Just. Shut. Up.

I think the world would benefit from a big old dose of shut the fuck up.

Just.

Shut.

The.

Fuck.

Up.

With this recent creation of the internet, we find ourselves with this new toy that lets us babble on incessantly about all manner of things.  And yes, I say recent, because in the grand scheme of things, this is about as new as that first tickle in the throat that eventually leads to a full blown case of tuberculosis.

What this little toy has allowed us to do, is reach out to a mind boggling number of people across this beautiful world.  You would think with such a fantastic tool at our fingertips, we would be singing from the rooftops while dancing wildly and joyfully.  We could shed the stresses, disappointments, and drudgery of daily life, and reach through that screen and make a difference in someone's world.

Instead, we stand and scream.

We shout about the injustices, the unfairness, the perceived slights, insults, and offenses that enter our very small, personal world.  We complain.  We rage.  We make comparisons to what others have that we don't.  We rail against the world.

We forget humanity.

I am guilty of this myself.  Though I use my internet superpowers for entertainment, I occasionally find myself engaging in conversations that I know better than to touch.  I occasionally think I may be able to put a human, compassionate side to a discussion mired in blame and fueled by anger or bitterness.  Rarely, I may even attempt logic by suggesting that a particular media story is merely one point of view, and that unless personally involved, no one person can say with any certainty what has actually occurred.

And then I shut up. 

I shut up, because the response is always the same.

Be right, at all costs.

Yes, I do believe, with the availability of sharing our opinions the world over, we have become more determined than ever to be right at all costs.  After all, no one wants to chance looking like the "fool" who concedes.  The silly little fluffy head who just stops and says "my opinion is not worth an argument".

Well, I'll take the plunge and say it.

My opinion is not worth an argument.

My opinions, perceived slights, and the injustices of the world are not worth it.  I'd rather look like that silly little fluffy head and just sit here and say nothing.  I'd rather respect the varying voices out there.  I want the world to feel free to speak.

So please, speak.  And then, shut up.  Because what happens when you stop yapping, and stop caring about always being right, is you start to listen.  And you don't just listen, but you HEAR.  You hear how others are feeling, and as much as it might go against the grain of what you yourself are feeling, you are reaching your hand out to someone and saying "you are important enough for me to hear you".  No one has to be right, and no one has to be wrong.  But everyone should be heard.  And at some point, everyone needs to know when it's time to just stop putting the need to be right, your own personal, selfish need to be heard, away.  Yes, you CAN stop talking.  Even if you feel another isn't "getting it", or just does not understand where you are coming from.  Because being human toward one another supersedes all of our own selfish needs.  Conversations CAN just end with a "let's agree to disagree" and walking away with a respect for one another's differences.

Respect our differences.

Shut up.

Listen.

Learn when to walk away.

And walk away with a handshake.  Or preferably, a hug.

Get over the incessant need to be the "right" one.

 It's December, and my favorite holiday approaches.  I don't love Christmas for any one thing.  I love it for the outpouring of joy, the spirit, the essence, of family, love, appreciation of all the good in my world.  I adore it for the sparkles, the food, the traditions of old, and the traditions of new.  Of coming together, taking that moment in a busy world, and saying through voice, song, and actions, that "hey, YOU matter to me, and thank you for being a part of my world".   I don't just celebrate within my home, but within my heart, and with all who have entered my life and left small pieces of themselves along the way.  It is a celebration in every sense of the world.

So to log in to social media, and be faced with endless tirades about injustices ranging from the proper time to adorn your house in decorations, to local, national, and world news reports, proper holiday greetings, and general blastings of the ills of the world...well, this kind of brings that spirit to a screeching halt.

And it upsets me.

Why do we choose to concentrate on the negatives?  On being RIGHT about the negatives?  Discuss what you will, but then just STOP.  Move on.  Find happiness.  Rejoice in being alive and able to share yourself with a spectacular world that can be viewed by ignoring the endless news stories, and exploring beauty instead.

If you must continue, don't wonder why you are always worrying, unhappy, stressed out, and wondering why you just can't seem to have a "good day".  Because let me tell you, as someone who rarely gets involved in the fearmongering, lambasting, and complaining about the world, I can positively say it will bring you down and attempt to drown you.

Just shut the fuck up.

You can not have my joy.  You are not allowed to strip me of my sparkle.  I'd rather shut up.  I'd rather listen.  I want to HEAR.

And if necessary, I'll just delete your ass from my world because you're sucking the life out of me.

Distracted Much?

Tonight is definitely a meditation night.  I typically do a smidge of quiet nothing time every night, but I think I may have to work harder at it this evening.

Not to sound like an ungrateful hag, but I'm on a roll today, even with everything trying to smack me back down.

My espresso maker died an agonizing death on Sunday, and after the brief panic attack, I calmly ordered another one and decided to get out that french press collecting dust while I wait for it to arrive.

Espresso is disgusting in a french press.  I suppose there are some out there who love those little contraptions, and if it were for coffee consumption, I suppose I could see the appeal.  However, this is not measly coffee, this is ESPRESSO.  And I take mine like tar that could be slapped on a roof.  I could add even more grinds to the french press to go for a darker brew, but I'm already throwing twice the amount in the glass than what goes in an espresso machine.  And it's such a boring cup of good morning.  I've considered just spooning the sludge out of the bottom and eating it like a bowl of Cream of Wheat, but I only have one more morning of this hell before the new machine arrives.  Plus, as finely as I grind my beans, I'm confident that now amount of tooth brushing could remove those little things from my teeth were I to actually get desperate enough to eat them.

The demise of the espresso machine also means there is not the travel cup filled for my morning at work.  I'm actually making coffee.  And drinking it.  I'm not big on coffee, having been an espresso whore for too long to remember.  Plus, coffee is much more acidic than espresso, and well, honestly, if you are not an espresso fiend, you just will NOT understand.

Blech

 

Despite forgetting my belt, and finding myself changing out of workout clothes at work with pants that can not go without a belt, I managed to muddle through the day.  I actually did not get alot of my chosen work done, since there's that little thing called clients and customers, but all in all, it was a good day.  Even with temperatures ranging in the 20's, after a day of 50's and windows open just 24 hours previously.  Even waking up to snow flurries.

Though cold weather normally makes me think of things like hibernating, it invigorated me today.  I arrived home and started chopping and dicing, cooking up a new recipe though I seem to be the only person living in this house this evening.  I cleaned a bit, did some laundry, enjoyed a new soup, and even took out the trash in the bitter wind.  I hate the thought of a large trash can next to the house, which means ours sits near our property line through the back yard.  Not acres, but a fair sized yard, and it seems even larger when you realize you still have flip flops sitting at the back door for those quick runs outside.  My toes are still frozen into little blocks of ice.

Perhaps that was a little jolt that seemed to wake me up even more.  Because even though it's nearing 8:00 pm, I'm considering cleaning out my closets.  Again.  It would be the 3rd time since I packed away summer things, but now that cold weather seems to be here to stay, I feel like I can let go of a few more things that probably won't get touched this year.

However, what I really need to be doing is reading the book for our Book Club this month.  Our meeting is next week and I have not touched it.  I suppose I will have to bargain with myself, as I seem to be more motivated when I offer myself a reward.   And this month, the reward is huge, because today, my new Stephen King book arrived and everything I've seen about it says scary, scary, scary.  But no, I can not pick up that divine little morsel until I get this club selection read.  Bad girl, do as you are told.

I had another random thought that since temps have plummeted and we're lucky to hit 30 degrees, it could be kind of fun to start getting the holiday and winter decorations out.  There are already icicles showing up outside, so why not have them draped over everything inside as well?  It did not help that I took advantage of warm weather yesterday and draped the outside of the house in pine garlands, wreaths, trees, bows, and ornaments.  Yes, yes, stop your foolish ranting about it being too early in November.  And I will try not to laugh when your fingers are going numb trying to put up one single strand of lights.  Since I don't cover my house in lights, inflated snowmen, or candy canes, it actually looks pretty appropriate for what feels like winter but is technically still fall.  Also, I had neighbors gossiping when I put up fall decorations in September (acting as if that was actually too early), so I figure this will really give them something to talk about.

