Oo-kayyy..... we see how that worked out. Suffice to say that learning things makes you invest time elsewhere. And by elsewhere, I mean places other than your own blog. I can tell you, though, that many things were learned, even if I didn't make you sit there and read about them. (You should probably thank me.)
In the process of reacquainting myself with this whole blogspot territory thing, I found (ta-da!) my stats. One hundred seventy-seven views. Not bad. That's 77 more than the last time I was even around. I get almost as much activity on my blog when it's inactive as I do when it's active. Interesting...
I know what you're thinking. Don't even say it. Don't break my heart like that.
So what've I got to say? Oh... lots. That's something I was never short of. I'm keeping this particular update fairly brief. Warming you back up; you know. These things just tend to be giant letters to no one, so I have no idea why anybody reads them. Maybe because I threaten to hurt people if they don't. No, wait, just kidding. I promise. I think.
Last thing: I went to somebody with this the other day, being moody and melancholy and kind of enjoying myself the whole time, and they called me crazy. I need a second opinion. Well, I mean, I always knew I was crazy; that's a given. Aren't we all? But anyway.
This house is too small.
I feel claustrophobic.
Too crowded.
I want out.
I should blog. (Ha! You are here. Feel special?)
I should study.
I should do something useful.
I should do something somebody cares about.
I should be someone worthy.
I should be more honest.
I should be more prudent.
I shouldn't be harrassing you like this.
I should be less selfish.
I should stop talking about myself.
I should stop talking to someone who doesn't listen.
I wish I knew everything.
How to act.
What to say.
What to do.
Where to go.
Whom to go to.
When to stop.
And why.
I wish I knew how to love somebody
In such a way that they feel loved.
I wish people could love with abandon.
Not care how foolish it could be.
Or how stupid it would make us look.
Because we really don't care
If we're the ones being loved.
Do we?
I wish we could be honest.
And say what's really on our minds.
And listen to each other
As we pour out our souls.
Make ourselves vulnerable to the people we trust
And let that trust not be betrayed.
I wish we had a perfect world.
But since I know we can't have one
Can we improvise?
Can we act and speak with honour in honesty?
Can we listen and react with understanding and humility?
Can we resign ourselves to the reality that none of us has it all
But that together
We might?
Yeah yeah, don't judge me. Yes, I know it's pretty ridiculous. Yes, I know I'm a pathetic drama queen. But yes, I was enjoying myself and now I get to live with all the consequences of broadcasting my musings all over everywhere. Oh well. Haters gonna hate?
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Embarkment on a New Quest
I…. have a plan. And when I get a plan, that’s when you brace yourselves for something so intensely anticlimactic your great-grandchildren will feel the disappointment.
The saying goes that you learn something new every day. I'm out to prove this theory. Or test it, rather. Let’s see how much I actually learn on a daily basis. I don’t care what it is I learn, how long or abstract the concept is, how I came by the information, or anything along those lines. If I didn’t know it before, I learned it. If I had an inkling of the idea before, it doesn’t count. Old news. The rules state that the new knowledge has to be just that: brand new information. I don’t care if I have to look up Google’s little-known Fact of the Day. At least it’s something. Ninety days work for everyone? It's a moderate length; it's doable. So let’s go.
This is so going to be harder than you think it will be. But still, how can learning one thing a day be a chore? We’ll find out, I guess. God help me if I miss a day.
And yes, unfortunately for all of you, I plan to share all my new-found intelligence here. Partly to hold me accountable and partly because it will keep me pinned to a blogging schedule of sorts. (Routine = gold. But. Routine also = boring most of the time. Eh, life is a balance.) Oh! And as long as I write my discoveries, I won’t be the only one learning stuff. I’ll be sharing with all of you wonderful people who absolutely want to know everything I do, right? I knew you’d agree. You guys are great.
Okie dokie. Day one. That’s today. Or yesterday, since it’s past midnight. (Yay.) Suffice to say I stomped trigonometry. Finally. That concept took forever. But now I get it, so it’s all good. Whew. I feel stupid, taking this long to grasp the thing, but… I guess the important thing is that I understand it in the end? Sure. I never claimed to be a math whiz. Words are my niche. Numbers are…. not. Antilogarithms are tomorrow. At least I actually like logarithms. Here goes nothing.
The saying goes that you learn something new every day. I'm out to prove this theory. Or test it, rather. Let’s see how much I actually learn on a daily basis. I don’t care what it is I learn, how long or abstract the concept is, how I came by the information, or anything along those lines. If I didn’t know it before, I learned it. If I had an inkling of the idea before, it doesn’t count. Old news. The rules state that the new knowledge has to be just that: brand new information. I don’t care if I have to look up Google’s little-known Fact of the Day. At least it’s something. Ninety days work for everyone? It's a moderate length; it's doable. So let’s go.
This is so going to be harder than you think it will be. But still, how can learning one thing a day be a chore? We’ll find out, I guess. God help me if I miss a day.
And yes, unfortunately for all of you, I plan to share all my new-found intelligence here. Partly to hold me accountable and partly because it will keep me pinned to a blogging schedule of sorts. (Routine = gold. But. Routine also = boring most of the time. Eh, life is a balance.) Oh! And as long as I write my discoveries, I won’t be the only one learning stuff. I’ll be sharing with all of you wonderful people who absolutely want to know everything I do, right? I knew you’d agree. You guys are great.
Okie dokie. Day one. That’s today. Or yesterday, since it’s past midnight. (Yay.) Suffice to say I stomped trigonometry. Finally. That concept took forever. But now I get it, so it’s all good. Whew. I feel stupid, taking this long to grasp the thing, but… I guess the important thing is that I understand it in the end? Sure. I never claimed to be a math whiz. Words are my niche. Numbers are…. not. Antilogarithms are tomorrow. At least I actually like logarithms. Here goes nothing.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Long Time No See (Special Edition)
Dear Reader,
Due to a long string of unavoidable detentions, this account has been rendered inactive for the past while. I hope this absence has not negatively affected you in any way and if it has, I am not willing to negotiate any form of compensation. I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. The end.
Sincerely,
Me.
There. Now that the formalities are dealt with, I may ask, how are you? Writhing in agony on the floor because… I haven’t written in so long? Staring blankly at the barrel of a halfcocked pistol and contemplating pulling the trigger because… you missed me so much? Awh, that’s so sweet. Now stop it. There are three kinds of people reading this. The first kind is doing exactly what I just described; painfully facing the tempting reality of suicide for my sake. (These people are as crazy as I am; follow their example at your own risk.) The second kind is reading this and smiling to themselves, either shaking their heads at the notion that anyone would miss me or finding pleasure in my extraordinary sense of humour. (… Really, if there are any people in that latter category, I will be astonished. I just put it in for my peace of mind.) The third kind of person? Smirking at the screen and mocking my ineffective endeavours of making this at least mildly entertaining. Rock on, you nameless Third Person.; rock on.
Once again, I am on a train; this time headed the other way, but it’s a completely different trip this time. Let’s just say I helped my grandparents move again for the second time in a year and drop the subject.
And yes, those of you who are wondering, I have mostly been too lazy to post. Yes, yes, I know. Industry and fidelity. Fidelity and industry. I have failed you. There’s a line between laziness and relaxation, it’s just really really grey sometimes. Especially when you excuse yourself and make it grey. We humans do that. Reason with ourselves and weasel our way into making what should seem wrong seem right. It’s hard to remember that morals are non-negotiable. Somebody once said that “if the truth is relative, no one can lie”. If the definition of injustice is flexible, no one can be wrong. Now we can argue for days about what exactly dictates the moralistic principle, but we’re not going to get into that yet. As far as this blog is concerned, the buck stops here. (Okay, truthfully, I was looking for a place to use that phrase and maybe it didn’t fit perfectly, but I squeezed it in, so stop complaining. I’m not forcing you to read this blog. And those of you I am forcing had better just suck it up and like it because I said so. I’m dictatorial like that.)
