I Have a Confession To Make

I have a completely raging blog-on for a certain fellow. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m quite happy with MrWurdi and the object of my blog desire appears to be very happily married to a wonderful woman. It’s not like that. It’s just that my creative bone gets more than a little firm when I read his posts.

His name is Johnny Virgil and he posts at 15 Minute Lunch.


What does he post about, you ask? Why, everything! He posts about neighbors, coworkers, friends, random drivers, and his brothers, The Snitch and Houdini. He posts about travel and food and almost killing people. It’s okay, the almost killing people stuff happened before he could be charged as an adult. I feel a little awkward telling you this (since I’m such a delicate and innocent gal) but he posts a lot about testicles. Retraction and removal of them seem to be hot topics but he certainly doesn’t limit himself.

I’ve, with permission, brought a little bit of Johnny to my blog. The following are snippets of his posts over time:

JV on Fellow Airline Passengers:
The BO hits me in the face like a Stinky Iron Fist. This was not just ordinary BO. This was, I am pretty sure, an actual sentient creature, separate from him, but in some sort of symbiotic relationship with his armpits. I base my sentience theory on the speed and accuracy with which it moved. The second he took off his coat, it immediately jumped off him, quickly surrounded my olfactory senses, and beat them into submission with an efficiency and purpose I’ve never seen in lower animals.

JV on Random People in the Office Bathroom:
He was diligently checking out his bare ass in the mirror, of course. What else would someone be doing in a bathroom at 6:45 in the morning?

JV on Dogs:
Me: Yeah, this was a husky/shepherd mix. cute little puppy. We named him Veal because he was in the cage all the time.

JV on Guppies:
"MOM! MOM! Come here! HURRY! THE MOTHER GUPPY IS HAVING BABIES! THERE'S HUNDREDS OF THEM! MOM! HURRY! OH CRIPES! OH, CRIPES THE FATHER GUPPY IS EATING THEM! THE FATHER GUPPY IS EATING THEM! NOW THE OTHER FISH ARE EATING THEM TOO! GET THE NET! OH JEEZ, NOW THE MOTHER IS EATING SOME! MAKE THEM STOP! MAKE THEM STOP! "

JV on Guppies + Electricity:
Every single one of my guppies instantly flipped over and floated to the top like cheerios in a bowl full of milk.

JV on Sky Diving:
Right at 5,000 feet, I grab the ripcord and yank it. About two seconds later, the chute pops, and my crotch goes from 120mph to 10mph in the space of a second. My shoulders get yanked backwards, and there’s something in my throat that I think I used to piss with.

JV on Fast Food:
"Yes, I would like the seizure with chicken fangers please. And a bottled water." Okay, I didn't ask specifically about lifting a picture from his blog but I wanted you to see how he provides visuals to enhance his stories.


See what I mean? The fellow is hysterical. Treat yourself to the archives. As the king in Alice in Wonderland said, `Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'
A few words of warning: Go pee before you start reading. Seriously. I’ll explain about the Peequation* later.

After you’ve read all there is to read (and maybe even before then) go vote for Johnny at Blog Interviewer. He might win something!




*Idea shamelessly stolen from Johnny Virgil and to be modified to fit me at a later date.

IMHO, TLAs R a PITA.

The shorthand can’t be missed. It’s everywhere. Text messaging, instant messages, emails, and message boards are where the most frequent sightings occur. Even if you’re not into the whole texting thing, you see it in commercials and magazine ads. Recently, I read about a 13-year-old Scottish girl who turned in an essay written entirely in SMS shorthand. SMS has a few definitions but let’s go with Short Message Service for simplicity.

Not familiar with it? Keep in mind that I’m not a teenager or an expert in this method of communication. Still, I’ll attempt to provide an example - followed by a translation.

SMS:
IMHO, SMS does not make me LOL or ROTF. PPL use TLAs & think they’re GR8. 2 me, they’re a PITA. I M sure fans would like 2 tell me, “STFU, MYOB, QYB, and GOYHH.” Grammar is FUBAR, 2. OMG, & WTF s^ w/EWI & PWI? Apparently, I need 2 RTFM, bcuz I dont get it. I may B SOL. FFS, SSEWBA. YMMV. THX 4 listening. CUL8R & TTFN.

TRANSLATION:
In my humble opinion, short message service does not make me laugh out loud or roll on the floor (laughing). People use three letter acronyms and think they’re great. To me, they’re a pain in the ass. I am sure fans would like to tell me, “Shut the fuck up, mind your own business, quit your bitching and get off your high horse.” Grammar is fucked up beyond all recognition, too. Oh, my, God, and what the fuck is up with emailing while intoxicated and posting while intoxicated. Apparently, I need to read the fucking manual because I don’t get it. I may be shit out of luck. For fuck’s sake, someday soon everything will be an acronym. Your mileage may vary. Thanks for listening. See you later and tah-tah for now.

I admit, it’s a poorly written paragraph but it’s just an example.

I’m not an acronym hater. I work in a field where acronyms are everywhere. I don’t have a problem with using a little bit of the shorthand for casual writing. The same thing goes for lazy grammar and punctuation - in some cases.

Here’s where I have a problem. I don’t want to have to decrypt my text messages. I’m an adult, FFS. I don’t think it’s cool. I mean, really, does it take that much longer to type/tap out a few extra letters and use a little bit of punctuation?

When it comes to message boards, blogs and the like, you’re conversing with other people through the written word. Your typed words are the only impression of you that the other people get. It doesn’t have to be formal, MLA-approved writing but when you use incorrect grammar, misspelled words, and inappropriate punctuation, you’re giving the impression that you’re uneducated or that you just don’t care. Of course, if that’s the impression you want to give, fine. Do that. Have fun.

The informal use of the SMS and lousy writing bothers me more than it should but that is my problem. I’m working on keeping my eyes from rolling as much as I can. What really, really bugs the shit out of me is when people take this casual approach to written communication and bring it into the workplace. I have a customer who can’t spell to save his life and who uses the teenage-like shorthand in official business. Um, dude? Spell check is your friend and, while you’re at it, is it really that much harder to type out message than msg? Cancelled, instead of canx?

I’m turning into a curmudgeon.

I’d like to go to a nice restaurant and not see people wearing shorts or hear them shouting. I’d like to fly somewhere and not see people decked out in their most worn-out sweatpants. I’d like to see people be polite and ask to be excused when they bump into you. I’d like for those damned kids to stay off my lawn.

I’d like for people to know the difference between your and you’re. I’d like for them to know the difference between to, too, and two. Is subject/verb agreement that hard?