Kiss my ass.

Along with the espresso maker deciding to take a shit on me, I reached for my hand lotion after washing up pots and pans tonight and felt like crying.  My little pot of Lush Handy Guguru is nearly empty.  I've doled that luscious little cream out sparingly, but alas, it is about to disappear on me.  A simple solution would be to order some more, but I've been trying to not purchase anything but necessities and holiday preparations and gifts.  Another moment of telling the too-soon-holiday whiners to shut up.  I'll be relaxing the weeks before Christmas while others are stressing out, so don't question my madness.  But, back to the Guguru...if you have never tried it, you have no idea what you are missing.  Best.  Lotion.  Ever.  And nearly gone.  I'm sad.

Crying.

 

Only for a brief moment, because my mind has already wandered off to closets and bins of Christmas decorations.

Shut up.

I need to meditate.

Om.

Ho Ho Ho

I'm playing Christmas music.  It's November 6th, and I AM PLAYING CHRISTMAS MUSIC.

The main purpose is to get my fingers typing more than the Jack Daniels did.  But also, it's beautiful music.  It's cold here, there's snow in the forecast, and I like ham more than turkey.

Yes, there's another holiday shoved in there called Turkey Lurkey Day, aka Thanksgiving.  For alot of households, that means eating like a glutton while gathered with family or friends.  It also means, for many, injecting caffeine straight into an artery to stay awake for doorbuster sales and shopping frenzies into the wee hours of the following morning.

I am not a fan of Black Friday shopping.  I went once, a very long time ago, when Black Friday was still actually on Friday and just meant getting out of bed at 5:00am to shop.  Now, with stores fighting to open during dinner hours on Thanksgiving day, I just shake my head in disgust and move on.

I see alot of outrage and rants on social media over Christmas appearing in the stores, advertisements, TV programming, and various other places.  True to spirit of social media, people climb up on a soapbox to scream to the rooftops, but that's about as far as it goes.

I work in a store that has Christmas items for sale from mid-July to December.  MID-JULY.  Middle of summer, with plenty of holidays prior to the season of Ho Ho Ho, but I can tell you it has given me a new perspective on this whole too-early Christmas thing.

First of all, retailers are in business to make money.  Kind of a DUH moment there, but it obviously needs to be said with all this whining that is going on.  Every square inch of a retail space is potential dollars earned.  And no retailer (unless they're just craptastic at their job and are running the business into the ground) will EVER waste space on merchandise that does not sell.

Let me repeat that again to make it very clear and in much simpler terms.

No store will waste space on Christmas merchandise if it does not sell.

And even more simply put, if the consumer is not buying it, the retailer will not stock it.

This means, when you see Christmas merchandise on the shelves on November 1st, people are buying it.  I know this from years of experience.  Years of selling Christmas items in July, even more in August, an increase in September, and oodles of it by October.  Our Christmas merchandise sales don't slow down until December.  And with the little amount of space we have, and massive amounts of merchandise coming through our doors, we are in  business to maximize our turnover at a very fast pace.  We would not waste the space if it was not a fantastic seller.  No retailer would.

If "blame" is to be placed, blame the consumer who cannot resist buying a snowman in August.  Blame the Christmas shopper trying to get decorating purchases out of the way as soon as Trick or Treating is finished.  But don't blame the retailer for doing their job.  They are providing the supply to meet the demand. 

The same goes for Black Friday.  I really dislike the greed involved with Black Friday shopping for very personal reasons.  I have only had two (I think, no more than 3) Thanksgiving dinners with my immediate family in the last 20 years.  Let me just emphasize that.  (and we'll be generous and go with 3)  THREE DINNERS IN 20 YEARS.  Yes, there have been Thanksgiving dinners nearly every year, but there's been an absence felt nearly every year.  I have an older brother that works for a major retailer.  I'll be nice and not call out this major retailer by name, but let's just say that their disgusting lineup for tickets to the hottest electronic item to ever hit the earth has inched back by hours over the years, and now it's on Thanksgiving Day, with many people lining up before a turkey is even put in the oven.  And even though this brother (and there's only three of us, so it's not like we don't notice a sibling is gone) is in management for this major retailer, and would normally never be standing at a register, he works every damn Black Friday.  In recent history (thinking back the last 10 years), he has made it home for Thanksgiving dinner ONCE, and we might as well have jumped ahead a holiday and called it a damn Christmas miracle.  You would think we could just move the dinner to the weekend, but oh hell no, the greed may start on Thanksgiving, but it pulls a marathon into the weekend and he can't get a day off to save his life until after New Years.  Thank god this corporate pig closes on Christmas Day, or we would be celebrating all our winter holiday's with him sometime around Memorial Day (though they do a huge Memorial Day sale too, I'm sure).

However, as much as I dislike Black Friday, I understand that once again, retailers are meeting demand.  Last year was the first year we saw more retailers joining the Thanksgiving Day trend, and it didn't bomb as it should have.  With all the outcries, a person would expect such a strategy to be a dismal failure.

But no, sales were just as successful as prior years.  People still lined up, probably still had crumbs of homemade rolls on their shirts, and pumpkin pie smears on their cheeks, but dammit, give me that $5 crock pot that's going to end up at Goodwill by April goddammit.

Again, should we be blaming retailers here, or the idgit slapping down the cash at 6PM Thanksgiving Day with a full belly?

In addition, the appearance of Christmas in the stores, or Black Friday shopping, or Christmas carols playing on a radio really have no bearing on Thanksgiving.  If Thanksgiving is important to you, then seeing all this tinsel or hearing Silent Night will not take away that experience.  You are still free to decorate your house in pilgrims, cornucopias, and turkeys made out of construction paper traced around a child's hand.  You can still spend two days cooking, put on some stretchy pants, and relax to the sounds of snoring and a football game.  You can CHOOSE to not participate in the greed of consumers everywhere.  Not everyone will resist, and THAT is why you see what you see, and hear what you hear.

I will put up my Christmas decorations soon.  We started hosting Christmas Day in our home a couple years ago, and I have found that getting the decorating done early allows me to enjoy the holiday more.  Christmas is my favorite holiday, because it is magical for me.  I refuse to let it be a stressful time, and I alleviate that potential for stress by decorating before Thanksgiving, having shopping completed by December 1st, everything wrapped and ready by the middle of December, and nothing but cooking and baking to do the week before the holiday. 

This does not negate the importance of Thanksgiving to me.  It is still a family holiday.  I still look forward to gathering for a meal.  I adore spending time with my family, because they are the most important people in my life.  Making early preparations for the following holiday does not take away from that.  No matter how much Christmas anything is shoved down my throat prior to Turkey Lurkey Day, it is still a wonderful holiday filled with love, because I CHOOSE to make it that way.  The external factors of greed are just that...external.  My brother, who I miss sitting at that family dinner table, knows we love and want him there, but also knows his employer has not ruined our holiday.  Because his employer does not dictate the love and bonds of our family.  They can steal as much of his time as they can get their hands on, but they do not win.

So, the next time you're walking through the store, looking for a tube of Chapstick because those winter winds have already started, and you see that Christmas tree, you have a choice.  Shrug and move on, stop and enjoy, but for the sake of all that is holy, don't let it bring you down.  It really isn't THAT important in the grand scheme of things.

Buy some chocolate and enjoy.  After all, along with that Christmas tree, there's a better selection of chocolates in the stores too.

Celebrate

Daylight Savings Time my ass.  Fall back, gain an hour of sleep, blah blah blah.  Spring doesn't get to me, but this falling back an hour messed up my sleep schedule.  It wasn't the extra shots of espresso, or the random craving for a Coke at 8 last night.  It was the damn time change, and that's the story I'm going to stick with.

