most of them are fat.
There was also the retired State Trooper with a charming Scottish accent. Who knew someone with a career like that could be so jolly instead of jaded? Plus, he loves his wife completely.
In comparison to these people I feel like a total bore. But I try to drive into my head the quote by Mark Twain, “Comparison is the death of joy.” So I’ll go on living my life, trying to make it as meaningful and fulfilling as I can while still enjoying the company of extremely interesting people. After all, these people might just go home and say to themselves or others, “that Meredith, what an awesome creature.”
Indeed I am.
To see who else is having coffee just click on the blue linky frog.
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Are you a hugger or a non-hugger?
NON! I’ll hug Knick, and sometimes members of my family, but I’ve never been one to hug. When hugging became the new handshake I was horrified, but have tried to be gracious to anyone who comes toward me with open arms.
Here’s a hugging story for you: When Charlotte got married to Pinky I was very happy for them both, but not being a hugger I was uncomfortable in the receiving line, especially when I approached Pinky. I bit the bullet and threw one arm around his shoulders. Unfortunately my other hand held a glass of champagne, which during the hug accidentally spilled all over Charlotte’s wedding gown. Since then Pinky and I only fist bump.
What is your least favorite Candy?
I love candy of all kinds; however, two types I’ll avoid are 1) black licorice and 2) hard, chalky candies like Necco Wafers or those little hearts with sayings on them that are around on Valentine’s Day.
Also, I favor chewy over sucky.
What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word “fun”?
There goes ten minutes out of my life – trying to figure out the answer to this. Kind of defeats the “first thing” part of the question. My idea of fun is anything I want to do when I want to do it. That can range from reading a good book for eight hours straight to spring cleaning chores. If I want to do something and am able to do it, I think it’s fun. So I guess the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the word “fun” is ME, in a selfish way, that is.
List of Favorite Smells: What smells do you love? Whether it’s vanilla scented candles or the smell of coffee in the morning or the smell of a fresh spring rain…make a list of all the things you love for a little aromatherapy.
- wet dirt
- freshly baked bread
- sauerkraut
- someone else’s cigarette smoke
- a beef roast cooking slowly in the crock pot
Bonus question: What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
I’m grateful for not having had to hug any strangers last week, and also for recovering from the insomniatic psychosis of this past weekend. This week I’m looking forward to spending the weekend at an apple orchard festival. Unfortunately some hugs will be required.
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Welcome back to weekend coffee share. I’m not sure if this is a good idea because 1) I don’t like coffee and 2) I don’t necessarily like “sharing.” Sharing is too sappy of a word for me, but because our hostess refers to it as Weekend Coffee Share, I’ll give in and use the term.
Never mind my sour attitude today, I’ve been up for twenty-four hours and am nearly ready to collapse. Don’t ask me what I did throughout the wee hours of the night because I don’t want to “share.” Suffice it to say I was actually productive, but the rest of the day will probably be a total loss for me.
I had plans to do laundry and hang it out on the clothesline today, but that bastard weather guy lied to me. He said it would be sunny and breezy today, perfect for hanging laundry, but it turns out it’s cloudy and really humid. No matter, I’ve started the laundry and am using the dryer instead of hanging it outside. I don’t feel like wasting my time hanging when I know damn well my clothes wouldn’t be dry by sunset. Plus, I can’t even imagine what the neighbors would think of me if I were hanging my laundry out on a day like today. Not that I really care what they think, but why give them fodder when it’s avoidable?
And don’t give me advice on how to deal with insomnia. It’s not about not being able to sleep, it’s about deep play. Have you ever had that? When you get so engrossed in something that you lose all track of time and space? It happens to me and I usually don’t regret it until about five hours after I’m done “playing” and realize I forgot to go to bed and sleep. And then I’m a complete waste product for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours. If I’m lucky I’ll remember to take the bath I neglected to take last night. Knick would appreciate it if I cleaned up a little, I’m sure.
I’m not surprised that I had a sudden burst of deep play last night – last week I was plagued with an ear/headache that lasted for two and a half days. I got nothing done and also was unable to keep my tennis date with Charlotte on a lovely, sunny, cool day. Sort of like the kind of day I was hoping for today so I could hang my laundry outside. Bah! I’m just saying that I was of infirm health and missed out on what was the perfect day for game of tennis, even though we don’t actually play games, per se. We just volley the ball back and forth during those times we’re not fetching the balls that have gone to the far end of the court or over the fence.