Am I perfect? Nope. I don’t expect to be, either. I just see us all sliding down that slippery slope. It’s the accepted dumbing down of America where the intellectual folks are ridiculed and not caring is considered cool. It makes me sad.

TTFN,
Ima

55 Fiction Friday!

In my travels over the internet, I read about nanofiction or 55 Fiction. There are several places to read about it but I'd recommend starting at The Wikipedia article on 55 Fiction. After that, check out some good (i.e., much better than mine) examples at 55 Fiction. There, Michael Lawrie has posted a bunch of his tiny pieces of fiction. The quick explanation is that a work of 55 fiction is a very, very short story of exactly 55 words. It needs to have a character, conflict and resolution.

Some bloggers have started doing 55 Fiction Friday and it seemed like a cool, little exercise in controlled fiction writing. If you'd like to play along, feel free to leave your fiction in the comments section - or, if you have a blog and want to put your story there, let me know and I'll edit this post to link to you. This is my first attempt and while I don't think it's horrible, I do hope to get much better. Here's my 55:



That Girl Has Balls!
Meredith didn’t think she had the balls for it, this ambitious undertaking; fame on the line.
She bent over again and again, looking.
Her balls just weren’t there.
She’d heard it was easier for men.
Maybe they had more ball experience but Meredith was determined, bending over one more time.
Success! A break and run!










Get your mind out of the gutter, okay?













UPDATE!


MrWurdi has given the 55 Fiction a try and I love the result. Here's MrWurdi's 55:

Afternoon Delight
So many sensations; she's perplexed. Staring deeply into the abyss, her head wobbling back and forth. All the noises of the others fade away, her mind screaming at her. She wants it all, has to have it all; but, there is always a price to pay.

Looking deeply into her companion's eyes, she declares, "I'll have the fish."

BREAKING NEWS

I'm here today to report some Breaking News to you.






Here it is.





You're not going to believe it.





Seriously.




People Have Sex Because It Feels Good.





I

am

stunned.




Please forgive my labeling frenzy. I couldn't help myself.

I Paid For That

There's a new post at I Paid For That?

If you'd like the non-rhyming account of my morning, that's the place to read it. I'm in a poem-y kind of mood this week so I've written a short poem about my Target experience.



I took myself to Target
While on my morning break.
I needed medication
To soothe a sinus ache.

The druggist hours were posted
For all the world to see.
Yet the door was locked down
On the Target pharmacy.

The employees weren't helpful
They didn't seem to care.
When I do more shopping
It surely won't be there.

Redneck Haikus

I live in Alabama. While not a native, I have been here for many years. So, even though I'm not a redneck, I can speak the language. I've taken my understanding of the culture and combined it with my love of haikus for your enjoyment and/or ridicule.







Rolling fields of green.
The beauty is unending.
Oh, no! It's KUDZU!


Southern Driving Rules:
(Standard laws do not apply)
My truck is bigger!


Culture, style and class?
Did you get lost or somethin'?
You ain't from 'round here.


Redneck wedding day
Barefoot and pregnant - they wed.
He did get 'er done.


Thought she had freckles.
Daddy spits out the window.
Poor thing... Bless her heart!

I'm a Bad Daughter

Years ago, when I was single and dating, I decided to check out the online dating thing. This was long before Match.com and similar sites were even in existence. I think I used some kind of personals ad at Yahoo or AOL.

I was cautious. I emailed with the potential date for a while before giving my phone number. Even then, I only gave my cell number so the potential date (or serial killer) couldn’t do a reverse look-up and find out where I lived. When I first went out with the person, it was a lunch date. Lunch dates are perfect. You’re in broad daylight; you drive yourself to a public place; you meet. If the chemistry is not there or they give you the creeps, you have the excuse of getting back to work.

It was fun. I met some interesting people. I didn’t think it was all that daring. One day, I was driving to meet a fellow I’d met online. My mother called. She asked what I was doing.

“Oh, I’m going to meet a guy for lunch.”

“That sounds nice! Where did you meet him?” my mother asked. She asked because she’s my mother and mothers want to know these kinds of things.

“Online,” I replied.

“(gasping noises) What?!? Where?! How do you know he’s not a murderer? That’s not safe!” she calmly replied. Okay, it wasn’t calm. I was just seeing if you were paying attention. She replied like that because she’s my mother and mothers respond to things this way.

I explained the safety precautions I’d taken. I did my best to reassure her that I was going to be just fine. It didn’t work. Mom insisted that I call her the very minute I got back out to my car after lunch. If I recall correctly, she wrote down his name or something, too.

I am a bad daughter.

I did call my mother as soon as I got back in my car after lunch. Did I mention that I am a very bad daughter? You see, I called her but I muffled my voice and pretended I was terrified when she picked up the phone.

“Mom? I’m in the trunk of a car and I think we’re headed east.”

She did forgive me. She forgave me because she’s my mother and mothers do that kind of thing.

Hey! I Resent That!

I read an article recently in a magazine that will remain nameless because it makes me feel old to have it in my house. No, it’s not AARP or Modern Maturity or Arthritis Today but it’s a magazine aimed at women of a certain age. I’m tangenting; forgive me. I’m not yet old but my body and mind are starting to exhibit some of the ravages of time.

Why did I come in here? Oh, yeah, the article.

Connie Schultz wrote a piece in the Magazine-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named that has nothing to do, really, with my topic. However, there was this one little part of one little paragraph that jumped out at me. She wrote that a friend once defined resentment as you drinking the poison and expecting the other person to feel the pain. (note: my aging brain isn’t sure if that’s a direct quote or close to what she said or what I got out of it so I’ll check the magazine when I can and edit, if necessary). Miriam-Webster Online defines resentment as “a feeling of indignant displeasure or persistent ill will at something regarded as a wrong, insult, or injury.” I like Connie’s friend’s definition better.

Why do we feel resentment? Someone else’s action or inaction has made our own personal existence less pleasant. Combine that with a lack of resolution about the unpleasantness and you get resentment.

It can be something relatively minor: The person in front of you at Starbucks is quizzing the barista about the growing conditions of the soybeans for the faux-milk in the grande half caff double soy double shot no foam hazelnut latte and asking if the coffee is fair-trade, shade-grown, and organic. Okay, seriously? Someone who cared about all of that wouldn’t be getting their coffee at Starbucks but I’m trying to make a point here. You resent the Soy Latte Lingerer because, damn it, you want your cinnamon chip scone and you want it NOW. That kind of resentment goes away rather quickly.