That being said, you would think four hours of broken sleep would have me walking around in a daze and incredibly cranky.  And it very well could have, but in one of those moments of staring off into the dark last night, I decided Monday morning would include walking.

I've taken up walking at the rec center on work mornings to get an extra oomph factor going in my day.  Typically, with Monday being my day off, and a gathering for coffee at the local coffee shop early in the morning, I would skip the walking.  But, bleary eyed and not feeling the espresso I already had at home, I hauled my ass to the rec center and walked without a partner and just a very bouncy playlist going in the earbuds.

The day is significant...it is the 4th anniversary of my grandmother's death.  I still think of her daily, and feel her influence on my life.  Her death was one of the most precious moments in my life.  How many people can call the passing of a loved one such a thing?  I got the privilege of being at her bedside for the last three days of her life.  Surrounded by family, supporting each other, laughter and tears, and quietly saying goodbye as she took her last breath.  It gave me something no other life experience has.  Along with all the lessons this courageous, independent, devoted woman taught me in her gentle ways, I was able to give back by being at her side in her last moments on earth.  It was beautiful.  It was precious.  It was worth celebrating.

Yes, celebrating. 

Though I grieved, I rejoiced at having had such a special woman in my life.  I choose to honor her in living the fullest life I can.  I embrace the fiercely independent, stubborn, wild streak in me, because I know she lived the same.  I grab each day by the balls and try to squeeze the everloving hell out of it, because in doing so, I represent her legacy. 

In her death, I learned to celebrate life.  I dance randomly.  I get silly.  I laugh.  I have stopped taking this very short time on earth so seriously, and learned how to cherish it without feeling the heavy burdens our own brains can put on living.

I miss you, Grandma.  And I thank you, for making me a better and more authentic ME.

Smartypants Dumbass

We have this really cool online thingy with the school, where at any given moment, I can log on and see my child's grades and attendance.  We can make schedule changes, look at the schedule for the year, check on graduation requirements, and pretty much do everything but cook a whole chicken with it.  It's a great resource.

When you use it.

My youngest is a junior in high school.  This should have been a warning flag, but I thought with two years of high school under his belt, we'd see smoother sailing.

Uh huh.

I forgot that he now has a license.  And a car.  And a social life.  And a job.  And extracurriculars.

He's quite accomplished.

With that license, he drives.  In the car.  To social events.  Also to his job.  And to his extracurriculars.

What he doesn't accomplish is finishing homework.  Let alone handing it in.

How do I know this?  Because the grades posted link you to another page that actually shows the assignments, quizzes, projects, and tests that make up that grade.  In vivid, glaring, alarm sounding detail.

There are only four grades to look at, since we are a four block schedule.  Meaning, four classes a day for 90 minutes each.  90 minutes should mean getting the work done, or at least partially done while in class.

SHOULD.

When I saw the glaring "F" and the only slightly less insulting "C", I had to take ten deep breaths before linking to the actual classwork.  I then took another ten deep breaths when I saw the repeated "A's" on tests and quizzes, and classwork that was done during instruction time.  I added 20 deep breaths when I saw the homework.  A series of "F's" with zero scores, making it glaringly obvious that no work was being handed in.

It is amazing how calm I can be when in a full on rage of epic proportions.

I'm a raging bitch of a mother on the inside, and no, a "C" is not acceptable.  Not when it shows no effort to achieve that "C". 

So we are re-prioritizing around here.  Gone is the help with the fall musical.  Gone is the social life.  He can keep the job, because he may need that paycheck if he can't accomplish standard homework expected of him and finds himself aimless and drifting after his primary education is finished.  The assignments I saw are written down, and short of putting a post it note on his forehead, he is expected to address them all and be a responsible student.  If he doesn't improve, he will lose the car, and he can congratulate himself on being the only junior in high school riding the bus.  And walking to work.  Where his mommy will pick him up when it is time for him to clock out and go home to do homework.

Oh lawdy, raising children is such a joy.  These are the shining moments that make me feel all warm and squishy inside.

Wait, that's the drink I poured after another lecture with the teenager.

I'm willing to bet his sister in college would love to insert her opinion about slacking off, in which I would have to recall the endless fighting and mouthing off that drove her mommy to drink while she was still living at home.

I swear the teenage years are meant to be rough.  They are meant to try your patience, sharpen your ability to hold in your rage, and define insanity. 

It makes that empty nest look divine.

Rattling ice cubes.

I'm Out of Trash Bags

It started with a sale.

With plans for Saturday night, you would think I spent my day Saturday catching up on all those things I ignored through a very hectic work week.

Oh hell no.

All it took was a friend telling me about the vendor going out of business sale.  The 75% off sale.  Starting that very day.  The same vendor I had gone to a month before during their fall event, and passed by so many pretty things because I thought their prices were too high.  Not just pretty things, but things that called my name.  That said, only you, the freak who puts a chandelier in a tree will buy me.  Buy me.  Take me home.  Love me.  Adore me.

75% off.

So, before the sun had even peeked above the horizon, I drove through the predawn light to meet up with her so we could be at the doors at opening time.  On a Saturday morning.  When I'm normally rejoicing in no alarm clock, leisurely sipping coffee, and in no hurry to get out of unacceptable lounge wear.

We arrived half an hour early, and joined the other early riser insane people waiting at the doors.

And it was GLORIOUS. 

They were playing Christmas music, and my first thought while waiting outside was "give me a break, I get enough of this crap at work with Christmas items selling since July".  But then something magical happened.  Maybe it was the camaraderie of waiting in the chilly sunrise with other equally sale obsessed women.  Maybe it was not being in the confines of the store constantly rearranging our own Christmas goods for sale.  Whatever it was, I suddenly FELT IT.  That magical little thrill that the season of snow, icicles, and peppermint candles was approaching.  The knowledge that after all the leaves are raked up, and as more layers are required each time I go outside, I would soon be decorating my house in a winter wonderland.  It could have been the antique sleds lined up against the fence, it could have been the glimpse of the flocked tree seen through the window, but I suddenly felt jolly and had the urge to let out a shrieking HO HO HO. 

And I HO HO HO'd throughout the various buildings, picking up all the little snowbirds, frosted sprays of pine needles, and then the holy grail of Christmas cheer greeted me with a quiet little "hello, I've been waiting for you".   The small tree, covered in antique ornaments.  Antique ornaments that I can never find anywhere.  Antique ornaments no one else seemed to care about.    I gently plucked them off the branches, welcoming them to my home.

And it wasn't just Christmas calling to me throughout their buildings.  Owls, birds, small cages and urns.  The gloriously gothic looking chandelier everyone had passed by.  Not knowing if this one would hang in a tree, from my arbor, or somewhere in my house, but knowing it had to be mine.

Of course, arriving home that afternoon, I just dropped the bags and goods, and knowing there was fun to be had later that night, took a nap instead of putting away a single thing.

So after a deliciously fun time last night, I woke up to a mess of bags and pretties just waiting to be put away.  Knowing that half those goods are Christmas items, and not being a total freak and putting them up before Halloween, I started searching through the house for an empty bin.  Surely there is one, since two months ago we moved a (then) teenage girl back to college.  Nope, no bins, but after looking in the closet of doom, I realized I must remove the doom factor if I want to fit one more bin of ANYTHING in it.

After a quick trip to the store for a bin, I started pulling things out of the closet.  And that is an understatement.  Though most of my Christmas decorations are in the loft of the garage, there are a few bins and random pieces of holiday cheer in the doom closet.  And then I realized there are also many, many other things I've ignored in there, which is why it's been labeled the closet of doom.  It's a virtual junk drawer but in a much larger space.

I had a moment of excitement when I saw the package on a top shelf, thinking a forgotten Christmas gift was waiting for me to rip it open and squeal in glee.  Nope, seat covers.  For the Escape I got rid of almost 8 months ago.