I’m just saying that because I was not well last week made me forge ahead and do lots of stuff last night. You know how that is? If you sit around for a few days you get itchy and need to do stuff. No? Well, that’s how I get. My body at rest doesn’t tend to stay at rest like physics would predict.
So, to sum it all up, because I was pretty much unable to do anything last week I crammed several day’s worth of stuff into one, long, sleepless night. I feel good about what I accomplished, but now I’m cross-eyed and kind of buzzy in the head for lack of sleep.
All of this rambling will probably convince you to never visit me for coffee ever again. But I can assure you that by this time next week I’ll have had good health and plenty of sleep and I won’t be babbling on like a lunatic as I’m doing today.
Have you participated in any deep play lately?
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To see who else is having coffee just click on the blue linky frog.
This is the first time I’ve had anyone over for coffee. Welcome.
Knicky and I had plans to visit a winery today; said winery has many fond memories for us but went to ruin when some old shrew took over its management. It’s been a couple of years since we’ve been there and we thought it might be fun to see what became of the place. This morning we both felt completely indifferent about going, so we’re staying home. However, I told Knick that if we stay home we must both do something productive. He’s going to mow the lawn and I’m going to clean the master bathroom. That shows how much the winery has hurt me – I’d rather scrub soap scum than sit outside drinking wine and listening to music on a beautiful, sunny day.
In other news, Knick and I are invited to a wedding next month. An ex-coworker of mine is marrying the guy she’s been living with for at least five years, and I say it’s about time. The only problem is, she may have invited people from work who I haven’t seen since I left months ago. I don’t necessarily want to see those people, especially The Queen of the Silver Dollar. I’ll just call her Queenie. She made my life at work a lot harder than it had to be and her personal life is a complete train wreck. Another possible guest is Kep, who can’t shut up to save her life, yammering on in half sentences (because her head works faster than her mouth) about things no one cares about. Oh sure, I’ll go to the wedding because I like the bride and groom, but facing the people I used to work with is going to be a challenge. It’s sort of like how I don’t go to class reunions – the people I liked from school I keep in contact with. There’s no reason for me to be reunited with people I couldn’t care less about. Going to a wedding filled with people I couldn’t care less about is kind of dreadful, but when I think about it long enough it might be kind of fun to see these people from a distance. I don’t have to work with them every day so they may not be as annoying to me, and may even provide some good entertainment, like a guilty pleasure soap opera.
In the meantime I’ll have to fill my days with exciting and interesting things. I’m not sure how I’m going to do that because my life is neither exciting nor interesting, at least in my own mind. I guess I can always just make stuff up. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
It’s been lovely chatting, but I really must go and clean the toilet. Until next time…
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To see who else is having coffee just click on the blue linky frog.
It was a lovely summer day and my friend and I planned to spend it at the Minnesota State Fair. Throughout the Twin Cities area there are lots of park-and-ride locations where one can park a car and take a shuttle to the fairgrounds. So, we parked at the nice Catholic school parking lot and got on the bus. Everyone on the shuttle was in a good mood because, well, we were all going to the fair!
Things got uncomfortable when these two boarded.
I love you, my darling, even though you have this weird, bird-like feather growing out of the back of your head.
I’m all for affection, but this was ridiculous. My friend and I looked upon this very unattractive, hormonally-driven couple like the train wreck it was – so horrible, and yet we couldn’t look away.
Loving gazes into each others’ eyes. There’s someone for everyone, as evidenced here.
Arms were entwined, kisses were exchanged, deep, longing gazes were shared between their two sets of eyes – PDAs, aka Public Displays of Affection have never been so public.
My friend and I looked at each other and even commented out loud to each other about how gross these two lovebirds were.
Love me baby, right here in front of a bunch of people just trying to get to the State Fair.
No, that’s not a wedding ring on the gripping left hand of the guy, it’s a tattoo. Does anyone get a tattoo on the third finger of the left hand that looks like a wedding ring if he/she has never been married? No matter. Either these two have been married for all of ninety seconds or it’s the second time around for one or both of them. My guess is they just met on hornyuglypeople.com.