Then, there are the moderate resentments. These are somewhat serious and have the potential for doing damage but don’t permeate your entire life. I’m talking about things like: the boss who, in trying to do what’s best for the whole division, does not do the right thing and your career gets sidelined for a while; the “friend” who does something so completely unfriendlike that you wonder if they ever were a friend; the co-worker who frequently dorks up something so badly that you end up working late to fix their mistakes; the ex-husband who lied about you to the kids; and the [insert political party] leaders and members who do/don’t support [insert political agenda item].

Of course, all of these resentments don’t measure nearly as high on the Resent-O-Meter as those resentments about people who are part of our daily lives. Resentment focused at family members and significant others eats away at you. It makes your home – that place where you’re supposed to be able to go to get away from everything else – another place that adds to your stress-level. Many times, there’s not anything at all that you can do about the situation (serenity prayer, serenity prayer, serenity prayer…). Other times, a resentment causing situation continues because you don’t know how to fix it. And still other times, you allow it because the alternative is worse.

To me, here’s what’s key about the drinking poison analogy. If you don’t tell the person they’ve angered you or just let go of the resentment and anger, it poisons you. It poisons your mood and the spillover from that poisoned mood affects everything else in your life. It saps the enjoyment from things you normally enjoy because the offender’s offense is relived constantly in your mind. Worse, the resentee doesn’t even realize they’ve done something resent-worthy so they’re just be-bopping along while you sit and stew. They end up blindsided when you finally snap and read them the riot act.

Understanding that, it would make sense that I would learn to just let go of resentments or attack them head-on. I try. I’m even successful some of the time. I need to try harder.

Ow! Ow! Ow! A Top 5 List!

The Top Five Things to do when you have two torn disks in your lower back and done something you can't pronounce to your upper back/neck and it's causing shooting pains, burning, and numbness in your arms and hands.

5. Whine (this should be done in conjunction with all the other items on the list).
4. Stand up. Sitting is bad. Sitting hurts.
3. Go to bed, curled up on your side and hope it stops hurting.
2. Get pissed off at the surgeon with the God complex.
1. Take darvocet.


I've done all that and some other stuff including chiropractor, ice, rest, TENS, acupuncture, steroids, anti-inflammatories, eating whatever the hell I want because...well, because... okay, there's not a really good reason for that so I'm back on track today. I also went for my first physical therapy session. I feel like the traveling gnome when he uses the American appliance in the European outlet. You know, the one where he's thrown across the room and as he's flat on his back, whimpers, "Am I going to die?"

I hope and plan to blog more regularly as I heal.

...Try, Try Again

I suck.

I failed to maintain my quit. I have a new quit date, a new prescription for Zyban (that I've been taking for about 3 weeks), and a new attitude.

I could list all the reasons why my quit didn't stick but then I'd have to deal with that whole philosophical argument in my head about whether they're reasons or excuses. I'm not in the mood for Do-It-Yourself Psychoanalysis so I won't make a list.

Here's the plan:
Take Zyban - check
Keep taking Zyban - check
Pick a quit date, July 4th - check
Figure out how to keep from gaining weight while/after quitting - check back and see if this plan works

I really do want to quit smoking. I really would love it if smoking wasn't unhealthy, stinky, expensive, and completely abhorrent to MrWurdi. I have smoking issues. I'm dealing with them.

Part of my plan involves not gaining weight when I quit. I realize that's nearly impossible but I've recommitted to my Weight Watcher plan and I've started exercising. Yes, me. Even though I've always hate-hate-hated exercise. I've decided to do the Couch to 5K running plan. I completed the 2nd workout of week one this morning and I've learned something about myself.

I still hate exercise.

I dread it. I don't like it when I'm doing it. I feel so good when I'm done but I don't just feel good that it's over. I feel proud of myself and what I'm doing for my health. I also feel good that I'm providing amusement for anyone who happens to witness me as I huff and puff my way through the workout.

I'm a giver like that.

I was waiting for it to feel good. I have been looking forward to that "runner's high" you hear about from some runners. Unfortunately, I'm afraid my running experience will be more like that of a dear friend of mine who said, "The only way I'd get runner's high is if I were, well, high."

Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjo Music!*

UPDATED!!
MrWurdi and I spent Memorial Day weekend in the mountains of northern Georgia with some friends. We stayed at a fantastic cabin named Wild Blue Yonder and I want to go back and live there. Despite a forest fire that made the view a little hazy, the scenery was gorgeous! A bike ride to Helen, GA provided some wonderful opportunities for oohing and ahhing at the sites as well as a bit of photography. I'll be updating this post later with some photos from the trip and a few more details about them.

At I Paid For That, I'll be posting about our service experiences on our mini-vacation. Who would have thought you'd find gourmet foods and nice wines in the heart of redneck country? Not me. I was pleasantly surprised.

More later!

*The title of this post comes from a t-shirt I saw that made me laugh so hard I nearly wet myself.

The Meals
As I mentioned in I Paid For That, I did all the cooking for our weekend in the mountains. For the folks who'd be arriving after 5 hours on their bikes, I put out a variety of store bought snacks from the amazingly well-stocked local grocery store and gourmet meat shop but did make one snack myself. It was a complete experiment but it ended up being pretty damned tasty. I took mini pitas, split them in half and put a mixture of blue cheese, chopped dates, and prosciutto on them, then tossed them in a 350 degree oven for about 15 minutes. The Windmill Old Vine Zinfandelwas great with this. Just to recognize the wine, here's a picture of a windmill we saw on our bike ride to Helen, GA.




It turned out that one of the folks didn't care for blue cheese so I ended up doing a quick revision to the dinner plan. Since I had two pork loins, I stuffed one with blue cheese and chopped dates; the other, I seasoned with rosemary and garlic. I also made garlic and rosemary red potatoes, broccoli, asparagus and baked artichoke hearts with parmesan cheese. Crusty bread with herbed olive oil and a baby greens salad with blue cheese (for those who wanted it), toasted pine nuts, and a red wine viniagrette were served with the meal. The wine was Yalumba Shiraz Viognier. Nice. For dessert, I'd made two cobblers: blackberry and cherry/apple. These cobblers are remarkably easy to make and not high in points for those doing Weight Watchers. I'll post the recipes later.

I wanted breakfast to be easy so I decided to do two "make the night before" kinds of breakfast bakes. The savory one was a combination of turkey sausage, egg, and cheese. The sweet one was a baked french toast. The fruit had already been cut up so it was super easy to just get up the next morning, turn on the oven, make coffee and chill on the deck and enjoy the view.



Lunch was in Helen, GA at the Old Bavaria and I blogged about that at I Paid For That.