The power paw.  The heinous bitch power paw for the piece of shit vacuum cleaner.  I've been looking for that worthless thing for over a year.  Not that it works, but it attaches to the piece of shit, and every time I pull it out to vacuum, I'm wondering where the stupid power paw attachment went.

A bin of Halloween decorations.  Yup, forgot about those.  I'm decorated for fall, but somehow, in the midst of late night ramblings and post it notes on calendars, I had forgotten that I actually own Halloween decorations.

So now there is a huge mess all over my floor.  The closet is cleared out, but I have a huge pile of crap that needs to be thrown out, and piles everywhere that need to be sorted and put away.  And I'm out of trash bags, so this throwing away thing is going to be a pain in my ass.  Even my son, who is a teenage boy and immune to messes, keeps popping his head into the room and asking me what the hell happened in here.

So, before I tackle the piles of pretties, I have to tackle the bomb that went off at the closet door.  And I really REALLY want to play with the pretties.  My St. Francis (yes, this atheist bought a St. Francis statue, because it reminds me of my grandmother), is begging for a home somewhere in my house.  I'm not sure where yet, but it will probably involve moving things around, and making more messes.

Because apparently, messes is the theme of the day.

Natural High, Natural Hate, Equals Hiatus

The title means nothing except that I've been drinking.

Deep in the dark, very corners of my mind, I told myself daily that the longer I stay away from blogging, the harder it would be to come back.  It wasn't that I didn't have random thoughts running through my head, or that I felt like the words just would not come pouring out.  Quite the opposite, actually.  The thoughts are there, racing through my brain, having moments daily where I thought "oh hell yes, I could blog about this until my fingers cramped up".   I have been in a whirlwind of activity, where I'm having to remind myself to shower, skipping the nightly ritual of drinky poo, scheduling out my weeks very carefully on a desk calendar complete with hot pink post it notes to remind me of the things I absolutely can NOT FORGET.

And in the meantime, the thoughts are racing.  The WTF moments have multiplied, I've been left speechless at the stupidity of my daily activities more times than I can count, and I've just considered medicating myself with cold medicine to force my brain to just shut up for one single moment.

Tonight, I find myself with drink in hand, paused between chores, and actually home in unacceptable lounge wear prior to 8:00 PM.  I'm not complaining as I've been enjoying these extracurriculars, and have a glorious day of girl time planned tomorrow and a Halloween party tomorrow night, but my gawd, this house has obviously been neglected this week.  And though I would be horrified if someone knocked on my door and actually WANTED TO COME IN, I don't have to really worry about that, since I haven't even been here, and this house has turned into pit stop central.  Mess schmess...who the hell cares.

With a full day tomorrow, I knew I would need to prep food for the Halloween party tonight.  Having not entered a grocery store for a week, this meant I didn't have all the ingredients I needed on hand.  And knowing how DIVINE that broccoli cheese soup is, I just knew I HAD TO HAVE a crusty bread to go with it.

Crusty bread.  In the town of smooshy bread.  Hot dog buns, white, wheat, and oh look, aren't we getting fancy with those pretzel rolls, but oh hell no, the grocery store I normally use does not have anything remotely resembling a crusty bread unless I were to buy a loaf and let it sit out on the counter for a couple weeks.  And then it would just be crusty fuzzy bread that belongs in a petri dish.

OH GAWD.  Fucking Hellmart.  And their bread selection that includes crusty bread.  But it's Hellmart.  And it's a Friday night because I've had other shit to do every night this week.  Maybe that's why my stomach hurt today...it was the Hellmart ulcer.

I can do this.  I made a list late last night and it's really not a huge list so I should be in and out in no time.

Except life does not work that way when you are in the bowels of Hellmart.

First of all, I'm at war with this shit hole over a bottle of wine.  It was recommended by a friend, and according to the wine's website, it is only carried in this area by Hellmart.  The first time I went in for it (again, on a Friday night), I could not find it anywhere.  And being Hellmart, there wasn't an employee anywhere to be found to ask about it.  I considered asking someone at the front of the store (where all the employees are lurking), but the mental picture of the blank look accompanied by the mouth hanging open was too much for the end of a work week.

Since this time, I actually was in Hellmart for other things, I checked for the bottle of wine (again).  I know where the liquor is located in the store, and not much else, so this was the first item to check off my list.  And, being Hellmart, it of course, was STILL not on the shelves.  I looked around fruitlessly for a Hellmart employee and of course, found none.  Giving up, I worked my way through the list. 

I very quickly realized that I don't know where anything is in this pit of despair.  Which meant, already frustrated over the missing bottle of wine, I was wandering back and forth between aisles, muttering under my breath.  And into the second round of backtracking through the store, the screaming began.

I work with the public.  I get that kids throw fits.  But this wasn't fit screaming.  I'm very familiar with that through my work week.  This was screaming for the joy of making noise.  And though I didn't see the screamer, it seemed to follow me wherever I went, even though I was erratically pushing my way through random aisles.  By the time I made it to the front, needing produce and realizing the candy corn was going to be ACROSS the store in the opposite direction, I was nearly ramming the cart into every stationary object in a blind rage. 

Carrots...toss into the cart.

Broccoli...toss into the cart.

Large very round onion...glance around to see if screaming child is nearby so I can throw it at his head and really give him something to scream about.  Toss into cart.

I was nearly at a jog by the time I skated through the store to find the Halloween aisle.  But I grabbed that candy corn lickety split and raced to the finish line while listening to the WAAAAAAAAAAAH, WEEEEEEEEEE, WOOOOOOOOO echoing through the place.

And just my luck, screeching little bastard is at the checkouts.  I'm tossing my shit onto the conveyor as quick as I can to just get the fuck out of there before I join in on the screaming, all while listening to mom say "be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet".  I have a brief moment of a little twinge of compassion and then dad comes strolling over.  Wait a goddamn minute.  DAD IS THERE TOO?  Why the hell isn't dad grabbing that hellion and removing him from the place?  Oh hell no, wussy dad just says "stop screaming" over and over in which the spawn of Satan just laughs and then keeps right on wailing his siren song.

How the hell I managed to notice that my checkout clerk was double charging me for the overpriced bag of Reese's Pieces, I will never know.

And wouldn't you know it, that screeching little hound followed me as I raced out into the parking lot and nearly dove into my truck.

Good thing I didn't buy the bottle of wine, because I would have bought a corkscrew I didn't need just to open the damn thing and chug it in the confines of my car.

And I forgot the crusty bread.

I fail at life.

The 7th Level of Hell

Steel Wool, Brownies, and A Friend

You would think with a title like that, I'm about to tell you about a fascinating Pinterest project I accomplished in my spare time.

Of course, the mere mention of spare time makes me dissolve into hysterical giggles that progress quite quickly to sobbing and screams of terror.

Not that I've got a flair for the dramatic, or anything.

A dramatic person would regale you with the tale of a sale.  That little email telling me my favorite online store for eye glasses is having a 2 for $99 sale.  I didn't quite believe it when I read it, and clicked on the little link thinking the extras would come in when it was time to put lenses in those suckers.  Nope, lenses included.  Let's throw in some free shipping, and I totally forget that I actually don't need glasses, having bought new ones just this spring.  Instead, I start dreaming of the ways I could actually start coordinating what clothing I wear with the glasses on my face.  And as I'm perusing various frames that qualify for this spectacular deal on glasses I don't need, I come across something that looks like a gaudy blob on my screen.  I nearly peruse right on by, but something said "hey loser who doesn't need glasses, take a look at me!".  Clicking on this particular frame, I am greeted with skulls.  I'm not even in to skulls, but these are SPARKLING skulls.  Skulls covered in rhinestones.  Complete with additional colorful graphics on the stems.

Mine mine mine mine mine.

Being a 2fer sale, I of course had to peruse more, and picked a gaudy but not nearly as gaudy pair of black glasses to go with my glittery skull glasses, to put on my face that already has glasses.