Apparently, Microsoft does not consider the word “blog” to be a part of its vocabulary. It is rather a crisis for me; I’m not used to seeing the curvy red line underneath words and not being able to reasonably fix it. My inner (and outer) perfectionist is dissatisfied with anything less than what is considered kosher.
Due to a long string of unavoidable detentions, this account has been rendered inactive for the past while. I hope this absence has not negatively affected you in any way and if it has, I am not willing to negotiate any form of compensation. I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you. The end.
Sincerely,
Me.
There. Now that the formalities are dealt with, I may ask, how are you? Writhing in agony on the floor because… I haven’t written in so long? Staring blankly at the barrel of a halfcocked pistol and contemplating pulling the trigger because… you missed me so much? Awh, that’s so sweet. Now stop it. There are three kinds of people reading this. The first kind is doing exactly what I just described; painfully facing the tempting reality of suicide for my sake. (These people are as crazy as I am; follow their example at your own risk.) The second kind is reading this and smiling to themselves, either shaking their heads at the notion that anyone would miss me or finding pleasure in my extraordinary sense of humour. (… Really, if there are any people in that latter category, I will be astonished. I just put it in for my peace of mind.) The third kind of person? Smirking at the screen and mocking my ineffective endeavours of making this at least mildly entertaining. Rock on, you nameless Third Person.; rock on.
Once again, I am on a train; this time headed the other way, but it’s a completely different trip this time. Let’s just say I helped my grandparents move again for the second time in a year and drop the subject.
And yes, those of you who are wondering, I have mostly been too lazy to post. Yes, yes, I know. Industry and fidelity. Fidelity and industry. I have failed you. There’s a line between laziness and relaxation, it’s just really really grey sometimes. Especially when you excuse yourself and make it grey. We humans do that. Reason with ourselves and weasel our way into making what should seem wrong seem right. It’s hard to remember that morals are non-negotiable. Somebody once said that “if the truth is relative, no one can lie”. If the definition of injustice is flexible, no one can be wrong. Now we can argue for days about what exactly dictates the moralistic principle, but we’re not going to get into that yet. As far as this blog is concerned, the buck stops here. (Okay, truthfully, I was looking for a place to use that phrase and maybe it didn’t fit perfectly, but I squeezed it in, so stop complaining. I’m not forcing you to read this blog. And those of you I am forcing had better just suck it up and like it because I said so. I’m dictatorial like that.)
Apparently, Microsoft does not consider the word “blog” to be a part of its vocabulary. It is rather a crisis for me; I’m not used to seeing the curvy red line underneath words and not being able to reasonably fix it. My inner (and outer) perfectionist is dissatisfied with anything less than what is considered kosher.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
"It Appears My Hypocrisy Knows No Bounds"
A very wise, very important friend (yah, he paid me to write that; I’m easily bribed) opened my eyes to the source of all practical wisdom: western flicks. One flick in particular. Okay, one flick, period. 1993; Tombstone, complete with Kurt Russell. I didn’t actually … you know, see the movie; I just read parts of the dialogue. And this dialogue is something else. Who knew cowpokes could be deep? (Uh-oh. Look out, ladies; just another item to add to the cowboys’ extensive list of attributes. We always knew those guys were trouble.)
“There is no normal life, Wyatt. There's just life.”
“I spent my whole life not knowing what I want out of it, just chasing my tail. Now for the first time I know exactly what I want... and who... and that's the damnable misery of it.”
“My darling, you've cast your gaze upon the quintessential frontier type. Note the lean silhouette. Eyes closed by the sun, yet sharp as a hawk. He has the look of both predator and prey.”
“Yes, but there's just something about him. Something around the eyes, I don't know, reminds me of... me. No. I'm sure of it, I hate him.”
Reckon the first one could get preached in high schools everywhere. Wait, forget high schools. Preach it to the world! We’ve forgotten that there is no normal. You roll with the punches and get back on your feet. There will never be a time when we’re completely on top of it. Take them as they come and take advantage of the moment right in front of you. It’s one of the secrets to life. What if we found pleasure what we were doing, the moment we were doing it? We’d be in a perpetual state of quiet joy. That, ladies and gentlemen, is called contentment. (That was an interesting rabbit trail off the topic, now wasn’t it? Hope you like the scenic route.)
Ooo. Number four strikes me right in the heart. I can’t begin to describe how true that statement is. How many times have you come across your worst qualities in someone else? I find it constantly; there’s no escaping it. I must have some pretty general faults. (Yeah. That’s a nice excuse. I’ll take it.) I think I see my flaws in other people? Ha! Just wait until I have children. Good Lord. The little munchkins will be running around my feet, mimicking my best qualities (what qualities? where?) and magnifying my worst ones, rubbing them in my face ever so sweetly like only children can. This is why there’s so much pressure on parents to be perfect. The kiddos take whatever unruliness they can latch onto and multiply times six.
Onward to a totally unrelated subject! I coined a phrase; all by myself. Nothing to live by, probably. Who’d live by my advice anyway? I just happen to think it’s true. “Happiness is a choice, not a result.” There it is. I tried to lead up to it, build some anticipation; but you know me all too well. That doesn’t happen.
What do you think? True? Or is it an outlandishly fabricated ideal that doesn’t meet philosophical standard? In my opinion, perception is everything. Perception and attitude. The two most dynamically effective and influential aspects of a person. And they’re both inherently linked. Your attitude affects your perception, but what you see (and how you see it) shapes your mindset. Just like when we look outside, our moods are so easily affected by the weather. Approach the window with a carefree attitude, the day is great, you’re ready for some sun, the dog is ready for a game of Frisbee; lo and behold, it’s raining. (Never fails.) Awh, snap. The bright outlook has fled out the window and is now drooping sadly in a mud puddle. BUT! You know better than to think it will always be raining. The end of the world hasn’t come yet. Also, since you know that it will, in fact, not be raining forever, that it will eventually stop, a happy person might as well like the rainy weather while they have it. (This also ties directly to “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone”, but that’s for another day.)
Well, that was fun. We should catch up more often, you and me, blog. I enjoy your company.
P.S. This looked a lot longer when I first wrote it at two in the morning.
“There is no normal life, Wyatt. There's just life.”
“I spent my whole life not knowing what I want out of it, just chasing my tail. Now for the first time I know exactly what I want... and who... and that's the damnable misery of it.”
“My darling, you've cast your gaze upon the quintessential frontier type. Note the lean silhouette. Eyes closed by the sun, yet sharp as a hawk. He has the look of both predator and prey.”
“Yes, but there's just something about him. Something around the eyes, I don't know, reminds me of... me. No. I'm sure of it, I hate him.”
Reckon the first one could get preached in high schools everywhere. Wait, forget high schools. Preach it to the world! We’ve forgotten that there is no normal. You roll with the punches and get back on your feet. There will never be a time when we’re completely on top of it. Take them as they come and take advantage of the moment right in front of you. It’s one of the secrets to life. What if we found pleasure what we were doing, the moment we were doing it? We’d be in a perpetual state of quiet joy. That, ladies and gentlemen, is called contentment. (That was an interesting rabbit trail off the topic, now wasn’t it? Hope you like the scenic route.)