We went back to the gourmet meat shop for steaks to grill for dinner. I seasoned them and the guys did the grilling. Everyone loved the salad and potatoes from the night before so we had more of those and more crusty bread to finish out the meal. Dessert was this absolutely drool-worthy cheesy-pastry kind of dealio that one of the other gals made. It was my one request for someone else cooking something that weekend.

The Views
I'm a huge fan of the beach. I love the sand and the water and the carefree beach spirit. I've discovered that the mountains have a different spirit and it's one that encourages me to explore my own. I'm sure there'll be more on that later. One thing I noticed is that I wanted to capture the beauty of everything around me. I took a few pictures and want to share them.

The mountains were so flippin' beautiful. Unfortunately, there was a forest fire that afternoon and by afternoon, the view was kind of hazy.










Here's a little pond we saw as we blazed down the rural highway.







These flowers were blooming on the side of the mountain. I have no idea what they are. If you know, leave me a comment and tell me. Please?













At the base of the mountain where our cabin was, there was this lovely little pond with a mini waterfall and some gorgeous flowers.
















CACTUS FLOWERS




I have hostas in my front yard. Until this trip, I never realized how pretty the flowers were.

Screaming Beans

There are some sick and twisted people out there in Internetland.

It would probably take a team of psychiatrists many years to figure out why the Screaming Beans amuse me as much as they do. Are you a sicko, too?

Check out Screaming Beans.

The Red Wine Haiku Review

I like haikus.

I like wine.

Imagine my delight when I found a blog that caters to both interests. Lane Steinberg reviews red wines in the form of a haiku. Obviously, reviews of only 17 syllables can’t be that detailed; in fact, some are rather cryptic. However, most of the haikus are perfectly succinct in their adoration, loathing or amusement.

Two of my favorites from The Red Wine Haiku Review are below.

Royal Zin Cuvee Royall Zinfandel 'NV' (California)
This wine is a slut
Only one thing on her mind
And she's good at it

Bella Sera Pinot Noir 2005 (Italy)
Cheaper than bagged dirt
It's actually delicious
Faith in life restored

Random Thought #7: Edible Worms

I just realized of the four posts I've made so far during the month of May, two of them reference edible worms. That's 50% posting about gag-worthy stuff. This post makes the third. That's 60%!

That's disgusting.

I promise not to post about edible worms for at least the remainder of the month.

Steve! Don't Eat It!

I love to read. I'll read just about anything. In my travels over the Internet, I've been entertained, informed, aroused, angered, saddened and disgusted. Occasionally, there is overlap in these emotions. I recently read some interesting blog posts at The Sneeze where the author, Steve, has archived his experiences with ordinary life and with ordinary food.

Steve has a delightfully foul mouth and a talent for turning regular words into comedic content. I've just started checking out his blog when I have a few moments to spare but I like it. I like it a lot.

Aside from the regular food items, Steve has also experimented with odd, supposedly edible, items from the grocery store shelves. He's tasted potted meat, pickled pork rinds, Beggin' Strips, breast milk, natto, cuitlacoche (I gagged a little bit just reading his description), and silkworm pupa. As a child, and not knowing any better, I tried silkworm pupa. I didn't vomit. I didn't understand what I was eating. You can read all about Steve's adventures in gastronomical derring-do with disgusting foods at Steve, don't eat it!

Haiked Up

Pretty, yellow skirt
Does not match my beet-red face.
Breeze? Unexpected.

Nobody loves me, everybody hates me...

When we were kids, we were told to share.

As young adults, it was the extremely brave and/or foolhardy who ate the worm from the tequila bottle.

So, what happens when we're middle-aged? How do we embrace our pasts, remain young at heart, and show the world that we remember our manners and we're not intimidated by booze-soaked creepy-crawlies?


We share the worm.

Hell, let those wimpy-ass college kids swallow the bugger whole. It take real guts, real middle-aged guts, to break it in half to share with a friend. My dear friends, CaveBtch (let me know if that's right) and (remains un-named until I have permission or an alias), shared this special moment together while close friends and curious onlookers observed.

I apologize for the quality of the picture. It was taken facing the sun with a camera phone while straddling a picnic bench. Beer and/or tequila may have been involved. I had to act fast or the moment would have been lost forever.

I Paid For That?

I don't know what I was thinking. I haven't had time for this blog, let alone another. Still, I felt the need for a specialized blog. Since one of my frequent blogging subjects is service or a lack of it, I've started a blog titled, "I Paid For That?"

I'll still write here and plan to do that much more often but for now, check out the new one!

Margaret

Margaret was a wonderful woman and I miss her. I was fortunate to be able to spend quite a bit of time with her in the last months of her life. She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a teacher and a friend. I miss her.

The flower in the picture is the Margaret Merrill rose. Some dear friends of mine sent us one of these so we could plant it and have a beautiful, living reminder of her.

Margaret adored her husband, Jimmy. She mentioned many times during her final months how she missed him. He'd died years ago - a victim of Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS. It, somehow, seemed fitting that she passed on their anniversary.

Her son, MrWurdi, has had the responsibility of dealing with her estate. I'll save my ranting about the probate process for another day. In the midst of his grief, MrWurdi has needed to deal with all the "musts" and "have to" details. His strength during this difficult time has amazed me. He wrote the following:

My mother has passed on,
But I am a man, I must be strong.

But my days are filled with moments,
Moments of surprised sadness.

My mind does well,
But only the surface.

Beneath that lies the fragile emotion,
The weakness, the pain.

A word, a sound, a smell,
Even the consoling of a loved one.

Rips away the façade of strength,
The film of manhood.


I am a child, cold and alone,
My mother has passed on.

~Hiatus~

MrWurdi's mother passed away last Thursday night after a long illness followed by two weeks in the hospital. She was a wonderful lady. More later.

Get Your Motor Runnin'....

Two years ago, I bought my dream car. The kids were grown and it was time for Mom to buy herself a toy for a change.

I'd wanted a mako shark style Corvette (C3) since I was a kid. When I first saw one, I'd been riding in the back cargo area of my dad's Country Squire station wagon. You know, the kind with faux-wood paneling on the side and the obnoxious paint color everywhere else? Ours was piss yellow. It was also back in the days when kids rode in the backs of the wagons with no seat-belt, no car seat, no airbags. All of our moms had automatic, emergency rail arms? The kind that, as soon as the foot hit the brake, the arm flew out to catch you before you flew through the windshield? Remember those?