I wonder if they capsized a boat in Ye Old Mill at the fair. Cripes, Knicky and I might steal a kiss in the tunnel of love, but we’re much more enthralled with the fact that we can’t see our hands in front of our faces throughout the ride. I guess we’re just not that into each other.
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When I woke up this morning I picked up the book Furiously Happy and read a chapter or two. Of course I feel like I know The Bloggess personally as I’ve been following her blog for years. I’ve never commented on her blog, I’ve never been to her book signing in my city, and she doesn’t even know I’m alive. They say you can meet a lot of friends through blogging, build a “community,” (I put quotes around that word because I hate it), and I feel I’ve done that. The only problem is, I’m invisible to them. It’s a one-sided friendship where my bloggy friends have become real, live people, but I’m like their invisible friend, except they don’t even know they have an invisible friend because they didn’t make me up. I’m sort of like God – loving them with all of my heart and encouraging them through some kind of telepathy to love me back even though they have no tangible evidence that I exist.
All this got me to thinking about the internet and how fucked up it can make people. If I weren’t the poster child for outstandingly perfect mental health (ha!) I might start to feel badly about myself because none of my “friends” pay attention to me. It’s not as if I’m on the perimeters of a party filled with famous bloggers where they might say to each other, “who’s that beautiful wallflower over there?” and then would come over and ask me to join them. I live thousands of miles from many of these people and they don’t see me. I’m invisible.
So why, you may ask, don’t I develop some kind of rapport via comments with the bloggers I’ve embraced as my friends to let them know I do exist? Good question. I suppose there are hundreds of answers, but here are a few…
1. I don’t have much to offer in the way of blogging reciprocity. That is to say I read a lot of blogs but don’t write on my own often enough to interest anyone.
2. My bloggy friends have so many comments on their posts that mine would no doubt be lost in the shuffle, never read, so even if I came up with a really clever comment it probably wouldn’t be noticed much less responded to. Why bother?
3. I have social anxiety.
Actually, I’m not the invisible friend of my blogging heroes, they are my invisible friends. It’s kind of like becoming attached to a character in a book. One doesn’t attempt to form a real friendship with a character in a book, right?
OK, see how fucked up people can get with the internet? It’s a plot to make popular people more popular and the shy people feel more alone. But only if they analyze it to death like I just did.
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This A-Z Challenge is the worst thing I’ve ever tried to do. Except for that time I tried to do mushrooms. That didn’t work out too well. What is it about challenges that excites and motivates people? OK, sure, prompts are supposed to get your creative juices flowing and a challenge is supposed to promote discipline. I have no creative juices or discipline so prompts and challenges just stress me out. There’s too much pressure to perform.
Oh shut up. I know no one made me take the challenge, but every time I see one I think, this one might work. Well, it didn’t.
The whole time I was supposed to be writing about something prompted by a letter of the alphabet I procrastinated. I was late in posting and then before I knew it the month of April slipped away before I could catch up. The thing is, deep down I knew the only consequence to failing the challenge would be a poor self-esteem, which isn’t that big of a deal because I’ve pretty much had that my whole life.
Today I’m advising myself to knock it off with challenges and prompts and competitions. People are obsessed with pushing their limits both physically and mentally. What would the things be like if we all just kicked back and didn’t challenge ourselves or others? I suspect it would result in world peace, which is exactly what everyone wants anyway.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
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Quit is the word every blogger has had in his or her head at one time or another, especially when it’s very obvious that one’s particular blog is not being read by anyone. It makes no difference that there are eleventy kabillion blogs out there, and even the heaviest hitters don’t have the whole world following them. To have five regular readers would be nice. Do I have that? Hell, no. No external validation for me. Does that matter? Hell, yeah. Except, kind of no.
There are plenty of things I should quit doing, but blogging isn’t one of them. Okay, maybe I could quit blogging, but writing? It’ll never happen. If no one reads my blog, well then I guess I’ll have no critics, which is great for the self-esteem. Oh wait, having no readers is kind of bad for the self-esteem. Quit!
No, wait. Don’t.
This isn’t about blogging and it isn’t about external validation. It’s all about what you and I want to do with ourselves when we have nothing else to do. If you’re doing what you want to do, never quit.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
OK, seriously, what else could P stand for? I write about the penis because 1) I can type the word penis, 2) I can listen to the spoken word penis, 3) I can read the word penis, but there is no way in hell I can verbalize the word penis. This is my chance to say everything I’ve ever wanted to say about this male organ without actually having to say the word.