Ooo. Number four strikes me right in the heart. I can’t begin to describe how true that statement is. How many times have you come across your worst qualities in someone else? I find it constantly; there’s no escaping it. I must have some pretty general faults. (Yeah. That’s a nice excuse. I’ll take it.) I think I see my flaws in other people? Ha! Just wait until I have children. Good Lord. The little munchkins will be running around my feet, mimicking my best qualities (what qualities? where?) and magnifying my worst ones, rubbing them in my face ever so sweetly like only children can. This is why there’s so much pressure on parents to be perfect. The kiddos take whatever unruliness they can latch onto and multiply times six.
Onward to a totally unrelated subject! I coined a phrase; all by myself. Nothing to live by, probably. Who’d live by my advice anyway? I just happen to think it’s true. “Happiness is a choice, not a result.” There it is. I tried to lead up to it, build some anticipation; but you know me all too well. That doesn’t happen.
What do you think? True? Or is it an outlandishly fabricated ideal that doesn’t meet philosophical standard? In my opinion, perception is everything. Perception and attitude. The two most dynamically effective and influential aspects of a person. And they’re both inherently linked. Your attitude affects your perception, but what you see (and how you see it) shapes your mindset. Just like when we look outside, our moods are so easily affected by the weather. Approach the window with a carefree attitude, the day is great, you’re ready for some sun, the dog is ready for a game of Frisbee; lo and behold, it’s raining. (Never fails.) Awh, snap. The bright outlook has fled out the window and is now drooping sadly in a mud puddle. BUT! You know better than to think it will always be raining. The end of the world hasn’t come yet. Also, since you know that it will, in fact, not be raining forever, that it will eventually stop, a happy person might as well like the rainy weather while they have it. (This also ties directly to “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone”, but that’s for another day.)
Well, that was fun. We should catch up more often, you and me, blog. I enjoy your company.
P.S. This looked a lot longer when I first wrote it at two in the morning.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Blogmail
In the interest of saving time and effort, I decided to copy and paste an update I emailed to a friend. (*gasp* I do … other things online besides blogging. Maybe that’s why the blog only gets updated once in a blue moon.) The entire thing is fairly self-explanatory, so just sit back and enjoy yourselves as much as you can in this hideous example of novelty writing.
I’m taking a not-so-needed break from logarithms and graphing and algebraic statements to rattle off a handful of words at you. I’ve been trying to be a good girl, you know? Doing what needs to be done, even though I don’t feel like it and making my mama happy and growing up and being everything I always said I would be. The stuff I’ve been working at for the past five months. Tell me: as one who’s probably been in this spot before, does it ever get to be second nature? or is it just like everything else in that it’s always a constant battle? Because I’d really like there to be a niche somewhere down the road in which it will be simpler to adhere to industry.
Why is everything always a fight? Everything you get, you have to want, or else you never touch it. That’s laziness talking, right there. There is a built-in measure of laziness, correct? But that’s no excuse. You have to overcome it to make anything of yourself. Since when do we stop work just because we don’t want to do it? Who in history has ever gotten into the books with no effort? Besides Henry VIII, but that’s irrelevant.
So I’m going to stop complaining and say something remotely pleasant.
My grandparents have stuff on demand; very useful thing. Good Will Hunting was good; Eat Pray Love was a horrific waste of time. Hockey games went the way I wanted them to; Easter celebrations did not. My family is so… diverse. (Keeping the adjectives polite.) So many stupid people in my family. It’s awkward at times. And then there’s the argument that my parents’ opinions aren’t sovereign, so I might have a flawed bias. (Where’s the line between wise acceptance of advice and sidestepping a mere opinion?) But. Despite all the swarming discomfort, the holiday had its moments. Those moments are embarrassing. My grandmother says no one can make so many fart jokes as our family can. That enough of a hint for you? Regardless of the subject content, though, everybody was smiling (laughing) and enjoying everybody else’s company. Eh, it’s the thought that counts, right? Although I have my doubts about the thoughts that swarm around in some of their heads.
I tutored my cousin ; helped him with his writing assignment. Turns out, he had an introduction to a book critique due today and hadn’t even started. Good grief, he hadn’t even read the book yet and most of what he had read, he didn’t remember. We got an outline together. He knows where he’s going now. I told him to keep me updated. I did have to teach him what “devout” meant. Oy. (I failed to mention before that he’s older than I am. That might enlighten you as to why the “oy” was put there.)
There’s too much food around the holidays, too. I swear, after 4 days straight of eating whatever the heck I wanted is coming back to bite me. I hear the sit-ups calling me; and the road. But I need my bike fixed first.
Last night would have been the most perfect night to sleep outside. The temperature couldn’t have been sweeter; the moon wasn’t too bright; the stars… But I didn’t do it. Should have, but didn’t. Maybe tonight.
My father said I was a “grown girl” Sunday morning and it’s kind of a big deal, but it probably shouldn’t be. I never got the vibe from him before that he found me self-reliant and/or discerning. Now I don’t know what think he thinks. My job now is to prove myself to be both.
Somewhere in there, I started thinking of this as my blog, so if it sounds different, that might be why. Not sure what happened.
I’ll stop now.
Like I said. Self-explanatory. Don’t knock the abrupt ending. That was put there on purpose. Perhaps following suit here wouldn’t be a bad idea.
I’m taking a not-so-needed break from logarithms and graphing and algebraic statements to rattle off a handful of words at you. I’ve been trying to be a good girl, you know? Doing what needs to be done, even though I don’t feel like it and making my mama happy and growing up and being everything I always said I would be. The stuff I’ve been working at for the past five months. Tell me: as one who’s probably been in this spot before, does it ever get to be second nature? or is it just like everything else in that it’s always a constant battle? Because I’d really like there to be a niche somewhere down the road in which it will be simpler to adhere to industry.
Why is everything always a fight? Everything you get, you have to want, or else you never touch it. That’s laziness talking, right there. There is a built-in measure of laziness, correct? But that’s no excuse. You have to overcome it to make anything of yourself. Since when do we stop work just because we don’t want to do it? Who in history has ever gotten into the books with no effort? Besides Henry VIII, but that’s irrelevant.
So I’m going to stop complaining and say something remotely pleasant.
My grandparents have stuff on demand; very useful thing. Good Will Hunting was good; Eat Pray Love was a horrific waste of time. Hockey games went the way I wanted them to; Easter celebrations did not. My family is so… diverse. (Keeping the adjectives polite.) So many stupid people in my family. It’s awkward at times. And then there’s the argument that my parents’ opinions aren’t sovereign, so I might have a flawed bias. (Where’s the line between wise acceptance of advice and sidestepping a mere opinion?) But. Despite all the swarming discomfort, the holiday had its moments. Those moments are embarrassing. My grandmother says no one can make so many fart jokes as our family can. That enough of a hint for you? Regardless of the subject content, though, everybody was smiling (laughing) and enjoying everybody else’s company. Eh, it’s the thought that counts, right? Although I have my doubts about the thoughts that swarm around in some of their heads.
I tutored my cousin ; helped him with his writing assignment. Turns out, he had an introduction to a book critique due today and hadn’t even started. Good grief, he hadn’t even read the book yet and most of what he had read, he didn’t remember. We got an outline together. He knows where he’s going now. I told him to keep me updated. I did have to teach him what “devout” meant. Oy. (I failed to mention before that he’s older than I am. That might enlighten you as to why the “oy” was put there.)
There’s too much food around the holidays, too. I swear, after 4 days straight of eating whatever the heck I wanted is coming back to bite me. I hear the sit-ups calling me; and the road. But I need my bike fixed first.