So, there I was, riding in the back of the piss-yellow-with-faux-wood station wagon. My brother was there, too. We were probably in the midst of that old "he's on my side - she's looking at me" squabble when I saw a car unlike any other behind us. I quickly lost interest in annoying the little brother and focused on The Car. It was so cool! The image burned itself into my brain. Then, the driver turned on the headlights and when they flipped up out of the hood, that was it for me. That was my dream car. That was the car I would have some day.

It took twenty-seven years but I got one. A few months later, I rebuilt the engine in it. This car is Prozac on Wheels with more than 500 hp. It doesn't matter what kind of day I'm having when I'm changing gears, listening to her growl and heading on down the highway.

She doesn't like the cold much and I don't trust the idiots on the roads around here so I rarely drive her in the winter or on rainy days. That combined with a too hectic schedule the past few months ended with a dead battery (it was old) and I couldn't drive her.

MrWurdi is my hero. He called and asked me if I wanted to go to lunch. He'd been to the parts place, replaced my battery with a new one, and came to swap cars with me. MY HERO.

Vroom, vroom, and get outta my way. I've got my motor runnin' and I'm headin' down the highway.

Random Thought #6: Dear AARP

Please stop sending me invitations to join! I'm not that old YET.

~sobbing~

Random Thought #5: Chrysler? Crapsler!

Chrysler's suck. Really. See the picture? Chrysler, down the swirly.

Regular maintenance/tune-up actions can not be performed by the owner. You must take your vehicle into the dealer. For example, the fuel filter is supposed to be changed every 30,000 miles. What does it take to replace the fuel filter in the convertible? YOU HAVE TO DROP THE FUCKING FUEL TANK. Seriously. You have to drain it, drop it and then replace the filter. God forbid you'd have to replace the fuel pump. Guess where the geniuses at Chrysler put that? Inside the tank.

I just got off the phone with the Disservice Department. I'd called to find out how much it would cost to get my spark plugs and wires changed. See, it's impossible to do this minor little maintenance task yourself. Half the spark plugs are located in an inaccessible place (for the home mechanic) in the engine compartment. Guess how much it costs... gone on, guess.

Guessing?

Guess high, now.


$401.00

I'm guessing that one dollar there is Chrysler's way of saying, "HA! We have you bent over the fender and we're not using lube! Take that! And a little more!"

Random Thought #4: Writers Write, Right?

I haven't had time or energy to write anything of substance recently but I'm determined to keep blogging along. So, my goal this week is to write something each day - even if it's just a random thought.

Today's thought:

A little bit of cayenne pepper goes a very long way.

Random Thought #3: Be Careful!

Remember that old saying, "Be careful what you wish for?"

I wished that I would be a bit busier at work.

Amuse-Biatch

Oh My God.

I have discovered the funniest Top Chef Commentary ever.

Amuse-Biatch is brought to you by Charlus and Ms. XaXa who very nearly made me wet my pants. Please go read this site. You will laugh. You will cry. You will pee your pants.

Also, for you design freaks... this daring duo has recently launched Pink Navy to give Bravo's Top Design the same irreverent treatment they've given Top Chef.

I planned to do my review of the Top Chef finale today but that review has been pre-empted. I'm going back to read more of Amuse-Biatch.

Pasta e Ceci

I was hanging out and chatting with some lovely folks at Duchess Jane tonight while I watched the finale of Top Chef. Jane hosts a little chat on Top Design. I was multi-tasking. While watching and chatting, I was also cooking. My dear friend, Kay at Gobstruck had shared a recipe for Pasta e Ceci with me.

The recipe is:

Pasta e Ceci
Serves 4

1 small onion, finely chopped
1 rib of celery, finely chopped
1 clove of garlic, peeled and finely chopped
extra virgin olive oil
a sprig of fresh rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
2 14 oz cans of chickpeas
2 1/2 c chicken stock (I used broth...)
3 1/2 oz ditalini or other small soup pasta
salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste
optional: a small handful of fresh basil or parsley, leaves picked and torn

Put the onion, celery, and garlic into a saucepan with a little olive oil and the rosemary and cook as gently as possible, with the lid on for 15-20 minutes, until all the vegetables ae soft, without any color.

Drain the chickpeas well and rinse them in cold water, then add them to the pan and cover with the stock. Cook gently for half an hour then, using a slotted spoon, remove half the chickpeas and put them to one side in a bowl.

Puree the soup in the pan using a handheld immersion blender (or dump it in a blender/food processor and then pour the soup back into the pan.) Add the reserved whole chickpeas and the pasta, season the soup with salt and pepper, and simmer gently until the chickpeas are tender and the pasta is cooked.

At this point, if the soup is a little thick (mine was), pour in some boiling water from the kettle to thin it down. Served drizzled with good-quality extra virgin olive oil. Lovely sprinkled with some freshly torn basil or parsley. A real treat.

I don't have an immersion blender so I put my soup in my regular blender. I either put too much in the blender or didn't hold the lid down tightly enough.

Scalding soup on your face will detract from your enjoyment of your television watching, your chatting, and your consuming of soup. Damn. Ow. That's pretty damned painful.

If I can get a good picture of the soup, I'll post it. Right now, it's not beautiful but the taste is AMAZING. I love this soup and I'll make it again. I will purchase an immersion blender before I make it.

Good. Ow. Good. Yum.

I'll post about my happy reaction to the Top Chef finale tomorrow.

~EDIT~
This soup is so good. It's a bit thick so I added some water to it when I re-heated it. It's also remarkably easy to make (except for the whole facial scalding stuff). I'll make this again and again.

The pasta I used was Acini di Pepe and it was a very nice size for the soup. I might experiment with that a bit.

I never realized that celery, onion, garlic, and rosemary could smell so good! Gently cooked in a little olive oil, it puts off the most amazing fragrance.

Make this soup! You'll love it!
~END EDIT~

What Are Ya Gonna Do?

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don't much care where –”said Alice.
“Then it doesn't matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
~ Lewis Carroll (Alice's Adventures in Wonderland)


If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll wander. If you don’t have a goal, how do you know where to aim? If you don’t know what you want, how will you ever get it?

Many times, I end up stressed about things over which I have no control. I fail to determine where I want to go, what my goal is, or what I want. I will have a vague idea of what I want; i.e., I want my life to be less complicated or I want to have less stress or I want my kids to be happy. I need to get down to the specifics or, at least, break each want or need down into smaller parts.

During a class I attended last August, I learned about One Minute Motivations. I’m sure someone deserves credit for that and I’ll check my materials when I get home and will edit this portion of the post to reflect the author. The OMMs work off four basic questions. They are: What would you like to have happen? What needs to happen? Can you? Will you?