Think about it. Penis. [pee-nis] Plural, penes [pee-neez]. Seriously? More than one penis is called penes? OK, I just found out that the group of them can also be referred to as penises, which makes me a little more comfortable considering how uncomfortable the word is for me in the first place.
The thing is, such a masculine, save-the-world-from-human-instinction thing should be called something other than penis. Penis sounds like it could be an angle worm – something tiny, slimy and skinny. Granted, I’ve seen my share of penises that fit that bill, but wouldn’t you think the word would evoke some kind of majesty rather than something that requires a long “e?” It’s the long “e” in the word that trips me up. Here are some other words used in place of the feeble “penis.”
Throbber
Wang
Skin flute
Trouser meat
Cock
Love muscle
Joy stick
Man muscle
Wang
Pecker
Schlong
Well there you have it. Even the slang words can’t articulate the stateliness of the male thing without sounding stupid. That’s it! It should simply be called the “male thing.” Doesn’t sound lame, but at the same time doesn’t boast qualities it doesn’t have. The male thing. Yes, I like that.
I can pretty much guarantee you’ll never hear me talking about this male thing again, even though they’ve been know to really tinkle my fancy.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
Here’s the thing, which you probably already know. I wanted to do the A-Z Challenge in April and as any blogging challenge/motivation/inspiration I’m left feeling like a complete failure. So, oh shit. Time to catch up or give up completely. Here are the oh shits for today:
1. Oh shit, I’m behind on the stupid blogging challenge.
2. Oh shit, my most recent sewing project proved to me I can sort of sew, but when it comes to cutting the fabric I’m a complete dork. Math sucks.
3. Oh shit, my nephew’s new more-than-just-friends girlfriend (who he’s been in love with for years but just recently stole her heart) decided to do some missionary work in Isreal for a year. I chalk that up to young ignorance, walking into a war zone and all.
4. Oh shit, it’s true what they say, never trust a fart over 40.
5. Oh shit, there’s another one of those Liberty Mutual car insurance commercials. Why do they target black people with these? Plus, come up with some new ones please.
6. Oh shit, Knicky’s birthday party is in six days and the house is a mess. Will I ever get the place cleaned in time?
That’s all there is to that. I don’t have a lot to do this evening, so maybe I’ll get caught up with this dumb blogging challenge. Pay no attention to the date it was published – it’s all fake.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
Narcisse Harbor is the name of the fictional village in which my novel-in-progress takes place. It’s a small community on the shores of Lake Michigan where the main character, Trudy, finds a few friends, and herself to boot. Narcisse Harbor is a haunting kind of place, especially in the house she calls her abode.
The sun rises bright over Narcisse Harbor early in the morning, and the evening casts pinks, blues, and purples across the sky along the horizon. The house overlooking this harbor is the perfect place for a woman to figure out where her life went wrong, to figure out how to make it right, and to meet new and revisit old loves. Fresh water seas, crying seagulls, and colorful horizons does that to a person.
I’ve neglected working on my story these past few months. One day I’ll finish and perfect it and try to turn it into a best seller. Until then, Narcisse Harbor will remain a place in my mind and heart, and I’ll watch those sunrises every day.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
What else could M stand for? Mothers around the world are to blame for everything, am I right?
OK, I say that as a person who never gave birth. In my opinion there’s no way to mother perfectly (ick, a noun used as a verb!) . It doesn’t matter how many books you read, no matter how much you don’t want to be like your own mother, no matter how much you see the patterns of motherhood throughout your ancestry, no matter how many mental health professionals you talk to, there is no way in hell you’re going to be the perfect mother.
Mothers are screwed. That’s pretty much why I never became one. I have an aversion to failure.
Take my mother as an example. I could go on and on, but I’ll try to rein it in. Not that I think my mom did a bad job, but like I said, even with the best of intentions a mother is screwed. I turned out okay, as did my siblings, but with all of us there was a bunch of baggage we carried through our lives labeled Your Mom Did This.
My mom instilled in me, at an early age, the value of appearances. It was she who subversively convinced me that certain people are worth socializing with rather than others. She’s the one who made me believe she knew everything.