There is no point to this story, other than I've been sucking back alcohol and the mention of dramatics made me think of the skull glasses.  I may have to carry them with me at all times, so if things start getting dramatic, I can whip them out and switch them out with whatever other glasses happen to be sitting on my resting bitch face.

And speaking of resting bitch face, I have perfected it.  Even when the screams are going on in my head.  Even when I want to make a gloriously perfect flashback to the 80's gesture of "gag me with a spoon", the resting bitch face prevails.  When I'm being leered at by a man who makes me want to take a hatchet to his appendages, the resting bitch face wins.  Seeing shorts that look like underwear, in fact, boy short underwear is longer, and inside my head my mouth is hanging open, the resting bitch face greets you.

I only have a ten minute drive home.  But ten minutes is plenty of time for a plethora of thoughts.  I hissed at the random stray Kitty of the Corn crouched in the weeds.  I tailgated the corn viewers.  I had a brief moment of sorrow seeing a combine in one of the fields harvesting the corn, knowing that means the land of snow and ice is coming (as is heavy layers and boots, if we're going to look on the bright side).  I rejoiced knowing I was going home to an empty house, and I briefly thought my teenage son knows when mommy has had a straight-jacket day because I'm completely agreeable to nearly anything that allows me to come home to an empty house and straight to the full liquor bottle.  I wondered for a moment if going home to an empty house meant eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and was able to decide that warm brownies fresh out of the oven was a perfectly acceptable dinner to go with my pal Jack.  I was amused at the sprinkling of rain that had held off all day until that ten minute drive home, thinking how typical because that eliminated any chance of doing yard work once I arrived.  I then enjoyed a hearty laugh thinking I would actually do any yard work today, when all I cared about was putting on slouchy clothes and getting liquored up the moment I entered the house.

However, I was a good girl.  Yes, no drinky poo for you until you get your little chores done.  I folded laundry, scooped cat litter, emptied the dishwasher, loaded the few dishes in the sink, mixed up brownies and put them in the oven, and ripped off my layers of clothing and jewelry and got into the most unacceptable clothing I own before dropping one single ice cube into that glass.  Good girl. 

Sadly, I was so eager for that drink by the time I was done with all my little good girl chores that I sucked it back in nearly one gulp, poured another, and am well on my way to being a lush.  All while perfecting that resting bitch face.

The only thing remaining for me is snarfing down brownies to enhance the liquor, and scrubbing myself raw in the shower.  With steel wool.  Because it has been the kind of week that makes me want to shower myself in bleach and then take a power grinder to myself to try and rid myself of the heinous things I have seen, touched, and experienced.  Bandaging my whole body is just fine with me, since it can then be used as a barrier against whatever is to come the rest of this week.

But it no longer matters.  I am pleasantly mellowed by a friend.  And even if there was a problem, you'd never know it.  You would just wonder what that bitchy look on my face was.

While I mentally scream.

It Begins

Day one.

Technically, day two, but yesterday was my day off, so I did not get the joy of the first work day of the boss lady's vacation.

The dear, sweet woman takes off every September, typically for the entire month, but this year, delayed that by a couple weeks.  We're looking at three weeks divided between three of us, with a fourth week of maybe the boss returning for a handful of days before taking off again.

Chaos is not quite the proper term to use.  In fact, I'm not sure there is a term in the English language quite colorful enough to describe it.

Tomfuckery, clusterfuck, fuckaroo...whatever I use to describe it somehow uses the f-bomb in one way or another.

Yes, I understand, it is our busy season.  It was our busy season last week when the boss was present.  It was still the busy season up until she left an hour early on Saturday to hit the road.

And then the alarms, sirens, bells, and warnings sound state wide. 

Yes, I think somehow, in some way, people are notified the moment the boss is gone, and they are told to not only go to our store, but to get their asses there as quickly as possible and then create the biggest possible fuckaroo, clusterfuck, tomfuckery they can.

Even that one hour on Saturday was complete chaos, so I really think I'm on to something here.  Monday's are typically hectic, with the rushing to get those items cleaned out over the weekend into our store as quickly as possible.  But you would think that would mean that Tuesday would see it starting to settle down.

Oh hell no.

I should have known.  I had all the signs glaring at me yesterday, forewarning me of the insanity that was about to take over my life.  In my day off, I managed to get so much cleaning, rearranging, organizing, and decorating done in my own home.  Even FatBastard taking a shit on my new rug didn't slow me down.  And I have to admit, he was right...that rug looked like kaka.  But by the end of the day, I had a home that made me want to just sit and enjoy.  I even rounded out the day baking a cake.  From scratch.  Merely because I felt like it.  I had my shit together and perfected life better than Martha Stewart on crack.  It was like Pinterest took over my soul and navigated my day for me.   Yesterday was a big, giant WIN.

Today was breaking in new boots that wanted to give me a big fat blister.  Ending up in display windows under the pressure of changing them out before I got strung up from a light pole by salivating customers.  Making such a gigantor mess that I then had to rearrange and redecorate the entire front half of the store.  Feeling the accusing eyes on me when I don't immediately respond to where the orange pillows have gone to.  Knowing in my heart of hearts that the orange pillows would nicely tie together my Country Living magazine spread living room, and feeling myself break out into a cold sweat until the customer puts them back down.  Having to tell someone that saving merchandise for them is not an employee perk we are allowed.  Being met with dead silence when I try to keep the humor in the day.   Better yet, when I say the job is more a hobby, being taken seriously and garnering sympathy for working for pennies...nope, not looking for sympathy, just trying to say it's FUN, you funsucking twit.

I've got to find that billboard, or community announcement, and take it down, shut them up, and for the sake of all that is holy, let us get just ONE thing done in a day.

But the highlight of the day?  No, it wasn't the child trying to crawl in our window.  It wasn't having to ask two young women why they kept looking at the ceiling.  It wasn't having to alert parents that their children were tearing toy packaging open.

It was providing one on one service to a very special young woman who will be the Grand Marshall in our homecoming parade.  We've got her dressed in a trendy, fun, adorable outfit tailored to her love of sparkles that comes out in her shining personality.  From greeting her at the door with a fall leaf garland wrapped around my neck, complete with a dance and twirl, to dressing her head to toe and soaking up that smile on her face, I couldn't have asked for a better day.

That's what it's all about.

Penny pay, tomfuckery, chaos while the boss is gone.

And joy.

Blurred Lines

No, not the song.  My brain.

But that's ok, because it was COFFEE DAY!

Coffee day saved the day, because the day started with one of those monster headaches.  A headache that required gulping ibuprofen as soon as I got to work and then disappearing to rearrange the lower level just because the lighting down there isn't as harsh as the main level.  Luckily, it was work that actually needed to be done, so I suppose I should look at that headache as great timing.  I guess.  Kinda fucked up logic, but it works.

Damn weather changes.  It's the source of the monster headache.  Along with not being able to remember if I've been taking my allergy medicine every morning.  I could get one of those Monday through Sunday pill sorters, but it would only have the one pill in it, so it seems a little ludicrous.  Plus, I'm 42 (and 358 days but who's counting), so I really don't need a pill sorter at this stage of my life.

Weather change...as in the last summer hurrah.  Maybe.  It's nearly 90 degrees today.  Makes perfect sense, because it's that first week of September and we always seem to get some kind of last minute heat wave.  However, this single hot day is going to suddenly drop so that tomorrow we MIGHT reach a whopping 70 degrees.  And what that becomes is me being obstinate about running air conditioning.  Especially when no one is home all day.  But it's HOT in this house.  So now, with the headache hangover firmly entrenched in my brain, I'm also feeling slightly cranky.  I might just go do some yard work, because hey, I'm already feeling cranky, hot, sweaty, and I think I should regale all my neighbors with the glorious sight of my striped pajama shorts and ragged tshirt with a hole in it.