Answering those questions helps me gain control over the situation or, if need be, let go of those things over which I have no control. It helps me focus.

What would you like to have happen?
This needs to be specific. “I want to have less stress” is not specific enough. I need to pick one part of that at a time and deal with each part. So, I’m getting specific. I want my home to be an oasis from stress. I want my home to be a place of peace.

What needs to happen?
My house needs to be clean. My bills need to be up-to-date. Stress needs to stop at the door (I can deal with the yard later). I need to be organized, have less clutter, have less things, refuse to allow arguments in my home. Sure, that’s several things but they’re all doable and they all need to be done to achieve my goal of having my home be a place of peace.

Can you?
Can I do what it will take to make my goal happen? When I get to this step, I have to look at all the excuses or reasons I have for this not to happen. If someone other than me leaves a mess, I can bitch and nag about it and hope they’ll pick up after themselves or I can clean up after them or I can ban them from my home until they’re willing to help me meet my goal. Can I get organized? Can I get rid of clutter? Can I get rid of anything that I don’t need or love? Can I shred anything sensitive that I don’t need? Can I simplify my life by getting rid of things? Can I get organized? Can I refuse to allow arguments in my home – either in person or on the phone? Can I step outside to deal with anything unpeaceful?

Will you?
WILL I do those things I’ve identified – those things that I CAN do? Will I ban someone from my house? No. Will bitching help me meet my goal? No. Will I pick up after them? If I want a clean house that is peaceful to me, I suppose I will. Since I've identified that, I can let go of my irritation (and stress) about it. The other things? Will I do them? Those things that apply just to me? I can and will do those things.


Those four questions can be applied to any situation. They can identify a destination, a goal, a want or a need. They can also help you decide if a vague wanting of something is important enough for you to pursue.

Piece by piece, one step at a time, I can and I will change my life.

Top Chef - Season 2: Finale - Part 1

Noooooooooooo!!!!!

Bad judges!!!

How could you possibly keep Marcel and tell Sam to pack his knives and go??? Elia? Okay, I'm not happy about that but it's understandable. She's high-strung. She cracks under pressure. Sam?? My dreamy fantasy chef??? What the hell were you judges thinking????

I apologize for the excessive punctuation but I'm very upset.

Marcel is a whiny little boy. He's not a chef and he's certainly not a Top Chef. He's an immature kid playing with his Mr. Science chemical set.

Ilan seems talented but he does not branch out of his comfort zone often. He'll probably be a Top Chef one day but he's not there yet.

I'm tempted to not even watch next week. It seems I'm not the only one who feels this way. Comments to judge Tom Colicchio's blog numbered 2,235 at last count.


~EDIT~
I was too cranky to put a really thoughtful post together on this topic. If you'd like to read a nicely done review (even though I don't necessarily agree with her), go check out Kay at Gobstruck.

¿Dónde está Miami? ~or~ Where is Miami?

As I was getting ready to run errands the other day, I had the television on to provide background noise. I like background noise. I wasn’t really paying attention because I wasn’t watching television – I was just listening a little. The show hadn’t been on very long before I realized that it was Hogan Knows Best. Isn’t that what it’s called? One of the reality shows on VH-1? Hulk Hogan, former wrestling superstar, invites cameras in to film his family?

I commented on Becca’s blog that I don’t watch much reality TV. Top Chef is my favorite. Flavor of Love is my guilty pleasure. I guess I’ve had the Hogan family on enough to recognize their voices. I recognized the sound of the two kids complaining. They couldn’t get directions. They couldn’t order food.

This is where I started to get mad. Based on my half-hearted listening, I assumed they were on vacation because the focus of this show seemed to be the Hogan children’s inability to communicate with people in stores. These people were speaking Spanish. I could not believe the gall of these spoiled, obnoxious American kids who went on vacation and expected the people to cater to them and speak English. I was livid. No wonder the rest of the world has such disdain for Americans. They may envy our freedoms but our people are just fucking rude.

I started paying a bit more attention when the Hogan mom began talking about the whole family taking Spanish lessons. I was a bit confused but assumed they must be on an extended vacation. Intrigued, I started watching the show.

They weren’t on vacation. They’d moved. They had not moved out of the United States. This family was taking Spanish lessons so they could live and communicate in MIAMI. Miami, Florida. In the United States of AMERICA.

The Hogans could not get directions, could not buy vitamins, could not hire/direct household staff without first learning to speak Spanish. In Miami. Florida. USA.

Ladies and Gentlemen: That’s fucked up.

Please don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against Latinos or the Spanish language. I might, inadvertently, offend by my ignorance of Latino vs. Mexican vs. Spanish but I don’t have any dislike for anyone based on their country of origin. It’s like this. I’ve been to Juarez and Cancun. I’ve been to Munich and Frankfurt. I’ve been to Korea. Not once did I expect that anyone from any of those countries would speak my language. Granted, I was in Korea as a child and we lived on a US military installation but I was in Mexico and Germany as an adult. I went with the knowledge that English was not the native language in those countries. It would have been arrogant to expect anyone to understand me.

Why should Americans living in America have to learn to speak Spanish in order to live in an American city? That’s just wrong. In my humble opinion, that is so very, very wrong.

World Carrot Museum

Last week, I posted my shock and outrage over the carrot conspiracy of which we (especially those weight watchers) have been victims for so long. I was not alone in my dismay and feeling of betrayal over finding that the supposed baby carrots I’d been noshing on were not baby carrots after all.

It turns out that the baby carrot conspiracy is not all there is to the story. Mr. Carrot of the World Carrot Museum found The Wordy Bitch and commented on my baby carrot conspiracy story. Mr. Carrot, or John, is the curator of the World Carrot Museum and he has provided the image for this story.

Did you know that carrots were originally purple or white? It’s true. Carrots come in orange, white, red, yellow, and purple. Or that the Anglo-Saxons included carrots as an ingredient in a medicinal drink against the devil and insanity. I always assumed that wild rabbits ate carrots. I was wrong! Creamed carrots were served in the fifth course of the last meal onboard the Titanic. That probably had nothing to do with the disaster but why on earth would you want to cream a carrot??

The World Carrot Museum’s website boasts a wealth of information about the carrot. You can learn about the history of this vegetable, varieties, medicinal uses, recipes, trivia, and so much more by visiting John (Mr. Carrot) on his site. Interested in carrots in fine art? Literature? Outer space? It’s all there. Go on, go play with Mr. Carrot Head!


P.S. I know I said I had a rant coming but, damn it, this was important! It's carrots!