Last night would have been the most perfect night to sleep outside. The temperature couldn’t have been sweeter; the moon wasn’t too bright; the stars… But I didn’t do it. Should have, but didn’t. Maybe tonight.
My father said I was a “grown girl” Sunday morning and it’s kind of a big deal, but it probably shouldn’t be. I never got the vibe from him before that he found me self-reliant and/or discerning. Now I don’t know what think he thinks. My job now is to prove myself to be both.
Somewhere in there, I started thinking of this as my blog, so if it sounds different, that might be why. Not sure what happened.
I’ll stop now.
Like I said. Self-explanatory. Don’t knock the abrupt ending. That was put there on purpose. Perhaps following suit here wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Don't Stop Believin'
Cue the cheesy introduction, saying something like “Well, here I am on an eastbound train, headed for P___.” (totally just did the old old-fashioned thing of leaving a monstrous blank after the first letter of the destination name. Nobody does that anymore. Interesting.) I did say a train. A preferred mode of transportation, for me. I love the train; I always recommend it and what the heck am I doing? I promised there would be no commercials in this blog thing. I’m going to adamantly stick to that rule. Maybe. (And the train stop at Durand is by far the most picturesque, in case anyone wants to know.)
There’s a banner at one of the stops. “Blue Water something something something-remotely-related-to-the-local-train-station’s 35th Anniversary; 1974-2009” What? 2009. Two-thousand. Nine. Good grief. Stuck in the past, are we? Can’t get past that year, I guess. Too many good memories? or did the marketing executives retire and leave unfinished business? Do train stations of this size even have marketing execs?
I have a tradition I started for myself that’s almost as cheesy as that intro up there. Every time I know I’m headed for a train trip, I purposely incorporate Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” into my life for a day. I think about it; I play it on my iPod… thing; I dance to it; I get it stuck in my head. It’s not all that random an idea. You got the lyrics (I have no idea what kind of copyright allowances or whatever I need to use this in here, but I’m going for it):
Just a small-town girl
Livin’ in a lonely world. (That’s me.)
She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere… (The train I typically take arrives at destination around 12 a.m. Huh. That works out.)
Then you have the really ironic part:
Just a city boy
Born and raised in south Detroit.
What? How’d they know my locale? I tell you, they wrote this song for me before I was even born. *gasp!* It’s a sign. Now the question is, is it a sign of good fortune or impending doom? ….Only time will tell….
The most colourful stop so far was F___ (oh, see? I did it again; now it looks like I'm swearing. Great). And I don’t just say that because it primarily involved black people. Oh, snap; sorry. African-American people. A whole bunch of them got off the train. Which really means nothing at all; I just noticed it. That was the biggest group of people to get off the train at one time, too. Which is also needless information that I felt like pointing out. You know something else, though; that’s not quite so idle a fact, is that this particular city has been crowned with the title of “fifth most dangerous city in the United States”. Ooo. In a moment of true sincerity and compassion, I’d like to say I hope that ginormous group of African Americans gets home safely.
At this stop, a man boarded. (Oh, big whoop; “a man boarded”. Apologies; I couldn’t readily conjur up a better way to say it.) He’s obviously a homeless man; or at the very least, down to the bottom of the barrel. Tattered cap; big puffy coat, torn at a few spots along different seams, tufts of cotton poking through. He carries a guitar; the string ends weren’t trimmed when they last got replaced, and they’re curling all over the place on the guitar head. (Kind of a snazzy guitar, otherwise, though. Props to the dude.) He didn’t make the car smell any better, I’ll give you that, but I have nothing against this guy. A cheerful sort, seems like; makes eye contact. (Eye contact is a hard thing to accomplish in environments like this. On the other hand, eye contact with certain kinds of people can be trouble; I have learned that much.)
The one thing about train travel is that once you get within 10 minutes of your destination, everything crawls. The pace over the course of the trip isn’t all that bad, but it never seems to be quite fast enough for those 10 minutes. The feeling is like that sensation you get when the Fooseball is steadily headed into your goal; it’s not fast at all, or slow, either, but it grudgingly revolves at just the right pace to go slow-mo in your head and drive you crazy. Is it just me, or does that happen to other people, too?
One hour later…
Okay, scratch everything I said about the guy. He creeps me out. You know what I said about “certain kinds of people”? He was a certain kind of people. I swear, I will never learn.
The train, against all odds, arrived early, despite being half an hour late picking us up. An impressive job done by the conductor, I must say. Even with a gaping hole in the schedule from the hold-up in F____.
My ride, who also happens to be my grandfather, was on time; which is late, for a girl who showed up early. (You follow?)
Five minutes into it, and I already fear for my life. The driver (afore-mentioned grandpapa) commences to throw himself against the horn; there are no other cars on this interstate. Nothing. An ant. “Thought I saw an ant on the road. I was wrong; I think it was an uncle. It’s all good.” Seriously. This is the same man who jostles the minivan on an inch of ice at seven in the morning to “get the heater fluid moving through”. By all reasoning, I should probably be dead, considering all the car trips I’ve sustained with him.
Get home, settle in, unpack my suitcase into the dresser drawers (first time I’ve ever done that; unpacked my suitcase into the dresser drawers in a non-permanent residence); wait for the little sister to conk out; and turn totally bonkers because … I can. I’ve been hearing a lot about this movie “Good Will Hunting”. So. I jumped. I’m not entirely positive, but this may well be the first rated-R movie I’ve watched in my life. Yay me, growing up and stuff. Guess what? The movie rocks. I’m floored. Well, so far, at least. Love this guy. He’s basically perfect, except, you know, for all the mouthy junk that he throws around.
“Free-weights, huh?”
“Yeah, big time.”
“How much you bench?”
“Two eighty five; what d’you bench?”
“…You paint that?”
The guy’s a genius. I think I’m in love, yo.
This movie’s going to get me talking all slang now, and that would murder my “reputation,” so I’d better either shut up or stop watching, and there’s no way I’m gonna stop watching this thing, so ya’ll are gonna get left in the dust. I’m such a mean blogger. I love it.
There’s a banner at one of the stops. “Blue Water something something something-remotely-related-to-the-local-train-station’s 35th Anniversary; 1974-2009” What? 2009. Two-thousand. Nine. Good grief. Stuck in the past, are we? Can’t get past that year, I guess. Too many good memories? or did the marketing executives retire and leave unfinished business? Do train stations of this size even have marketing execs?
I have a tradition I started for myself that’s almost as cheesy as that intro up there. Every time I know I’m headed for a train trip, I purposely incorporate Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” into my life for a day. I think about it; I play it on my iPod… thing; I dance to it; I get it stuck in my head. It’s not all that random an idea. You got the lyrics (I have no idea what kind of copyright allowances or whatever I need to use this in here, but I’m going for it):
Just a small-town girl
Livin’ in a lonely world. (That’s me.)
She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere… (The train I typically take arrives at destination around 12 a.m. Huh. That works out.)
Then you have the really ironic part:
Just a city boy
Born and raised in south Detroit.
What? How’d they know my locale? I tell you, they wrote this song for me before I was even born. *gasp!* It’s a sign. Now the question is, is it a sign of good fortune or impending doom? ….Only time will tell….
The most colourful stop so far was F___ (oh, see? I did it again; now it looks like I'm swearing. Great). And I don’t just say that because it primarily involved black people. Oh, snap; sorry. African-American people. A whole bunch of them got off the train. Which really means nothing at all; I just noticed it. That was the biggest group of people to get off the train at one time, too. Which is also needless information that I felt like pointing out. You know something else, though; that’s not quite so idle a fact, is that this particular city has been crowned with the title of “fifth most dangerous city in the United States”. Ooo. In a moment of true sincerity and compassion, I’d like to say I hope that ginormous group of African Americans gets home safely.