This time of year is angst time.  Not your typical angst either.  I'm not feeling that anxiety over finances, home, marriage, children, or even about the current sad state of my manicure.  No, this angst is over fashion choices.  Why?  Because I bought glorious boots.  Boots so divine that I actually went through my closets and got rid of two pairs.  (really, a 42 year and 358 day old should NOT be wearing fur boots that make you look like a Yeti)  And while I was at it, I decided to check out those super deep, massively wide drawers I have, because when fall and winter clothes were packed away this spring, I had plenty of room.  And they are now overflowing.

Not only do I have a boot problem, I have a sweater problem.  Never ask me how many sweaters one person can possibly own, because I will cackle wildly and tell you not to ask stupid questions.  In fact, my sweater problem is so bad that it now has caused a problem called "not enough shirts" problem.  The number of sweaters now make me feel like I don't have enough shirts to layer under said sweaters.

But I have boots.  Oh yes I do.  And I'm ready for the cooler weather, because as much as I love and adore having my toes free, I adore boots even more.

Plus, according to FatBastard, it's time for a weather change.  Not because he's lying in a heap of gluttonous fur on the floor since I won't turn on the air.  No, he told me exactly what he thinks of my sandal problem.  But first, the back story...blame coffee day and headache hangover as I ramble all over the place on this one.

Have you ever owned the perfect pair of shoes?  Of course, when buying them, you don't know they are the perfect pair of shoes, so you only buy that single pair.    And then, you wear them, break them in to perfectly fit your feet, and you feel like you have died and gone to heaven.  Or hell, when you realize you should have bought five pairs so you will always have a pair of these perfect shoes in your closet.

Yup, I own one of those.  It's a simple little flip flop.  But not so simple when you attempt to replace it.  A brown leather Reef flip flop with the perfect wide strap (but not too wide) placed at the perfect spot on your feet.  Because they are leather, they mold to your feet perfectly, and even the worst heinous day at work can be spent in these flip flops without feeling like your feet have been reduced to bloody stumps by closing time.  I have owned these sandals for three years, and they are now so worn out that I should be ashamed to wear them.  But I'm not.  The brown leather is nearly black in spots now, because they are really wretched with the constant wear.  But they are PERFECT, other than looking as if I should toss them onto the road so that someone can wonder why there are random shoes on the highway.

At least, they WERE perfect.

I wasn't going to wear them today, but they were sitting at the back door next to another pair of sandals I was looking for.  And when I went to retrieve said sandals, I saw the trail of cat yak.  And could FatBastard yak the chunky hairball on the shoes so that there might be hope of possibly salvaging them?  Oh hell no.  FatBastard yaked the hairball onto the floor, and then yaked that gross liquid like substance I call "after yak" right onto the perfect sandals.  The perfect leather sandals that because they are leather, will absorb the liquid.  Even my love for them can not save them now.

Fine, ya asshole, I'll throw them away.

Jerk.

But, putting aside my sorrow, this is yet one more sign that the season will be changing.  A season that calls for all those bargain finds through the summer of sweaters, boots, scarves, and layers.  I will avoid thinking about what can follow, like a never ending polar vortex that freezes the vitreous fluid in your eyeballs the moment you step outside.  For now, I will dream of my favorite season...autumn.  The smell of the leaves, the bright orange, yellow, and red leaves, the endless raking, the huge fires.

But first, a memorial service for the sandals.  I will bury them in the backyard, and mark them with a shoebox gravestone.  I will mourn their loss, at least, until that first 63 degree day when I can wear the glorious boots.  Or the bitch boots.  Or the sexy beast boots.  I think this year I will name all my boots.  Yes, name them all.  It's good to have goals

Until then, I will keep crafting my fall decorations.  Playing with glitter leaves.  Getting hot glue all over myself and hissing in pain every time I touch the hot glue gun.  You would think I would learn, but I get a little excited and carried away when glitter and hot glue are involved.  And since the heat wave will be over by then, I believe this weekend will be the perfect time to adorn the house in fall/bring on the cooler weather decor.  If I can scrape the hot glue off my fingers.

Never too much glitter.

Half Empty, or Half Full?

Is your glass half empty, or half full?  In the grand scheme of things, I look at life as half full.  Or full.  Or, some days, overflowing like a clogged up toilet.  I may look upon things with an annoying happy crappy glitter shitting unicorns attitude, but it's laced with plenty of snark and humor so as to reassure the general populace that I am not REALLY a smurf.  I am more like a dope smoking, jumping in mud puddles, swigging Jack Daniels bratty child who refuses to grow up.

However, when it comes to my home, half empty is a good thing.  It is a glorious thing.  It is light shining from above, angels singing, divine intervention.

I am not one of "those" mom's.  I did not cry on the first day of school, no matter what the grade.  I only felt slightly weepy at high school graduation for our oldest.  Hubby and I immediately hit the Starbucks drive through on that college move in day because it was still too early to be considered acceptable for pounding back shots.  By the second year of moving the oldest off to college, hubby and I drove separately so he could jam out of there early, and I hung out and rounded out the day with a shopping trip alone to TJMaxx.

It's not that I don't love and cherish these two kids.  Obviously, I do, because neither one has slit my throat while I sleep.  But I've never been "that" mom.  I looked forward to the day of sending them off to sink or swim on their own.  I might throw them a life preserver if it looks like they're sinking, but they better be clinging to a broken door in ice cold waters after surviving a steamer ship sinking to the bottom of the ocean. 

So, the oldest is off to her second year in college.  She says this is IT...no more summers home.  Knowing there will be a winter break in there, I have not addressed what I want to do with her room yet, as it is full of furniture and winter clothes (and bobby pins, I'm sure).  But the ideas have started to form.  And they are making my ladybits tingle in excitement.

I will have a room sized closet.

Not just any closet, but a dressing room.  Complete with some type of lounge chair.  Perhaps a fainting couch so I can feel like a delicate flower while surrounded by clothes, jewelry, accessories, and custom made shelving for shoes.  It will have a chandelier, because every woman should dress under a chandelier.  It is just the way of the world.  I will spend hours, sitting in my dressing room, just gazing upon all the pretty things.  SWOON

But alas, there is still a child residing within these walls.  He is my easy child, with the laid back attitude, no drama, and the biggest fuss is reminding him to scoop the cat litter. 

However, he is a junior in high school this year.  Which in his little world of low maintenance means he's gotten the hang of this high school thing.  He's driving.  He's working.  He enjoys the difficult classes at school.  (and mom enjoys him being challenged enough to stop dancing on the lunch room tables in boredom)  He knows what extracurriculars he likes.

This enjoyment of the high school years means very few hours at home.  If he's not at school, he's working.  When he's not working, he's back at school doing something related to drama or speech.  If he's not back at school, he's hanging out with friends.  I see him for a good morning, and a good night.  Occasionally, there's enough time to eat an evening meal together and do a brief catching up of what's going on in his world.  Occasionally, that catching up involves hysterical laughter because he finds the world funny in a very weird way.  Sometimes, it involves him educating me on why the TV show we are watching is incorrect because of some physics equation that I do not understand.

Regardless, my house is nearly empty.  Just me and the cat.  And he's a FatBastard who no longer bothers trying to entertain me with the antics of playing toss the mouse.

This nearly empty house does not sadden me in the least.  I have freedom.  Freedom from cooking.  Freedom from cleaning because no one is here to mess it up.  Freedom to get out the hot glue gun and play with glitter encrusted leaves for a fall wreath project.  Freedom to turn on the speakers and play that music at full volume because I am anti-social and my neighbors know it.  Even better, freedom to not be anti-social and go out for drinks, a movie, or voodoo lounge time after work instead of heading home immediately to cook dinner, clean, help with homework I don't understand, and collapse into bed exhausted.

I can do whatever the fuck I want. 

And it is glorious.

I think I shall dance in my underwear to Justin Timberlake and eat ice cream out of the carton.

Because I can.

After I get the glitter and glue off my fingers, of course.  Or maybe not...I'm feeling defiant.

