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.

Restoration

Let me tell ya, it was more than just a bruised ego after tumbling down those stairs early Monday morning.  Yes, I've felt the wonders of a bruised ass, which seemed to manifest itself around 4:00 every day this week.  I knew that days of being on my feet were not going to help the situation, but I guess I didn't realize that even ample padding on the arse won't protect all those moving joints in there.  I was feeling O-L-D by late afternoon, with a dull throb that turned into a screaming of the hip joints by the time I was limping out of work.  Yup, screwed something up in there, and the madness of total chaos at work was not helping the situation any.

This kind of shit really pissed me off.  Typically, I'm the person at work doing the hauling and heavy lifting.  Yes, everyone does their share, but when random heavy duty things come up, I'm the person doing it.  It's the norm for me, and I don't mind it.  What I DO mind is pain building so much that by the end of a work day, I was begging my niece to change the water jug on the cooler, a simple task that I never thought twice about before the ass-tumbling.  Suddenly, I was faced with my body just saying NO, and that does not happen.  I am used to work days where I go home exhausted, feet aching from standing all day, bone tired from moving, hauling, and rearranging.  But this was different.  This was pain so bad I felt like crying when I walked out the door.  Pain that made me feel like dragging one leg behind me because it just didn't want to work anymore.  That does NOT happen.

Well guess what, miss prissypants...it happened.  And I was coming home every night with the oodles of yard work just MOCKING me as I hobbled in to the house.  The perfect weather just added insult to the injury and by late in the week, I was muttering "fuck you" to the weeds staring me down.  I was managing to get some kind of dinner in my stomach every night before soaking up a hot spray in the shower and gulping down pills, and that was summing up my nights in a nutshell.  The house got messier, laundry piled up, and the act of picking up a bobby pin off the floor made me want to scream.  I avoided looking outside the open windows, so I wouldn't feel the now Jurassic Park sized weeds taunting me.

There's a brick path somewhere under there.

I was grouchy.  With a capital G.  In bold, italic 36 point font. 

Fortunately, along with the usual chaos and mayhem at work, the bookwork piled up.  And piled.  And piled.  So much that even with all the pricing needing done, it was time for me to address it.  Which meant sitting on my ass for the day Friday.  As much as one can sit on their ass in that place, but apparently, it was just what the doctor ordered.

My ass rejoiced.  Though it's mind numbing work and makes me feel like a zombie, I finally walked out of work that evening without the screaming pain.

It's about goddamn time.

This of course, resulted in Saturday dawning with new hope.  Hope of tackling the zen garden.  Because the zen had been devoured by weeds.  First, I got a wild hair up my ass and tackled the file cabinet and played with the paper shredder.  I have no clue what even started that chore...maybe it was looking for the college billing, and not being able to see past the last four years of bank statements.  But, after shredding to my heart's content, it was outside I went. 

I managed to finish painting the windows for the tree stump/troll house project, and with that little chore finally done, I was motivated like a mofo.

You know the weeds are bad when you have to actually take your pruning shears to some of them instead of pulling.

The stars were aligned perfectly.  The weather was warm and sunny, but not overbearing.  The neighbor's dogs weren't wandering.  The other neighbor wasn't having a hillbilly gathering with horrid music to infiltrate the zone I was in.  Children weren't screaming, crazy man wasn't ranting and being hauled off to the mental institute.  Even the mosquitoes left me alone...mostly.

Apparently, weed growing is good for strawberries.  Strawberry plants that I have given up on since they were planted eight years ago.  Usually the birds get to them before I do, so now they're just pretty little plants taking up space between flowers.  But birds must not like weeds anymore than I do, because I found a small handful of them as I was pulling and chopping. 

Haven't gotten around to cleaning that table yet, slacker.

The pulling and chopping was bittersweet, as I realized that the final blooms are just that...final.  My early autumn blooms are popping out, with everything else starting to brown and die off.  Not quite the full arrival of fall, but it's hinting at it.  Throwing out reminders that these perfect days are now approaching their final countdown.  Reminding me to clean out the firepit so we can actually use it this year, thought it's starting to look closer and closer to the burn pile that is now a gigantor mass of weeds and withered crap just waiting to be doused in gasoline.  Burn, baby, burn.

That's gonna be a big ass fire.  BOOM.

After the discovery of an ant infestation/swarm/grossout factor, I began to see light at the end of the tunnel.  Could have been that the four foot high weeds were finally allowing sunlight in, but I like to think it was the motivation I needed to withstand the sudden swarming of mosquitoes and finish the zen garden, so I can enjoy it for the last short months of outdoor peace.

Gross, especially when you realize you've grabbed handfuls of the swarming little fuckers.