Come to find out, my mom doesn’t know everything, she’s (and her family) not better than everyone else, and appearances are superficial. And how long did it take me to figure out? Long.
But here’s the thing. I think mothers do the best they can with the tools they have. If they were raised by a dysfunctional mother (as mine was) they’ll probably try to do better with their own children. I’ve seen my sister raise children, and according to my assessment she’s done a much better job than our mother did with us. However, as a semi-outsider, I can see where her children will blame her for faults and dysfunctions in themselves. That’s the way it’s been for eons, and that’s the way it will be for eons more. As I said, mothers are screwed.
My mom has her faults and her dysfunctions, she’s passed those things onto her children. But her children, thankfully, have realized that she did the best she could, and it wasn’t all that bad. She wasn’t addicted to chemicals, she didn’t lock us into closets for sinning (Carrie), she didn’t give us cold water enemas or tie us to the piano while instructing us to hold our water (Sybil). She had her baggage, but I can confidently say that her children have grown to have less, or at least different, baggage than she did.
We’re all in this world alone and are solely responsible for our own lives, but if you had a mother who put a Band-Aid on your bee sting, took you to the public beach on a bicycle so you could cool off in the summer, and made sure you were clothed and fed and housed and safe throughout your childhood, then you’ve probably had an okay childhood.
Don’t let your mother wreck your life. Forgive her for what she didn’t know, and thank her for what she’s done for you.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
When it comes to me, lazy is the only thing “L” stands for. Case in point – this post.
I started writing this post nearly a week ago. I can’t even say that – I put the “L” image on this post nearly a week ago. Since then I’ve neglected to write about it, or anything else for that matter.
I’ve read enough how-to books on writing to know that when a writer doesn’t write they are either afraid or lazy. I’m the latter, whether it’s regarding writing or anything else.
Today was just another fine example of my laziness. I had plans to bake two dozen muffins for some company I’m having. When I saw only three eggs in the refrigerator I freaked, because of course I needed four. Because Knick had no plans to run errands it was up to me to go buy some eggs. It’s a rainy day. Going to the store would require putting on a bra and getting my freshly washed car spattered with dirty rain. I didn’t want to put on a bra, much less go out and drive to the store because I needed one, stupid egg. See? I’m lazy that way.
In my defense I’m really good at covering up my laziness. Instead of making two dozen muffins I’m going to make one and a half dozen. That’s more than enough for the four people who’ll be eating them. I get to stay in the house and remain braless. The only problem is, I’ll be completely out of eggs. I hope Knick plans to run errands tomorrow so he can pick up a dozen for me.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday)https://babyheartbeat.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
One thing that really bugs me is when marketers think it’s charming to misspell things on purpose.
I’ve been to small towns who have sidewalk Krazy Days. I’ve seen Facebook posts on Kute Kats. What’s wrong with the letter “C,” and why can’t we spell things the way they’re supposed to be spelled? Does indulging the ignorance of American society help matters?
Quiet Riot (all spelled correctly, I might point out) came out with a song in 1983 titled Cum On Feel The Noize. The problem with this is that everything is misspelled, even though the letter C is actually used. What’s the point of this? Cum? Ick. Noize? Ignorant.
It’s no wonder the kids today can’t spell. Apparently it’s charming, sexually provocative, or a appealing to illiterate youth to misspell things to get a message across. Don’t even get me started on the shortcuts used in texting.
The whole thing drives me krazy.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday)https://babyheartbeat.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
I had a friend named Julie when I was a kid. I don’t think my mom liked me hanging out with her much. There’s also the song about a woman who was Julie, not Lisa. (See: Jesse Colter, 1975) But this isn’t about my mom and her approval or either of those Julies. It’s about my cousin. Julie.
Julie is the youngest of three children in her family. Her older brother is a complete weirdo, and the middle child of that family, the first daughter, was murdered. Yeah, interesting family. But I’m going to concentrate on Julie for now. The baby. The little darling.
So, there’s my family and Julie’s family. Our dads are brothers. Those brothers’ dad (I’ll call him Grandpa Mike) built a quaint little cottage on a quiet lake in Wisconsin in 1950, at which cottage the cousins spent many happy summer afternoons together in the ’60s and early ’70s. We played in the back forty, we swam in the lake, we drank orange pop on the porch. Sometimes, if we were really lucky, we got to even sleep over at the cottage.