The Focus

You would think that being truly alone in the house for the first time in three months would find me kicking back with a cup of coffee and a book.  Or trashy magazines or some horridly mindless reality show.   And I say truly alone, because in the last three months, the snippets of an hour or two in an empty house do not count.  There was always the promise of crotchfruit returning and dumping their belongings in a heaping pile on the table, in the mudroom, in the living room, and generally whatever open spot they find in the house.  Adding to the pile was the spouse who took a week off work, and though he pitched in here and there on random piles and taking out trash, he does not have THE FOCUS.

THE FOCUS is not on the random cat toys shoved under the couch.  It is not the pile of mail on the kitchen table.  It is not the empty boxes sitting here and there that then get gathered up to create a tower of boxes in the mudroom.  He means well, but as the primary housekeeper around here, he just does not do it MY WAY.

*cue hysterical laughter*

Yes, I'm admitting, I want it done MY WAY.  With MY FOCUS. Because I'm a picky bitch and I own it.  I will even say that I am not a great housekeeper/cleaner.  However, I have my methods, and I want the house cleaned a certain way, so I become an insufferable hag when people help but it's not 110% under my direction and with my style.

Rotten ass bitch that I am.

So, with the hubby off work for the week, and moving the girl child back to college for what she says is the final time, I pretty much ignored everything that would normally be touched in a normal week.  Add in a boss lady who took off for the weekend and working Saturday hours, and I was pretty convinced that I would spend my entire Sunday just cleaning up after everyone.

And there IS cleaning to do.  Men folk, young and old, don't seem to concern themselves too much with why the bathroom smells.  Girl child (I suppose with her about to turn 20 I need to stop calling her that), packed up and left a tornado in her wake.  But I'll get to her room another day, because I have plans for that space...oh yes, the plans are starting to form.  The random piles, messes, and dusting will wait, because there are more pressing matters at hand.

It started with a rug.  That heinous fucking rug.

I had a very large red rug in my living area.  As far as color goes, it was great.  Size however, not so great.  It was large enough that it reached the furniture on either end of the space, and no matter what I did, every time it was walked on, it would bunch up, wrinkle, create humps that the average klutz was guaranteed to trip on.  So, instead of scheming up a way to keep the rug in place, I said fuck you Mr. Rug.  You're outta here.  And upon telling the rug to fuck off, I saw all the stains on the shitastic carpet under the rug.  Stains that were not there when the rug was put down on the floor.

Yes, I am a shitty housekeeper that vacuumed the rug and never checked the floor under it.  Piss off.  That's not the point.

So out came the handy dandy carpet cleaning fixes involving vinegar, dish soap, and an iron.  I don't think it's completely cleaning the shit carpet, but it's fading the glaring spots enough for me to ignore them until I can get a carpet cleaner in here.

BUT, what this first little cleaning project created was a dissatisfied feeling with my furniture placement.  And suddenly wishing for a coffee table.  I do not own a coffee table in this house full of furniture, so I started scanning the rooms wondering what I could use instead.

Voila, there's the chest holding a repro vintage record player.  But it's hubby's record player, and it's not like the thing can just be shoved in a closet, because he loves that thing (and his record collection), and since I love him, I'm not going to be hellacious brat bitch and just toss the thing aside.

This then lead to more scanning of furniture, wondering what I could use to hold the player instead of the trunk that I now want as a coffee table.  And stuck in the corner, covered in dust, behind a folding screen is the uglier than sin small side table holding the printer, modem, and various computer shit I have no name for.  But then, where do I put that?

My head turns to the corner that used to be the zen corner.  USED to be.  Until it became the home of the second desk/table.  It was free, and it's a desk styled like a table so it's multi-use and will be perfect for when girl child has her own place.  It was perfect for girl child the entire summer as she piled endless amounts of girl shit on it.  But with her gone, it's now just holding leftover girl shit that needs to go up to her room and taking space in my glorious zen corner.  So I begin the process of cleaning it off, creating more piles to clean up, and heave ho that fucker across the room.

Restoring zen

And I'm suddenly reminded that one leg of this heavy fucker is about to snap off and needs reinforcing screws put in.  One of those little things I never put on the honey do list because I thought I would remember to just say something about it.  Obviously I didn't.  And now I'm heaving and hefting a very solid table that has one leg attempting to snap off.  And I'm cursing.  Alot.  And realizing sometimes it's not such a great thing to take advantage of being alone in the house, because this would be a hell of a lot easier with someone on the other end of this table attempting to move it without snapping the leg off.  So as I'm muttering and fuckity fuck fuck fucking that bitch into the corner by my desk, I randomly look up to see someone very slowly driving by my front windows and find myself screeching "what the fuuuuuuuck are you looking at fuuuuuuucker?".  And that must have been the final push I needed because I got that bitch where I wanted it.  With a five inch gap from where it sits next to my desk.  Being the OCD eye twitching dumbass, I attempt to heave ho the solid wood desk holding ten years worth of records and every other stupid thing I think I need like a paper collection for all those letters I never get around to writing.  And I fall on my ass because it does NOT BUDGE.

I will have to learn to work with the five inch gap, because even after pulling out drawers, that fat bitch still won't move.  And I briefly consider trying some more, because I've moved this desk before, but the thought of disconnecting all the computer components and emptying the entire thing out is more than I want to do to just have a goddamn coffee table.

Hey, at least I got the vacuum cleaner out and am vacuuming up dust and cobwebs from all these pieces moving around.

Now that the craptastic table is out, I need to dust it off before actually allowing the record player to sit on it, and I realize that it got so dusty because there was always a folding screen in front of it.

The folding screen.

Prized possession #1

Shit.

I have no idea where to put it now.

Getting rid of it is NOT an option.  This thing is hand painted by my late grandmother.  It is a prized possession.    A LARGE prized possession.  Which I'm now realizing was large enough to hide a large portion of the wall as well, so along with having no home for the screen, I also now have a large wall with nothing on it.

Unacceptable.

I think briefly to the large picture hanging above the bed upstairs, and wonder why a picture I adore so much is above the bed, where I can not look at it unless I lay on the bed backwards.  But then there will be a large wall in the bedroom with nothing on it.

Better, except now I don't know if I like the mirror.  Sigh.

I can live with that.

I still need to dust off that craptastic record player table.  So I can dust off the chest once it's empty.  And have a coffee table.

I have a sinking feeling this is going to lead to moving around couches.  Which is yet another conundrum, considering I have yet another corner of the living area that I refuse to touch, but it really is nothing more than unusable space.  That could fit a large folding screen.  However, it also contains the prized possession antique trunk.  Which was also my late grandmother's.  Given to me by my own mother.  I would actually consider burning to death in an effort to pull this thing out of a flaming house.  Which means some furniture placement just will not be able to happen.

Prized possession #2

I believe I need to make more espresso to figure this one out.  Perhaps some Queen on the speakers, because great ideas happen with Freddie Mercury.

GLORIOUS

I'd go sit in the bathroom for inspiration, because great ideas happen while peeing also, but it stinks in there.  I obviously have more important things to clean today.

Maybe I should just leave everything sitting in piles and watch some frivolous reality TV.

What did this posting accomplish?  Introducing YOU, my dear reader, to MY FOCUS.

Which really isn't any focus at all, but makes perfect sense to my caffeine addled brain.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

English is My Second Language

The great thing about online school registration is I don't have to go stand in line making small talk with strangers in a sweltering, stinky school just to tell the powers that be that yes, my child will show up there again.  Pass Go.  Collect $200.

The not so great thing about online school registration is it's easy to forget to do it.

School starts tomorrow. 

Whoops.

So, I hopped online to get the process started, and realized there are alot more questions online than there are at the school handing over a check.

For instance, I could let them know my child changed his name.  Or his sex.  Or his race.  Or his birthday.  I briefly considered changing every single answer on that first page just to confuse them.