At this stop, a man boarded. (Oh, big whoop; “a man boarded”. Apologies; I couldn’t readily conjur up a better way to say it.) He’s obviously a homeless man; or at the very least, down to the bottom of the barrel. Tattered cap; big puffy coat, torn at a few spots along different seams, tufts of cotton poking through. He carries a guitar; the string ends weren’t trimmed when they last got replaced, and they’re curling all over the place on the guitar head. (Kind of a snazzy guitar, otherwise, though. Props to the dude.) He didn’t make the car smell any better, I’ll give you that, but I have nothing against this guy. A cheerful sort, seems like; makes eye contact. (Eye contact is a hard thing to accomplish in environments like this. On the other hand, eye contact with certain kinds of people can be trouble; I have learned that much.)
The one thing about train travel is that once you get within 10 minutes of your destination, everything crawls. The pace over the course of the trip isn’t all that bad, but it never seems to be quite fast enough for those 10 minutes. The feeling is like that sensation you get when the Fooseball is steadily headed into your goal; it’s not fast at all, or slow, either, but it grudgingly revolves at just the right pace to go slow-mo in your head and drive you crazy. Is it just me, or does that happen to other people, too?
One hour later…
Okay, scratch everything I said about the guy. He creeps me out. You know what I said about “certain kinds of people”? He was a certain kind of people. I swear, I will never learn.
The train, against all odds, arrived early, despite being half an hour late picking us up. An impressive job done by the conductor, I must say. Even with a gaping hole in the schedule from the hold-up in F____.
My ride, who also happens to be my grandfather, was on time; which is late, for a girl who showed up early. (You follow?)
Five minutes into it, and I already fear for my life. The driver (afore-mentioned grandpapa) commences to throw himself against the horn; there are no other cars on this interstate. Nothing. An ant. “Thought I saw an ant on the road. I was wrong; I think it was an uncle. It’s all good.” Seriously. This is the same man who jostles the minivan on an inch of ice at seven in the morning to “get the heater fluid moving through”. By all reasoning, I should probably be dead, considering all the car trips I’ve sustained with him.
Get home, settle in, unpack my suitcase into the dresser drawers (first time I’ve ever done that; unpacked my suitcase into the dresser drawers in a non-permanent residence); wait for the little sister to conk out; and turn totally bonkers because … I can. I’ve been hearing a lot about this movie “Good Will Hunting”. So. I jumped. I’m not entirely positive, but this may well be the first rated-R movie I’ve watched in my life. Yay me, growing up and stuff. Guess what? The movie rocks. I’m floored. Well, so far, at least. Love this guy. He’s basically perfect, except, you know, for all the mouthy junk that he throws around.
“Free-weights, huh?”
“Yeah, big time.”
“How much you bench?”
“Two eighty five; what d’you bench?”
“…You paint that?”
The guy’s a genius. I think I’m in love, yo.
This movie’s going to get me talking all slang now, and that would murder my “reputation,” so I’d better either shut up or stop watching, and there’s no way I’m gonna stop watching this thing, so ya’ll are gonna get left in the dust. I’m such a mean blogger. I love it.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
My Apologies, Indeed
Turns out, it takes time and energy to write a long lot of nothing on a regular basis. Blogs are fun, but they're nothing if the writer doesn't POST every once in a while. I should be punishing me. But I've decided to cut myself some slack. For my own sake. For no real reason whatsoever other than the fact that I love giving excuses to myself in search of a happy place. Our happy place is a forum of our own making. So I've been diligently constructing and maintaining mine. I'm awfully good at it, you know; making my happy place. It's so easy. At its core, all it is is telling yourself how much you like you; flattering yourself with things you know aren't completely true in the hopes of glossing over any glaring inadequacies you might potentially harbor deep in your soul. But you know. Fake it to make it.
Once you start saying things, you start to believe what you say is true. It's just the way it is. People have said this before. Very dangerous concept. But it can also be a fantastic tool; mostly used to build self-confidence. Rather a hopeless cycle, it is, though. If our confidence is found in ourselves, where does it start? We start out weak, so we make up the belief that we are strong. Then all of a sudden, we're supposed to be strong because we keep telling ourselves we are? As much as I wish I had brown eyes, I can't make my eyes turn away from the greyish-greenish-bluish whatever-colour-they-are.
Another example: here I have this big haystack. And I'm going to stand right here on this haystack. In the middle of this hurricane. And this haystack is going to stay firm. It's going to be strong. Through the hurricane. Because I know it will be. And because I'm standing on it. And because, since I believe in it, it's going to brave the storm and not move.
What a novel idea. Totally impractical, though.
I know where my confidence is found. No, it's not in myself. But what about the others who don't have my source of confidence? The best they can do is try to reason it out and find an anchor in something they perceive to be solid. Which begs the question "what exactly is solid and what isn't?" And this is the debate of the ages. This is what philosophers have studied to find. This is the stuff of fairy tales and dreams. As sought-after as the fountain of youth; the answers to life's persistent questions.
Then there are the ones who would rather the questions go unanswered. This is a concept I don't fully understand yet. My being the super-mega problem solver that I characteristically am makes it profoundly difficult to sit back and witness something that can be changed go on unhindered. It's part of my nature to be proactive. So, naturally, it's never my cup of tea to watch trouble form and continue without attempting to apprehend it. And should we? Even though it may not be part of one's natural bent? Can we really rest on our laurels and watch all the goings-on with quiet complacence? Or do we, as human beings, have an obligation to the race of humanity to stretch out a hand and amend what we are able?
"See a need; fill a need." Has anyone ever been respected who did not try to better something? We respect the people we esteem because of their drive toward the improvement of the world in some way, shape, or form. Therefore, if we strive to be respected, we strive to help. In any way we can. A fulfillment of duty; a fulfillment of a life.
Once you start saying things, you start to believe what you say is true. It's just the way it is. People have said this before. Very dangerous concept. But it can also be a fantastic tool; mostly used to build self-confidence. Rather a hopeless cycle, it is, though. If our confidence is found in ourselves, where does it start? We start out weak, so we make up the belief that we are strong. Then all of a sudden, we're supposed to be strong because we keep telling ourselves we are? As much as I wish I had brown eyes, I can't make my eyes turn away from the greyish-greenish-bluish whatever-colour-they-are.
Another example: here I have this big haystack. And I'm going to stand right here on this haystack. In the middle of this hurricane. And this haystack is going to stay firm. It's going to be strong. Through the hurricane. Because I know it will be. And because I'm standing on it. And because, since I believe in it, it's going to brave the storm and not move.
What a novel idea. Totally impractical, though.
I know where my confidence is found. No, it's not in myself. But what about the others who don't have my source of confidence? The best they can do is try to reason it out and find an anchor in something they perceive to be solid. Which begs the question "what exactly is solid and what isn't?" And this is the debate of the ages. This is what philosophers have studied to find. This is the stuff of fairy tales and dreams. As sought-after as the fountain of youth; the answers to life's persistent questions.
Then there are the ones who would rather the questions go unanswered. This is a concept I don't fully understand yet. My being the super-mega problem solver that I characteristically am makes it profoundly difficult to sit back and witness something that can be changed go on unhindered. It's part of my nature to be proactive. So, naturally, it's never my cup of tea to watch trouble form and continue without attempting to apprehend it. And should we? Even though it may not be part of one's natural bent? Can we really rest on our laurels and watch all the goings-on with quiet complacence? Or do we, as human beings, have an obligation to the race of humanity to stretch out a hand and amend what we are able?