Eventually that cottage became the property of my dad. By then all of the cousins were grown-up adults. And by now even the cousins’ children (those who had any) are grown-up adults too. A couple of summers ago my dad thought it would be fun to have his brother’s family to the cottage for a little reunion – spending time at the cottage Grandpa built. Because one of my cousins is a complete dick and another one is dead, the only cousin of mine who attended this reunion was Julie. Darling Julie and her highly professional husband. (I say “highly professional” in kind of a snotty way, but he’s actually a nice guy.)
About halfway through the jovial, reminiscent afternoon Julie excused herself to visit the outhouse. Yes, our cottage still has an outhouse. A hole-dug-in-the-ground outhouse. So there goes Julie to the outhouse, on a hot, hot July afternoon. She came back about seven minutes later, hyper as hell with a curious sniffle in her nose that wasn’t there before she excused herself.
Her parents didn’t seem to notice, my parents didn’t seem to notice, but Julie’s cousins (me and my sister and my sister’s husband) noticed, Julie’s cousin’s children (my most fabulous nephews) noticed, and I’m pretty sure Julie’s highly professional husband noticed that she just spent seven minutes in a horrifically rank outhouse snortin’ Charlie. Who in the hell does that at a place that’s supposed to inspire childhood innocence and memories?
Grandpa Mike was probably rolling over in his grave.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
They say to always use “I” statements when having an argument. Never accuse, never blame, put it all on yourself. As in:
I feel this way when you do this dreadful, horrific thing to me.
I wish we could do things my way instead of the way you want to.
I want you to change who you are.
Doesn’t make much sense to me, how those “I” statements are better than “you” statements, but I try to take advice from the masters of psychology whenever I can.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
Hard, as in difficult.
Winston Churchill said, “Never stand up when you can sit down, and never sit down when you can lie down.”
I’ve never been one to engage in things that are hard for me, especially if I have a choice. Hard things take time, energy, muscle, brain work.
Today I began to fill out an application to show my work at an art fair. The further I got into the application the harder it became, unnecessarily complicated in my opinion, so I pitched it. Showing my work is easy, but I’m not going to subject myself to a hard application. It’s just not worth it.
My career with the government wasn’t a career at all, merely a job. I could have climbed the ladder and increased my earnings exponentially, but turning a job into a career was just too hard. When I retired it was obvious that my replacement, my boss, and everyone else affected by the work I did thought my job was pretty hard. Not for me – if it had been I’d have given it up.
I guess hard, as in difficult, is a relative thing. But I ask you, does a person have less worth if they prefer to take the easy route?
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
I’m fortunate to have known all four of my grandparents and half of my great-grandparents. Actually knew them. I was sixteen when my first grandparent died and was grown up and married when the last of them did. I was familiar with them, even the great-grandparents, and never once did I call them anything other than Grandma or Grandpa.
My Grandma Harriet was forty-one years old when she first became a grandma. She loved to cook and dance and water ski. She participated in snowmobile races and could mix a mean Old Fashioned. She never had a problem being called Grandma.
I’m a lot bit older than forty-one, and some of my friends are grandparents. The thing is, they don’t want to be called Grandma or Grandpa because apparently it implies they are older than they are, so they teach their grandchildren to call them something else. They choose a name, as if it makes them anything other than the grandparent they are. The sad thing about it is, most times the names are absolutely sickening.
There is no way in hell either of my grandmothers would have insisted on being called GaGa. Or MeeMaw. Or Nonnie. I can’t even fathom either of my grandfathers wanting to be referred to as PawPee, or Boompa. It’s just all so wrong and bad, and yet those names, to some, are better than the standard Grandma and Grandpa.
If your grandchild wants to give you a name, embrace it. Case in point: my dad is known to his grandsons as Kahuna. Otherwise, shut up and quit being so self-conscious. You might feel old being called Grandma or Grandpa, but you’re no younger with names like Nannie or Pappy. Consciously choosing a nonsensical name out of vanity just makes you look dumb.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
F is for Freedonia.