There are still plenty of Jurassic weeds waiting for my destruction, since there are still plenty of flowerbeds surrounding this house, but the zen garden has actually found it's zen again.  Appropriate that the resurrection lilies are blooming, since I felt a smidge of resurrection myself, trading the butthurt (literally) for the ache of several hours of crawling around on my hands and knees yanking like a madwoman.  Well worth the aches, since I now have my place of restorative relaxation back.

Resurrection lilies, aka Naked Ladies  *immature giggle*

Munching on berries.  Contemplating life.  Without any corpses in the trees.

Zen restored.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

It's time for a daily gratitude list, even if I am deliriously tired and feeling like I can only walk while dragging my leg behind me.  Just call me Igor.

I was grateful this morning to wake up at a normal time, which mean the beginnings of dawn shining onto the stairs.  It was just light enough to see that FatBastard, previously known as FatCat, was not sleeping on the top stair to send me tumbling to my death.  Or bruised ass.

I am beyond thankful the man child did not wake up in a fit of sheer grumpiness, even though he managed to sleep through 20 minutes of an annoying buzzing alarm clock, and I had to knock on his bedroom door twice to rouse him from his blissful slumber.

I am grateful for weird ponchos that only have one option for accessorizing, thus making my morning choices very limited and time saving.

I am thrilled with time saving closet choices because it meant getting to the espresso sooner.  The espresso brewed in THE machine.  Which works perfectly, making a divine whoosh whoosh sound as it spews its silky nectar of the gods.  All for a glorious $3.00.

I am grateful for haircuts that cut 2 minutes off my morning prep time.  Instead of a five minute hairdo, I'm back to three.  Again, making more time for that silky nectar of the gods.

I am thankful for all my morning time saving which allowed me to catch up with friends and family on Facebook.  Tomfoolery and shenanigans abound.  Always a great start to the day.

I found a new appreciation for animal crackers.  When you eat them for lunch at work, you sort of feel like a kid again, which makes you feel even sillier than the norm.  Some would say that's dangerous, I call it fun.

I am grateful for a productive morning, because I felt like I didn't get anything done through the afternoon.

I am thankful for customers, because they are why I didn't get anything done in the afternoon.  But I was able to enjoy chatting with people I had not seen in awhile, regulars, and strangers.  It's one of my favorite parts of the job...the interaction and people time.  Amazing to think that I'm actually a people person.  Especially after animal crackers.

I am grateful for dinner with my parents.  Such a simple thing, but one of the really big joys of life.

I am thankful for a body that still tries to work even after bruising it.  It may ache and hurt, but it still moves.

And finally, I am grateful for joy.  Such a simple thing...that word "joy".  There's a piece of joy in every day.  Some days, I have to look for it a little harder, like when I decide to go tumbling down a flight of stairs at 4AM.  But it's there, always, waiting for that moment I grab it, squeeze it, and think "aha...there you are, my warm, fuzzy friend."

I may even share the joy and forgive the FatBastard.

Are Ya Feeling It?

I spent the weekend with very limited internet participation, and was totally ready to get this week started.  After mowing half the day Sunday, I developed quite the nice headache from communing with the weeds, and decided an early bedtime was just what the doctor ordered.  Of course, early bedtime means early riser, which in my case, was 4AM with the need to pee.

It's really dark at 4AM.  More so than those joyful mornings of hearing birds singing their gleeful song at 5AM.  So because it's so dark, I didn't see FatCat, who is a blob of black fur, when I took the first step down.

Yup, you guessed it, I tumbled down our stairs.  The plus side is I didn't wake anyone up doing it...not even the FatCat bastard lounging on the top stair.  The down side is I didn't wake anyone up who might be concerned I cracked my thick skull on the way down.  I did not crack my thick skull, but I did feel every step on my well padded ass.  Ouch.  That one's going to leave a mark.

I found that tumbling down a set of stairs wakes you up quite well.  So those thoughts of going back to bed for a couple hours left my head.  Profanity did not. 

Not one to dwell on just the negatives, I took the opportunity of two extra hours in my day to get some cleaning and the rest of the laundry done.  I was not about to let FatCat ruin my day.  Though FatCat decided to then lounge like a lump of coal on the floor of whatever room I decided to be in.  Just a furry reminder of how graceful I have not become in my old age.

I hit up the coffee shop for the Monday morning ritual, thinking that would snap the pallor of bruised body and ego from my system.  Nope, didn't do it.  I wasn't grouchy per se, but I just wasn't feeling it. I could not decide which hurt worse...my ass, and the hand that was starting to form a bruise, or the knowledge that I was awake well before the happy little larks were.