The second page is so we don't encounter any language barriers.  Perhaps, in between 10th and 11th grade, our household decided that English would no longer be our primary language.  Perhaps we decided to speak exclusively in Lao.  Whatever that is.  But it had a nice lilt to it, and again, the thought of counting down the days until someone actually noticed seemed appealing to me.  I even briefly considered learning just a few random phrases in Lao, whatever that is, and answering the phone in the language if the school should call.  Though it's a small enough school, I believe I probably know everyone in the administration office, but if I also changed my name, I could really start to have fun with this.

The third page dealt with health issues, and I considered letting them know that I'm not sure whether I'm bordering on random hysteria by this point, or if it's a serious mental illness developing from these hoops I'm jumping through.  They didn't actually designate it was the student they wanted information on.  That I know of, because to be honest, I wasn't reading everything carefully and pretty much just skimming questions at this point.

They even wanted insurance information, and I had a multiple choice of private, Medicaid, or our state program for children.  I had to wonder about this one, because what's it really matter?  Are they going to put the kids with private insurance in more danger because they think the insurance payouts are better?  Here, kiddo, your locker is located next to the boiler with leaky pipes, and make sure mom gets a copy of that insurance card in here.  And tell her to stop answering the phone in that weird language.

I can't even tell you what pages four, five, and six were about.  I just remember clicking alot of "yes" and "I accept", but did consider typing in my name as "queen motherfucker" in the permission fields.  Just to guarantee a call that I can answer in Lao.

In the meantime, the girl child is still working these double shifts, so because I do not want to be awake until 2AM tomorrow night packing her, I have assigned myself various packing chores of what I can stand to touch in her room.  At least with college, it's not all about the registration, it's more about the check.  As long as we hand that sucker over, she's good to go. 

And yes, she needs to go.

The stacks of bins and boxes are getting higher, the random piles are growing, and I'm having to avert my eyes from the messes far more than my brain wants to allow.  And let's not forget, in the world of Ms.WorkALot, there also needs to be the final goodbye time with local friends.  It doesn't matter if she saw them two days ago, that was not goodbye, no way, no how.  Final goodbye time has to take place as close as possible to actual moving time, or it does not count.  Which happens to also be packing time.  And final banking time.  And final textbook ordering time.  And final cleaning up the mess time.  And final gathering of the bobby pins time, can I get a PRAISE JESUS HALLELUJAH!

I considered briefly moving in with a friend for the week.  Or at least meeting her at the bar every night.

Instead, I have a desk calendar covered in lists and post it notes.  Because if this shit is waiting until the last minute, there's going to be some GOD DAMN ORDER AND SANITY in it.  Or me just slugging away at the Jack bottle I found in her room.  Payment for services, princess.

In this non stop party, the summer weather finally decided to arrive.  I saw the promise of it arriving, so I spent the last few days getting yard work done before the heat really set in.  Weeding, trimming, mowing dead grass, since there's the promise of rain.  Of course, this promise of rain is the morning we are moving Ms. Bobby Pin Queen, so I better add umbrellas to the lists.  But tonight I realized that weeding must have been bad.  Really really bad, because the 16 year old Lao Son actually noticed the flower bed was cleaned out.  AND actually asked when I had time to do that.

He's such a good boy, my sweet little Lao Son.

I actually considered writing a few thoughts about something serious, because there are some serious things going on in our country right now.  But serious is for the birds at the moment.  The birds who have not died of dehydration from the lack of rain and are still shitting all over my truck no matter where I park it.  The birds still living in my walls in the comfort of my home of random piles scattered about.  The birds who at least are drowned out by the noise of air conditioners running for only the second time this summer.

I hate closed windows.  Closed curtains are even more atrocious. 

Go away summer.  Go away bobby pins.

Welcome home Jack Daniels.

Coexist...Or Just Get Over Yourself

I've got a few moments, waiting for spray painting projects to dry, so what better time to write about religion than after getting high on fumes?

I am an atheist.  Raised a Methodist.  Godless heathen.  Disciple of nature. 

Whatever.

Who the hell needs a label, anyway?

What it boils down to, is I do not believe in a higher power.  I believe in the inherent goodness of this world, and I find a spiritual connection to the earth every time I step outside my door.  Yes, I said spiritual.  The essence of spirit is not a cornered market by those who "have religion".  I can kum-bay-ah with the best of them.  Or however you spell that.

So, if my atheist brain were to really immerse myself in the seriousness of social media (you do realize how fucked up that is, right?), I would believe that the world is going to shit because we need more Jesus.  Or God.  Or whatever. 

I have a feeling there might be multiple uses of the word "whatever" in this post.

The world is not going to shit.  Your attitude is.  Yes, there are evils in the world.  There must be evils in the world in order for us to see the good.  Otherwise, the good would just be "meh".  Or whatever.

As quoted in the movie Legend "what is light without dark?".  Really, if you can get beyond Tom Cruise, I highly recommend this frivolous movie just for Tim Curry's part in it.

But what this boils down to, is simply that we can not appreciate the highs without the lows.  Happy all the time is the land of the Smurfs, and in case you didn't notice, they were blue and annoying.  It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this out, nor does it require religion.  Yes, there are horrid atrocities being committed every day, and the presence of this is not due to a lack of religion, considering so many of the evils of the world are taking place in the name of a religion.  Evil exists, and dare I say, it exists in each one of us.  We are all capable, should the mind choose to go down that path.  The difference lies in choice.  Not choice in whether to pick up a bible, go to a church, pray to the heavens.  Choice of life.  Choice of HOW to live that life.  Choice to live with love, be at peace, or let yourself sink in the turmoil of the outside forces in your life, that speak to the inner forces of your brain.

Or whatever.

If I were to believe social media (HA!) there is a war against Christians.  Just like there is a war against atheists.   And a war against women.  A war against men.  War war war.  Social media is a war monger, and we eat it up like a chupacabra in a tree.

Step away from the computer.  Tell the media to fuck off.  Or whatever.

Only YOU control the life you lead.  The religion you practice, or do not practice.  Your religion lives within you.  It is not in our schools, our offices, our government buildings.  It is within each person, as they choose to believe, practice, and live it.  You may say your prayers silently.  You may say them loudly.  You may shout them from the top of the roof, as long as it is your roof.  But it does not take your religion, or your spirituality from you.  You never lose that.  There is no war, unless the war is within yourself.

You may feel obligated, or the intense urge (not like a gotta pee urge, but an urge nonetheless) to pray for the nonbelievers.  As a "nonbeliever", I can tell you, by all means, pray away.  Pray to your heart's content.  Pray until your prayer well runs dry and then pray some more.  But, as the "nonbeliever", may I suggest, the prayer is better served for yourself.  For your own understanding.  Your own peace.  Your own inner zen.  The "nonbeliever", for most, is already at peace, has reached understanding, has found inner zen. 

It's easy to tell the difference between hurting, hateful, and at war with oneself, from the person who is content in their chosen belief.   Hurting, hateful, and at war tends to be loud, noisy, in your face, seeking constant reassurance in their own choices.  And that war, the only war that actually exists where religion is concerned, is the war that can only be fought with an army of one.  Their path is what they find peace with in their own hearts and minds.  We can not change that.  We can only accept that.  And if that cannot be accepted, then the task of coming to terms with that lies on the shoulders of the intolerant.  That is their burden to bear.

The world is a beautiful place, and there is no need for these "labels" we feel we must assign to everyone and everything.  We get in the way of our own happiness when we are urged to categorize, label, and file everyone away.  Imagine what kind of world we would live in if the focus were just on "good".  Such a simple (and some writers would say boring) word, but think about it for a moment.  Do some good today.  Think good thoughts.  Feel good about yourself.  Such simple things.  All from that little word good.  There is no need to assign a religion to that.  Good cannot be categorized.  It should not be categorized.  Just be.

John Lennon said it best.  And I mean REALLY, he did.  This isn't just some opportunity to quote a great song.  It could be set to the tune of the most annoying song ever, but those words.  Damn, those words.  They're just GOOD.

Imagine there is no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky

Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too

Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You, you may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will live as one

Peace out, dudes.