"See a need; fill a need." Has anyone ever been respected who did not try to better something? We respect the people we esteem because of their drive toward the improvement of the world in some way, shape, or form. Therefore, if we strive to be respected, we strive to help. In any way we can. A fulfillment of duty; a fulfillment of a life.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Raise Up Your Glass(es)
I thought, in this brilliantly ridiculous mind I have, I would take a post and brag about somebody. A particular somebody. Somebody special; and somebody completely worth mentioning. My father.
First, some background, perhaps, hm? Okay. Once upon a time, in a far away land, there was (wait for it) ... a little girl and her father. (Woosh! Wow. Big surprise beginning, right there.) And this little girl was such an enigmatic fusion of her mother and her father that neither of her parents knew exactly what to do with her. Neither knew, but especially not her daddy, since he's not the kind to look into the grey areas of personal relations and individual character in the first place. You see, this father was the kind who saw in black and white (colourblindness did run in the family, you know); what was was and what wasn't solid fact wasn't to be trusted and probably shouldn't be considered all that much. But this theory was mercilessly destroyed by the young daughter who tore the cover off the Book of Presupposed Absolutes.
The father spent years just trying to figure out this new concept. Puzzling over it. Messing with the pieces and trying to make them fit. But it was almost as difficult as a four-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle depicting the inner workings of a 1950s alarm clock. I'm sure many times, he started to give up, but after several years, the moving parts started working themselves together.
....And they are, ladies and gentlemen. They are indeed starting to come together. My dad and I have been so alike and so different for so long. For years, we haven't been able to understand each other in the slightest. And it's just now starting to make sense. Maybe it's because I've gotten older and a tad more rational-minded (emphasize "tad"). But it's working. Somehow. Like magic.
There are a lot of wonderful things about my dad. He's hard working, for one. His employers love him because he gets things done. He makes the other employees look bad (well, that's also partly because most of the other employees are bad. It would probably be best if I left that bit out, though, to inflate his prestige in the mind of the reader.) Here's the catch, though: my father hates his job. And yet, he still excels in his field. Dedication, my dear friends, is where it's at. Dedication and responsibility.
Not only that, but loyalty as well. (I couldn't NOT include this example. It warrants its own mention.) We've established that he hates his job; and three days ago, a message was left on the answering machine from "Cyndie at Executive Something-Something of This-That-or the -Other-Thing", talking about all kinds of things I didn't have the motivation to follow. Now, I can't say they were offering him a position or anything as huge as all that, but I do know that he deleted the message without entertaining a thought of leaving his current company. For some reason, when he hit the delete button, I couldn't help but be filled with awe. In his shoes, I probably would have let myself think things over for a little while before turning down any kind of offer. No thinking involved, here. It was touch and go. Beep. Done.
One of the most important, significant things my father ever taught me was what should be considered his mantra: "Never assume anything." Regrettably, I have not yet completely learned this lesson. Never take anything for granted. Always expect the unexpected. It's a good rule. Pretty wise, I daresay. Most, if not all misunderstandings are based on incorrect assumptions; and if there's one thing my father doesn't like, it's conflict based on misunderstanding. Stupid mistakes are not welcome; he'd rather be meticulous, bored, and right than sloppy, entertained, and wrong in any way. (This is also another source of my perfectionism.)
Never has he really been open to change, however. But he's been getting better about this one in recent years. Several years ago, he started eating vegetables and trying new foods. He learned to like coffee. (Nowadays Mama can't keep him out of it long enough to snatch a cup for herself.) And the newest adjustment is the pair of spectacles he's been prescribed. Now, personally, I happen to love my dad in glasses. He looks so very smart. Dad always looked smart, but glasses have a way of helping that along, don't you think? (Admittedly, though, the best part of having a dad with glasses is having a dad who's perfectly comfortable with letting his daughter wear them just for the fun of it. Yes, I do; I wear them sometimes when he's not using them. I always wanted glasses as a kid and am now unfathomably jealous.)
I'm almost 100% positive there was more I had intended to say, but whatever it was, the concept is probably buried somewhere in what I've already said. No, I'm not a Daddy's-girl. I'm more of a Mama's-girl, in every sense. But my father's character begs more than just a mere mention or a slight reference. This entry all is to say all the things I haven't said over the years, but probably should have. If this means I've been failing as a daughter, it ends here. My dad's pretty amazing, and I'm an idiot if I don't recognize it. So I propose a toast, with my virtual champagne glass, to my dad. The best man in the world. (So far.)
First, some background, perhaps, hm? Okay. Once upon a time, in a far away land, there was (wait for it) ... a little girl and her father. (Woosh! Wow. Big surprise beginning, right there.) And this little girl was such an enigmatic fusion of her mother and her father that neither of her parents knew exactly what to do with her. Neither knew, but especially not her daddy, since he's not the kind to look into the grey areas of personal relations and individual character in the first place. You see, this father was the kind who saw in black and white (colourblindness did run in the family, you know); what was was and what wasn't solid fact wasn't to be trusted and probably shouldn't be considered all that much. But this theory was mercilessly destroyed by the young daughter who tore the cover off the Book of Presupposed Absolutes.
The father spent years just trying to figure out this new concept. Puzzling over it. Messing with the pieces and trying to make them fit. But it was almost as difficult as a four-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle depicting the inner workings of a 1950s alarm clock. I'm sure many times, he started to give up, but after several years, the moving parts started working themselves together.
....And they are, ladies and gentlemen. They are indeed starting to come together. My dad and I have been so alike and so different for so long. For years, we haven't been able to understand each other in the slightest. And it's just now starting to make sense. Maybe it's because I've gotten older and a tad more rational-minded (emphasize "tad"). But it's working. Somehow. Like magic.
There are a lot of wonderful things about my dad. He's hard working, for one. His employers love him because he gets things done. He makes the other employees look bad (well, that's also partly because most of the other employees are bad. It would probably be best if I left that bit out, though, to inflate his prestige in the mind of the reader.) Here's the catch, though: my father hates his job. And yet, he still excels in his field. Dedication, my dear friends, is where it's at. Dedication and responsibility.
Not only that, but loyalty as well. (I couldn't NOT include this example. It warrants its own mention.) We've established that he hates his job; and three days ago, a message was left on the answering machine from "Cyndie at Executive Something-Something of This-That-or the -Other-Thing", talking about all kinds of things I didn't have the motivation to follow. Now, I can't say they were offering him a position or anything as huge as all that, but I do know that he deleted the message without entertaining a thought of leaving his current company. For some reason, when he hit the delete button, I couldn't help but be filled with awe. In his shoes, I probably would have let myself think things over for a little while before turning down any kind of offer. No thinking involved, here. It was touch and go. Beep. Done.
One of the most important, significant things my father ever taught me was what should be considered his mantra: "Never assume anything." Regrettably, I have not yet completely learned this lesson. Never take anything for granted. Always expect the unexpected. It's a good rule. Pretty wise, I daresay. Most, if not all misunderstandings are based on incorrect assumptions; and if there's one thing my father doesn't like, it's conflict based on misunderstanding. Stupid mistakes are not welcome; he'd rather be meticulous, bored, and right than sloppy, entertained, and wrong in any way. (This is also another source of my perfectionism.)