How It Feels Today

It is getting better. There wasn't a question about starting back. It was just a matter of how bad it was going to get before it got better. I feel human again. Other people are, for the time being, safe. I've changed the way I'm talking about this. I don't talk about quitting. I'm not quitting. I have quit. I'm a non-smoker.

I do have a rant in me. It's a real rant, not one inspired by cravings or anything else associated with my quit. I hope to have time later today to post it.

Daily Non-Smoking Whine

I think it's going to get better. It has to, right?

I had a cigarette in my hand last night. I had a lighter, too.

I didn't smoke it. I put it down and walked away. Maybe it's good to have tremendous challenges thrown in your way when you're quitting smoking. It gives you the knowledge that you can get through future crises. If you can name your demon, I think that helps, too. My demon has a name. I was able to say, "Fuck you, _______. I'm not giving you that kind of power over me."

I'm going to Walmart. I hate Walmart on a good day. This is probably not the best time to go to Walmart but I have to go today. That's the bad news. The good news is that I might have another installation of "People Irritate Me" when I get back.

I'm hoping that I get over my foul mood soon. I think it's causing the choppy, high schoolish sentence structure. Bear with me. TJ says it will get better and I believe her.

People Irritate Me ~ Chapter 3

I guess it’s not quite fair to have a “people irritate me” post when I’m trying to quit smoking because my tolerance is pretty low today. I also said I wasn’t going to blog my quitting smoking details. So much for that! I’ve decided to put some People Irritate Me stuff in here right after I blog about my quitting smoking crap.

I was driving home yesterday when I realized I felt sick. Really sick. Sick to my stomach, head hurting kind of sick. Right about then, I had a lightbulb moment. I realized that how I was feeling must be similar to how junkies (not the turnip kind) feel when they're craving their fix.

My body is pretty pissed at me for not smoking. All of the unpleasantness normally associated with quitting is hitting me full force. I know that if I can get through today, it will start to get better. By this time next week, it will probably just be those random and unexpected cravings to handle.

I'm allowing myself some leeway on the whole Weight Watchers thing. I'm not tossing my plan out the window but, especially these first few days, I'm rewarding myself with food. If my brain and body are whining about losing something they enjoyed, I'll substitute food for a while. I know I can handle the food thing again after I deal with now.

I didn’t blog about quitting smoking yesterday so I’ve kind of exploited a loophole. I said I wasn’t going to do a day-by-day blog of it.

Now, on to the People Irritate Me part of this post. This is a general, non-specific kind of irritation. A list of character traits that run the gamut from mildly annoying me to making me want to [the rest of this sentence has been edited out on the advice of my attorney who states that one should never incriminate oneself by providing proof of intent to commit a crime.]

Posting the specifics would only end up making me more irritated (and might piss some people off) so I’ll just do a short list:

[EDIT]

Hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Top Chef - Season 2

I love this show.

I love the judges.

I adore Tom Colicchio.

Cliff crossed the line this week. I liked him but he needed to go after what he pulled with Marcel.

I really don't see any need to blog the details of this show/episode. You can catch this episode on Bravo through the weekend, if you wish, or right before next week's new episode. Each of the judges (Tom Colicchio, Gail Simmons, and Padma Lakshmi) and some of last season's top finishers (Harold Dieterle, Lee Anne Wong, and Dave Martin) also has their own blog at BravoTV.

I love this show.

Carrot Conspiracy

Okay. I need everyone to wait just one minute.

Baby carrots.

Am I the only one on the planet who thought they were really baby carrots?

It seems that most of the baby carrots aren't really baby carrots at all. They're baby-cut carrots.

It's a conspiracy. Read about it at SLASHFOOD.

I QUIT, REALLY!

I've been smoke-free for more than ten hours. I put the last one out before going to bed last night. The rest of the pack was broken, dumped in the trash and taken out to the bin.

I'm not going to hour-by-hour or day-by-day blog this. I just felt I needed to have a real "I QUIT!" post.

I QUIT!

Disclaimer: I haven’t actually quit so my title isn’t exactly accurate. A better title would have been, “I’m going to quit.” It just doesn’t have the same ring to it. So, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m going to quit.

Tomorrow.

Smoking.

Not counting a few unremarkable, short-term quits and one three-month quit, I’ve been smoking for over 26 years. That’s a long time and a lot of money - not to mention what it’s done to me health-wise.

So, I’m quitting.

Tomorrow.

January 17, 2007.

No more smoking.

The thought of quitting smoking used to make me so sad. Seriously. I know it sounds ridiculous that the thought of stopping something so expensive and damaging and stinky and offensive to others would make a person sad but it did. I hated the thought of giving them up.

I enjoyed cigarettes. I did. I really did. I loved the way they tasted. I loved the way they smelled. I loved pulling that toxic smoke deep into my lungs only to exhale it in a smoky cloud around me. I tried to be considerate of non-smokers and was, mostly, successful. I smoked in my car and in my house. I used cigarettes to wake up and I used them to relax. Stressed? A cigarette just seemed to help. After a meal or with a drink was a wonderful time for a cigarette. Smoking while playing pool just seemed natural. I didn’t mind if someone smoked while I was eating. Aside from while I was sleeping or showering or having sex, any time seemed like a wonderful time for a cigarette.

During all of my adult life, cigarettes had been there for me – like a trusted friend. They were there for the good times and the bad - especially the bad. Cigarettes didn’t mind if it was the same old drama. Cigarettes didn’t care if it was 3 a.m. They were there when I was bored. They were there when I was nervous. They were always there.

So, the thought of giving them up made me very sad. I didn’t even want to think about it. I’d get panicky at the very thought of never smoking again. It made me want to go smoke. Then, the sadness went away for a while.

Sure, there were things about smoking I didn’t like. Standing outside in the cold to smoke sucked. Standing outside in the heat to smoke sucked. Riding anywhere with a non-smoker sucked. Getting out of the airport to smoke and then back in through security for connecting flights sucked. I hated having to do that evaluation on the way home: Do I have enough cigarettes to last until morning? Is my lighter running out? My car reeked of cigarette smoke. I’ve burned clothes and carpet. I hated when my granddaughter would reach out for me to hold her and I’d have to say, “Wait until Grannie puts out her cigarette.”

None of that seemed to matter. I still enjoyed smoking. I wanted to smoke. Even knowing the love of my life HATED it, DESPISED it, LOATHED it, DETESTED it…(where’s my thesaurus?)… I still wanted to do it. My son’s best friend lost his mother, Sandy, to lung cancer recently. She and I went to high school together. I still didn’t quit. I knew I needed to quit and I half-heartedly planned to quit but it made me sad. I was addicted, mentally and physically, and the mental addiction was what had me running to the store to buy more cigarettes.