How many of you are familiar with the Golden Age of Hollywood? The older I get the more I’m in awe with 1) the accomplishments of Hollywood in the olden days and 2) how many people ignore the accomplishments of Hollywood in the olden days. My mother-in-law (devil rest her soul) hated black-and-white movies because “they aren’t realistic.” I see, so The Hunger Games movie series is realistic because they’re filmed in color? That woman never made any sense to me, but was, and still is, a source of enduring, annoying amusement.
I’ll have to throw my dead mother-in-law a bone though, because some of the old black and white movies really weren’t realistic, even though I’m talking about content rather than color. Tarzan, for example. Or King Kong. Or any of the giant insect sci-fi movies. Those kinds of movies aren’t supposed to be realistic, they’re supposed to be a source for escapism. Of course shishi (MIL) didn’t usually like to escape her defunct and martyrous life. Why, I could never figure out.
But this isn’t a post about shishi, although it could be if I’d said “F is for freak.” It’s about Freedonia, land of the brave and free. It’s a land I wouldn’t mind living in as it’s run by the very clever Rufus T. Firefly and financed by the very wealthy Mrs. Teasdale. Of course Chicolini and Pinky are the brains behind Freedonia escaping the clutches of Sylvania, the neighboring country.
Hail, hail Freedonia, land of the brave and free. Black and white and truly unrealistic. shishi’s nightmare.
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
The End
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
E is for escape.
Escaping is so good for the soul and I’m afraid too many people don’t indulge. Who doesn’t love a nice escape from the real world? By “real world” I mean the mundane, the routine, the regular day-to-day.
An escape could simply mean turning on the TV and watching those guilty pleasure series, or immersing yourself in a bunch of Harry Potter movies. Maybe it means getting lost in a good book. On the other hand, one may want to escape, physically, to an entirely different location.
I like to escape any way I can, be it mentally or physically.
Knicky and I escape to beautiful Lake Michigan once or twice a year. Although it’s not a new place for us, it always refreshes and invigorates us. Because we’re not surrounded by those nagging chores and responsibilities of home our minds run wild – you’d never believe the ideas we’ve come up with while hiking the rocks or loafing with a glass of wine by the water.
When I escape mentally, well, I just do whatever I want without interruption. That could be cooking, writing, reading, watching TV or movies. The at-home escapes are glorious, provided you can get support from any housemates you have. Make time, and tell those cohabitants to leave you alone or else. Also so important to at-home escapes – allow yourself to abandon all responsibility, even if it’s only for an hour or two. It’s hard to get all that stuff out of your head, but do it. Trust me on this.
At this moment, ideally, I’d escape to a warm, tropical beach with a really good book. And a very attentive cabana boy. (Look, don’t touch.)
The End
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
D is for discipline. Because yesterday I addressed the word “challenge,” today I’m compelled to apply some discipline.
Before I retired I had to discipline myself to actually show up at work. It was hard, especially toward the end. Then came the day when I didn’t have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn to go to work, and to be honest, I didn’t even have to get out of bed at all if I didn’t want to. The thing is, I know it’s probably a good thing that one doesn’t stay in bed all day no matter how cozy and satisfying it can be. So I disciplined myself to get out of bed every day despite not having a day job.
After a few weeks/months of retirement I decided I needed to apply more discipline because it became so easy to procrastinate. I had unlimited time to do anything I wanted, which was like a dream come true. However, the house still needed cleaning, dinners still needed to be cooked, and my little crafty business still needed to be tended to. The hardest part was housework.
I’ve always been a fan of housework, but that seemed to wane when I retired. A friend of mine, who retired one month before I did, was having the same dilemma. So we made a pact that we would put our household first, spending some time every day on our respective houses.
Mary Ann decided to return to some program she learned about online, a 15-minute-per-day clean-up thing, and I decided to dust and vacuum one room of the house per day. So far it’s been going well for both of us. Interestingly, I think one of the main reasons for our success is the fact that we’re accountable to each other. On the other hand, we’re such good friends that even if one or both of us abandons our household discipline we won’t judge each other for it.
I’m still new to this retirement game and discipline is a big part of it. It’s a necessity regarding dust bunnies, and also writing blog posts.
The End
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
C is for challenge. I’m going to do this A-Z challenge even if it gets no readers, and especially if I don’t feel like doing it.
I used to be a person all about proving something to everyone else. I’d get in pissing matches with skunks and it never turned out very well. Even though I was always right the skunk usually won, because it was so stinky and stupid. Mostly stinky. After a few decades I finally realized that I don’t have to prove anything to anyone, except the absence of conflict and chaos left me feeling very dead.