Never has he really been open to change, however. But he's been getting better about this one in recent years. Several years ago, he started eating vegetables and trying new foods. He learned to like coffee. (Nowadays Mama can't keep him out of it long enough to snatch a cup for herself.) And the newest adjustment is the pair of spectacles he's been prescribed. Now, personally, I happen to love my dad in glasses. He looks so very smart. Dad always looked smart, but glasses have a way of helping that along, don't you think? (Admittedly, though, the best part of having a dad with glasses is having a dad who's perfectly comfortable with letting his daughter wear them just for the fun of it. Yes, I do; I wear them sometimes when he's not using them. I always wanted glasses as a kid and am now unfathomably jealous.)
I'm almost 100% positive there was more I had intended to say, but whatever it was, the concept is probably buried somewhere in what I've already said. No, I'm not a Daddy's-girl. I'm more of a Mama's-girl, in every sense. But my father's character begs more than just a mere mention or a slight reference. This entry all is to say all the things I haven't said over the years, but probably should have. If this means I've been failing as a daughter, it ends here. My dad's pretty amazing, and I'm an idiot if I don't recognize it. So I propose a toast, with my virtual champagne glass, to my dad. The best man in the world. (So far.)
Saturday, March 19, 2011
The ... Threequel?
Last night, I got more hours of sleep than I normally get in 3 days. An accomplishment, indeed; or perhaps sad. Sleeping usually means you miss out on something else going on. I'm the kind who likes to be in on everything. Gets me into trouble more often than not. And it might maybe make me annoying sometimes to a lot of people. Trying to change that. All the activity in the world means nothing when you no one enjoys it with you, no? Cliche, yes, I know; but cliches are repeated so much because... they're true. And they resonate with a wide range of people. Ergo, they're popular. And popular eventually means overused. And overused over time means ..... ta-da! cliche.
News, news. Spring is in the air, and the adjacent fever has snuggled deep down inside and is making me restless. So what to do about it? Last week, it was washing the bathroom walls. (Which, by the way, less than a week later were already filthified.) This week, it was painting that bookshelf that's been sitting and waiting for probably almost a year. It's collected all sorts of things on its three awkwardly-set and now bowing shelves. I swear, I have so many books, the library's jealous. I think I'm going to take inventory as I reassemble the danger zone that used to be my bedroom. At ten o'clock last night, I was required to take five minutes just to clear myself some space to sleep on my own bed. (P.S. Stacks of books look so much bigger on the bed than on the floor. It was traumatic, looking at it all on the bed.)
Among the things I found was my piggy bank. Well, I didn't find it; I just sort of rediscovered it. Or was reminded of its existence. Yes, I have a piggy bank. And a cute one it is, too. It was a present from a very dear (much older; the kind that can afford to dote upon young ones) friend several years ago. But you know what's even better than finding a cute piggy bank? Finding money in it. Yeah, you guessed it, didn't you? Naturally. When you think of a piggy bank, money is typically the next step. I have yet to count whatever it is I still have in that thing. However, I'm fairly certain I won't be disappointed. May that be a hint to ye.
Oh! and another of the Most Interesting Finds Known to Man: scratch papers containing forgotten names and prehistoric email addresses. I barely remember who some of these people even are. So. Sorry Josh Whoever-you-are (couldn't pronounce the guy's last name, I swear, if I were a phonetics expert). You never did get something from me in your inbox. Your loss. Or rather, gain, when you consider the sheer volume of this blog post. As I recall whatever fuzzy memory I might have of this mystery guy, I seem to remember he wasn't much of a reader anyway.
On to the original point of the discussion. Who knew a simple bookshelf could be difficult to paint? I do this for a living and have never painted a bookshelf. Somehow, that's simply wrong. Can't say that anymore, though. Yay experience.
Painting, you know, is more than just slapping on the gooey coloured stuff and assuming it will stick. There are tricks to doing it right. Many little things that are easy to miss and that you have to watch out for. It's what separates the men from the boys in this business. Things like streaks in the brushstrokes and such. The job has to be perfect. And if it's not perfect, I will notice. I'm a perfectionist like that. But then, so is my boss and mentor. It's why she gets the high-end jobs that make the big bucks. Rich people like their fancy things done up right. Can't blame them. I wouldn't pay a bunch of money for a job just any old person could do. Show some finesse, and maybe you'll be worth my while to pay you.
We had cottage cheese in the house this afternoon. I had some for lunch. We no longer have any cottage cheese in the house. In some cases, I do eat it right out of the carton. Don't say it. I know. It's bad. But I usually end up eating most of it anyway, so why make myself more dishes to wash? Relax, though. I decided to be civilized this time. We also had some tropical fruit cocktail ready to go, so I had that, too. I do believe I'm the only person I know of who eats tropical fruit cocktail primarily for the papaya.
One fantastic thing about spring is that barefoot season makes a gigantic comeback. I barely wear shoes at all in the summer. For lots of reasons, but what matter the reasons? I just prefer it. I promised my mama I'd get married in bare feet, once. It was really more of a dare, on her part, but it sounded like a good idea, so why not? It could be romantic, in some way. I'll find a way to make it work. Resourcefulness. Yeah, let's call it that. But self-inflicted, since nobody actually forced me to not wear shoes.
News, news. Spring is in the air, and the adjacent fever has snuggled deep down inside and is making me restless. So what to do about it? Last week, it was washing the bathroom walls. (Which, by the way, less than a week later were already filthified.) This week, it was painting that bookshelf that's been sitting and waiting for probably almost a year. It's collected all sorts of things on its three awkwardly-set and now bowing shelves. I swear, I have so many books, the library's jealous. I think I'm going to take inventory as I reassemble the danger zone that used to be my bedroom. At ten o'clock last night, I was required to take five minutes just to clear myself some space to sleep on my own bed. (P.S. Stacks of books look so much bigger on the bed than on the floor. It was traumatic, looking at it all on the bed.)
Among the things I found was my piggy bank. Well, I didn't find it; I just sort of rediscovered it. Or was reminded of its existence. Yes, I have a piggy bank. And a cute one it is, too. It was a present from a very dear (much older; the kind that can afford to dote upon young ones) friend several years ago. But you know what's even better than finding a cute piggy bank? Finding money in it. Yeah, you guessed it, didn't you? Naturally. When you think of a piggy bank, money is typically the next step. I have yet to count whatever it is I still have in that thing. However, I'm fairly certain I won't be disappointed. May that be a hint to ye.
Oh! and another of the Most Interesting Finds Known to Man: scratch papers containing forgotten names and prehistoric email addresses. I barely remember who some of these people even are. So. Sorry Josh Whoever-you-are (couldn't pronounce the guy's last name, I swear, if I were a phonetics expert). You never did get something from me in your inbox. Your loss. Or rather, gain, when you consider the sheer volume of this blog post. As I recall whatever fuzzy memory I might have of this mystery guy, I seem to remember he wasn't much of a reader anyway.
On to the original point of the discussion. Who knew a simple bookshelf could be difficult to paint? I do this for a living and have never painted a bookshelf. Somehow, that's simply wrong. Can't say that anymore, though. Yay experience.
Painting, you know, is more than just slapping on the gooey coloured stuff and assuming it will stick. There are tricks to doing it right. Many little things that are easy to miss and that you have to watch out for. It's what separates the men from the boys in this business. Things like streaks in the brushstrokes and such. The job has to be perfect. And if it's not perfect, I will notice. I'm a perfectionist like that. But then, so is my boss and mentor. It's why she gets the high-end jobs that make the big bucks. Rich people like their fancy things done up right. Can't blame them. I wouldn't pay a bunch of money for a job just any old person could do. Show some finesse, and maybe you'll be worth my while to pay you.