I got my hair cut, thinking getting rid of the little amount of extra hair I had would totally get my it factor going again, but I left the shop happy with the haircut, but still not happy with my day.  Even the iced coffee that was still icy cold waiting in the truck didn't do it for me.

I ran a few errands, and then decided to visit the local junk shop.  It's like a summer long garage sale, operating on donations only.  My daughter is looking for a small side table for college, and my son wants a grandpa sweater.  Both things you would think a person could find in a local junk shop, but surprise, golly gee, the place was only filled with junk.  I couldn't decide if my brain was really seeing the $20 couch correctly.  Was that really what looked like a shit stain on one of the cushions?  My aching ass skipped sitting on that one.  As I made my way room to room, doing "the circle" that I always do in the place, I felt what little "it factor" I had from coffee slipping away.  This place is really filled with junk.  As I saw one heinous 70's artifact after another, I began mentally ranting about the type of garbage people hang on to, and had to wonder what the hell was going through people's minds when they donated this shit.  Of course, working in consignment, I should not be surprised.  I actually look at some pretty horrid stuff in the process of selecting the really great pieces we have in our store.  And that's with us not being a donation type store...I don't quite know which is worse.

I had nearly given up my perusing, feeling frustrated that this place trying to raise money for a good cause gets shit on...literally if that couch really had the stain I think it had.  I did a quick walk through of the "kitchen room" where you'll find everything from dishes, glassware, to small appliances.

And then....

The heavens opened up, the light shone, and the angels began to sing.

THE espresso machine.  Yes, just like THE purse, there is THE espresso machine.

I've been drinking espresso for years, and this was the first machine I ever owned.  It is THE machine.  No weird plastic taste, no horrid smell, or screech.  A PERFECT brew.  Little did I know that this was a simple little machine originally from Target, because my first one was either given to me or bought used.  It actually had been so long ago that I never remembered.  I've had two since, one bought on eBay, another found at a local church sale.  The one from church sale was the last one bought, and didn't last more than a handful of months, probably because Jesus was mad at me for just calling him a dude in ugly sandals.  By that time, this perfect little machine was long gone from the Target shelves, and a rare find on eBay, so I resigned myself to the fact that I would never own one again.  I moved on to other machines, never quite appreciating them like I did this little powerhorse.

I checked out the contents of the box...everything was there, and other than the layer of dust, it looked like it had not been used more than a handful of times.  It even had the instructional VHS tape included, which tells you how old this machine is.  The sticker on the box said $3, and once I saw that, I snatched it up quicker than my fat ass can tumble down a flight of stairs.  Mine.  Miiiiiiiiiiine.  My preciousssssssssss.

I got it in my truck, sitting contentedly next to THE purse in a place of honor, and realized I still wasn't feeling IT.  Really?  I just found the most glorious espresso maker my wallet can afford and I was still feeling this "meh" feeling?  On a normal, no falling day, I would have raced through the remainder of my errands just to get home and try it out.  What the hell was wrong with me?  Well, other than starting my Monday with a tumble into Neverland?

I decided to check out another one of our consignment stores in town.  It's not often I get to shop there, and I thought maybe I'd find that grandpa sweater, or some other glorious item of my past that would get me feeling IT.  I did find the side table for my daughter, but nope, not feeling IT.  Could have been the price tag, because as is the case in any time crunch, I paid more than I usually would.  But I could stop thinking that one of my own side tables was going to disappear in a flurry of college moving activity.

I wrapped up my errands except for that last dreaded chore of grocery shopping.  Ugh.  I hate grocery shopping.  I even had a list, but still had no inkling of sunshine and happiness to go.  On a whim, I swung by my aunts house.  She was gone, but all four of my cousins were there, and I settled in to a cushion of warmth and contentedness in the space known as the Voodoo Lounge.

My aunt eventually arrived home, but not before I had a few hours with my cousins, and add in another hour with my aunt, and next thing I know, it's late afternoon, and I have found the IT factor.  So much so that it doesn't even give me a twinge of sadness to know it's now too late in the day to test out that espresso maker.

It wasn't the coffee throughout the day, not the espresso machine.  It was the people.  They are my warm fuzzies on a not feeling it day.  Bruised and sore, I was able to find my it factor in the confines of the Voodoo Lounge.  In fact, I totally still am feeling it today, after a night of sleeping on a bruised ass, with a bruised hand.  I am FEELING IT.  I got my mojo back, and I am ready to start this week with a kick ass attitude that far outweighs the bruises.

And this morning, bounding out of bed, I did a Chuck Norris karate chop kick on that first step, just in case FatCat was trying to kill me again.  Take that furball.  You can't kill my mojo.