I had to decide that I didn’t WANT to smoke anymore. I had to get to a point where I didn’t enjoy it. I had to have a plan so I could succeed.

I reached that point. I didn’t want to keep smoking. I’d tried and succeeded (for three months) once. I’d tried and failed numerous times. I knew what worked and what didn’t.

I picked a date: January 17, 2007

Why that day? I’m not a New Year’s Day resolutions kind of person. I knew I wouldn’t have time to get to my doctor before the end of the year. I wanted to quit on a Wednesday because I play pool, in bars, on Tuesday nights. I wanted a full week of not smoking behind me before I faced big temptation.

I went to my doctor on January 4 and got a prescription for Zyban and started taking it. I know it helps. I know it makes cigarettes taste awful. I need the cigarettes to taste awful as I quit. I also got a prescription for a Nicotrol inhaler. If I get a really bad craving, I can get a “hit” of nicotine without all the other bad stuff in cigarettes.

I’m ready. I don’t want to smoke anymore. I’m tired of getting bronchitis every year. I want to de-stench my car and my house and my clothes. I want to stay inside when it’s cold. I want to sit and talk after a meal instead of rushing out so I can grab a smoke. I want the love of my life to LIKE how I smell. I want to pick up my grandchildren as soon as the reach out to me. I don't want my kids or parents sitting in a funeral home as people walk by and say how sorry they are.

I have Zyban. I have the inhaler. I have carrots. I have celery. I have gum. I have water. Thanks to a wicked smaht lady I know who recently quit, I also have tic-tacs. She says they help. Most of all, I have resolve and determination. I’m thinking like a non-smoker. I don’t love my cigarettes anymore and I’m looking forward to laying them down forever.

Tomorrow.

May You Have An Interesting Life

“May you have an interesting life.”

If I remember correctly, this is an Asian saying with the dual purpose of being both a blessing and a curse.

I have an interesting life.

A week and a half ago, I was thinking about what to write next. I contemplated end of year reflections and New Year hopes. I built draft blog posts in my mind.

Then my purse was stolen along with my checkbook, passport (Why, yes! Yes! I am a dumbass.), car registrations, proofs of insurance, my rings (irreplaceable because they came from little shops in various countries and cities), my watch, my everything notebook, my new cell phone, Weight Watchers stuff, photo booth pictures of me and Mr. Wurdibitsch (irreplaceable), pictures of the grandgirls (thankfully, replaceable), signed checks from Mr. Wurdi, all of my keys, lottery (probably winning) tickets, my memory stick and more. The inconvenience of closing accounts and opening accounts and stopping and redirecting direct deposit and changing auto pays and all that other crap was a great big pain in my ass.

There was good news:
I always carry my work badge with me but I'd tossed it on my nightstand that afternoon.
I meant to bring my camera but left it on my home office desk.
I’d tucked my wallet (cash, ID, credit cards) in my pocket.
I still had my old everything notebook at home.
Mr. Wurdi usually carries his computer (and leaves it in the truck). He didn't this time. He also forgot his phone in the hotel room. If he'd left it in the truck, he'd probably have lost it, too.
The locks on the house were getting worn out and needed to be replaced – we just ended up doing that sooner than planned.

I was going to do a blog post on the lessons I learned from that little experience (and I may still) but I had some other difficult issues to deal with and then I got bronchitis. Thursday, on the way to finding out that I had bronchitis – wait. I wasn’t going to find out I had bronchitis. I was going to my doctor to get a prescription for Zyban because I’m quitting smoking next Wednesday, January 17th. Mark the date… So, I was on the way to the doctor who would soon discover during the course of talking to me about Zyban that I had bronchitis. My car started overheating. Badly. The needle up in the red zone near the “H” while I was driving down the Interstate. I turned the heat all the way up and put the fan on high while I crossed my fingers. The temperature came down and I was able to make it to the doctor.

After the appointment with the doctor, I got my first estimate on repairing my car (water pump, Chrysler, damn it): Close to $1000. The second estimate was about half of that. I asked the guys if it was safe to drive it just a little bit longer. See, with the stolen checkbook fiasco, my direct deposit of my paycheck was lost in banking limbo land. They said to keep an eye on the coolant levels and temperature gauge and get it fixed soon. I planned to figure out a way to do it middle of the next week.

All of this happened right in the midst of my regularly scheduled drama. Oh sure, there’d been very special episodes of drama popping up for months but it all of a sudden just got to be too much. I was feeling rather picked upon by Fate for a few minutes. I wanted to wallow in self-pity. I wanted to cry but held off because that just makes my contact lenses cloudy. I wanted to pound my fists and feet and scream, “It’s not fair!!”

It didn’t last long. Funny – and not the ha-ha kind – how we get slapped in the face with a little perspective when we need it. I’m not dealing with heartache over a relationship or a loved ones illness or death. I’m not having an excruciatingly long recovery from an illness or surgery. I’m not dealing with medical uncertainty or a life-threatening illness. I have people I love who are dealing with all of those issues and others equally as difficult right now. My whining stopped and I started thinking of the positives in my life: I’m in a great relationship. I’m able to see my parents every week. My parents, kids, and grandkids are happy and healthy. I have a job and a home and supportive friends. More than I could possibly list, I am blessed.

Monday morning, I was ready for a NEW new start to the New Year. I prepared the night before by getting my clothes laid out (including my jewelry). I cut up my fruits and veggies. I got to bed at a fairly reasonable hour. I woke up with a whole new attitude.

My car wouldn’t start. Dead battery. My other car wouldn’t start. Also, dead battery.

I WAS OUT OF CIGARETTES.

I am quitting next week. I wasn’t quitting Monday and, damn it, it had turned, rather abruptly, into a chain smoking kind of Monday.

I remembered something a very wise woman and dear friend said. What she said speaks to the times when you feel like you just can’t handle one more crisis in your life. It reminds you that you aren’t the only one on the planet dealing with crisis. It’s some good shit about bad shit.

She said:
1. bad shit happens to everyone all the time,
2. people get over bad shit all the time,
3. just because you don't see bad shit in someone's life doesn't mean it's not there,
4. we have all walked a mile through a field of relatively bad shit in cruel shoes at some point in our lives, and
5. even the biggest load of bad shit does not have to define your existence. you just have to choose to rise above the bad shit and put it behind you.

that is my shit theory.

She’s wicked smaht, don’t ya think?