We had cottage cheese in the house this afternoon. I had some for lunch. We no longer have any cottage cheese in the house. In some cases, I do eat it right out of the carton. Don't say it. I know. It's bad. But I usually end up eating most of it anyway, so why make myself more dishes to wash? Relax, though. I decided to be civilized this time. We also had some tropical fruit cocktail ready to go, so I had that, too. I do believe I'm the only person I know of who eats tropical fruit cocktail primarily for the papaya.
One fantastic thing about spring is that barefoot season makes a gigantic comeback. I barely wear shoes at all in the summer. For lots of reasons, but what matter the reasons? I just prefer it. I promised my mama I'd get married in bare feet, once. It was really more of a dare, on her part, but it sounded like a good idea, so why not? It could be romantic, in some way. I'll find a way to make it work. Resourcefulness. Yeah, let's call it that. But self-inflicted, since nobody actually forced me to not wear shoes.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Musings: The Sequel
Welcome back, welcome back. Glad to see you still intact and even in such good spirits as to return to this literary abomination.
I told you this would happen, though: I would walk away from the saved entry and rediscover multiple points, all vital to the topic, that I had forgotten to make. Naturally, when the next opportunity to establish them comes along, they flee from my brain like a rabbit from a rattlesnake (oo, word picture). It's also almost 4 in the morning. (Blogspot lies. I can't figure yet how to make it change the time of day, so it will probably be about 5 hours behind my actual time.) As would be expected of any human being, I am tired and cannot appropriately formulate word combinations as accurately as I would normally. I'll do my best, despite the odds.
Mm-yes. The other reason for blogs? Ranting. Absolutely. I define a rant as an exhaustive spiel on the problems you have with the world and how the world is not fixing those problems that is terminated with a grandiose finale of either resignation to that which cannot be changed or resolve to that which is possible yet difficult. In other words, I'm dumping my issues on the general public. Don't panic; this won't hurt a bit.
I have since learned from a friend that blogs are now considered "old news". To be quite brutally honest, I'm relieved to have retained my old-fashioned character. I would have missed it, had I lost it.
In the interest of my overall well-being and your sanity, I believe I shall ditch my typical, drawn-out farewell and leave you with a neat little cliffhanger. Next posting is bound to be epic. Just take my word for it. Yes, because I'm cool like that. Stay tuned for the.... sequel to the sequel.
Some cliffhanger that turned out to be. (Can't you just taste the sarcasm, here? Delicious.)
I told you this would happen, though: I would walk away from the saved entry and rediscover multiple points, all vital to the topic, that I had forgotten to make. Naturally, when the next opportunity to establish them comes along, they flee from my brain like a rabbit from a rattlesnake (oo, word picture). It's also almost 4 in the morning. (Blogspot lies. I can't figure yet how to make it change the time of day, so it will probably be about 5 hours behind my actual time.) As would be expected of any human being, I am tired and cannot appropriately formulate word combinations as accurately as I would normally. I'll do my best, despite the odds.
Mm-yes. The other reason for blogs? Ranting. Absolutely. I define a rant as an exhaustive spiel on the problems you have with the world and how the world is not fixing those problems that is terminated with a grandiose finale of either resignation to that which cannot be changed or resolve to that which is possible yet difficult. In other words, I'm dumping my issues on the general public. Don't panic; this won't hurt a bit.
I have since learned from a friend that blogs are now considered "old news". To be quite brutally honest, I'm relieved to have retained my old-fashioned character. I would have missed it, had I lost it.
In the interest of my overall well-being and your sanity, I believe I shall ditch my typical, drawn-out farewell and leave you with a neat little cliffhanger. Next posting is bound to be epic. Just take my word for it. Yes, because I'm cool like that. Stay tuned for the.... sequel to the sequel.
Some cliffhanger that turned out to be. (Can't you just taste the sarcasm, here? Delicious.)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
And So It Begins...
Ah, yes. Fear me. An eternal, uninhibited forum for my insidious ideals has been awarded me. Or I awarded it to myself. This still counts, correct?
I do, indeed, have reasons for commencing such a hazardous endeavour as a blog. For one, it gives me a little corner where I can unconcernedly utilize my exhaustive vocabulary and not cause anyone annoyance. Unless, of course, they wish to be annoyed. If that be the case, they can just read what I have to say, get their daily annoyance fix and live the rest of their waking hours in contented peace knowing they have fulfilled their duty and paid their tribute to mankind. Or womankind. Peoplekind. Whatever. I'm not sexist, I swear. ..... Well, not intensely so. Sexist within reason. How on earth can you be "sexist within reason"? (Evidence of why this blog begins with the word "paradoxical".)
What does one do with a blog? It's really just a long spew of the author's opinions, is it not? Periodically with an added plug for certain specific causes/activities. Oh boy. I promise not to plague the masses with bothersome and useless advertisements for irrelevant junk. People have enough clutter in their lives without someone else shoving more extras into them. A wise man once said, "America is tanking because Americans are lazy and fat." How true, in many many ways.
How did I get from the purpose of blogging to the state of a nation in less than a paragraph? Scatter-brained, I am, it would seem. Or just leading an insightful string of thought along an uncharted path. Yeah. I like that second one.
Some blog this turned out to be. A flop of a first post. Coulda tried harder, couldn't I? I suppose I could have. But if the readers really care about what's going on here, they'll come back for the sequel. A flop of a first post leaves room for immense improvement, at least, so the next blog ought to be amazing. Comparatively amazing, anyway.
You know what's terrible? The fact that, as I leave this draft and save it, I'll think of about seventeen other important points I forgot to make. And it will be too late. I've always been one for irony, but this is ridiculous. In the end, I have to desist somewhere. Sadly, I'm not one for abrupt goodbyes. I drag them out. I think I may have caused myself some trouble in the past with that one. Let's just say I'm learning how to stay my welcome and not wear it out. Wish me luck.
I do, indeed, have reasons for commencing such a hazardous endeavour as a blog. For one, it gives me a little corner where I can unconcernedly utilize my exhaustive vocabulary and not cause anyone annoyance. Unless, of course, they wish to be annoyed. If that be the case, they can just read what I have to say, get their daily annoyance fix and live the rest of their waking hours in contented peace knowing they have fulfilled their duty and paid their tribute to mankind. Or womankind. Peoplekind. Whatever. I'm not sexist, I swear. ..... Well, not intensely so. Sexist within reason. How on earth can you be "sexist within reason"? (Evidence of why this blog begins with the word "paradoxical".)
What does one do with a blog? It's really just a long spew of the author's opinions, is it not? Periodically with an added plug for certain specific causes/activities. Oh boy. I promise not to plague the masses with bothersome and useless advertisements for irrelevant junk. People have enough clutter in their lives without someone else shoving more extras into them. A wise man once said, "America is tanking because Americans are lazy and fat." How true, in many many ways.
How did I get from the purpose of blogging to the state of a nation in less than a paragraph? Scatter-brained, I am, it would seem. Or just leading an insightful string of thought along an uncharted path. Yeah. I like that second one.
Some blog this turned out to be. A flop of a first post. Coulda tried harder, couldn't I? I suppose I could have. But if the readers really care about what's going on here, they'll come back for the sequel. A flop of a first post leaves room for immense improvement, at least, so the next blog ought to be amazing. Comparatively amazing, anyway.
You know what's terrible? The fact that, as I leave this draft and save it, I'll think of about seventeen other important points I forgot to make. And it will be too late. I've always been one for irony, but this is ridiculous. In the end, I have to desist somewhere. Sadly, I'm not one for abrupt goodbyes. I drag them out. I think I may have caused myself some trouble in the past with that one. Let's just say I'm learning how to stay my welcome and not wear it out. Wish me luck.
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