But now I can prove, if only to myself, that I can write a little blog post every day. It’s not the same as picking fights, but at this point in my life a little peace and quiet aren’t such a bad thing. So what’ve you got to say about that?! *dukes up, ready to fight*
The End
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day (except Sunday) during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
B is for blogging, and writing posts every day that no one will read. I found out about this A-Z blogging challenge much too late and I don’t think I can get on the list of active participants. I’m going to go for it anyway.
Part of the reason my blogging is pitiful is because I lead a very isolated and uninteresting life. I’m also not one to write about other things going on in the world because quite frankly it all bums me out. Pop culture is ridiculous. Politics are annoying. Religion is futile.
I know, there are a skillion other topics to write about, but none of them interest me as much as myself. Except not many other people are interested in me, so I’m basically screwed if my blogging is centered around me and my mundane, little life.
The End
Blogging A-Z is a new challenge I’ve accepted, although I don’t think I’m technically included with all the other people who have accepted the same challenge, so I’m not even going to link to the challenge site. Forgive me, challenge site, I’ll sign up earlier next year.
Every day during the month of April I’ll take a letter of the alphabet and write on a theme that begins with that letter.
A is for albatross, as in around my neck. Blogging has been weighing heavily on me for the past few months. I want to write, I want to blog, I want millions of people around the world to love what I write.
However, my brain moves backwards and starts with “I want millions of people around the world to love what I write.” Millions of people aren’t going to love what I write, that’s just a fact. But because of that fact I I don’t want to blog, and finally I don’t want to write.
A is also for audience. The nonexistent audience. What’s the point of showing up if no one else will?
The End
Spirituality versus Religion.
Faith versus Doctrine.
I ask you…
The End
I was working on a project all day, listening to one of my Pandora stations. I don’t usually listen to Pandora when I’m working, but today, and with that particular project, I thought it would be right.
The tunes flowed through my head, mostly from the ’70s and ’80s. My work became easier, or at least more enjoyable. Then there he was, Bob Seger, singing Night Moves.
That song reminded me of another Bob. My Bob. The Bob that disappeared over twenty years ago. He and I were just like the Bob Seger song says:
We weren’t in love, oh no, far from it
We weren’t searchin’ for some pie in the sky summit
We were just young and restless and bored
Livin’ by the sword
…
Workin’ on mysteries without any clues
Workin’ on our night moves
Tryin’ to make some front page drive-in news
Workin’ on our night moves
In the summertime
In the sweet summertime
Sweet summertime.
These lyrics, especially in the dead of winter like now, take me back to summertimes decades ago. I remember once Bob and I were out cruising around in his Gran Torino. We stopped at the side of the road and leaned against his car, looking out at the lake on the other side of the road. He turned to me, lifted me up by the armpits and plopped my ass on the hood of his dusty car. We proceeded to make out, me sitting on the hood of his car and him leaning against the car between my legs. Every once in a while I opened my eyes to see the sun set behind the horizon of the lake.
Bob didn’t wash his car for weeks after that, leaving my Levi butt print on the dusty hood. My mark.
Those are things we remember with musical prompts. Sweet summertimes, making out on the side of the road. Those are the things that make us the people we are decades later. Those are the memories that keep us young forever.
I awoke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Ain’t it funny how the night moves
When you just don’t seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in…
The End
As you may or probably not know I recently retired from my day job. I had high hopes of increased domestic productivity and heightened creativity once I left the beige decor and officiousness of government employment. I thought getting away from the dreadful public I served would make me less jaded. I thought I would become the person I always wanted to be.
Surprise – I’m still the same person. I just don’t have to drive to work every day. The house is still a mess, creativity still eludes me, and even though I don’t have to look at them every day those nasty people are still out there and I still feel for them in ways that would make Jesus ashamed.
For the next while and a half I’m going to try to figure out what I’m good at. I hope it can be entertaining an audience either with this rarely read blog or with unveiling of the Great American Novel I’m planning to write. Or maybe I’ll become a painter, or a chef, or the best socialite since Jackie O. We shall see.
Happy New Year, and may all of your unrealistic aspirations come to fruition.
The End
Meredith
Magnum Opus 