The End of the World...

"It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know it.
It's the end of the world as we know and I feel fine."
--R.E.M.

I've always kind of laughed at the lyrics to the R.E.M. song. I laughed freakin' hard when I saw the movie "Independence Day" in theaters (on, ironically, Independence Day). Pay close attention, the song playing in the opening sequence in the room where they're monitoring the skies is R.E.M.'s "End of the World as We Know It."

I've always laughed because I happen to think that phrase pretty regular. Like this year, at work. Things have been happening there that I don't like. Things involving the students. Since it's been in the news, I don't feel bad saying we've had a loaded gun on campus.

It scares me. Quite a bit. Since Columbine, either I'm more aware of things like that, or they actually are happening more often. I don't know which it is, and I don't guess that part matters. It's a huge problem to me that it's happening at all. I realize that lots of people see it at as a huge problem, too.

And really, after Columbine, I really had the words "it's the end of the world as we know it" go through my head.

I think we're on a downward spiral. We're outraged when something like a school shooting. But, you know, there were days and days and days of coverage after Columbine. After the Virginia Tech shootings, it was a week-ish. We're becoming desensitized and it's really rather sad. Evil should shock us, should make us stop and feel anger and fear. It shouldn't be one of those "oh my gosh, again? okay, what else is on?" deals.

Do I think there's hope for our future? Of course there is. There has to be. It can't keep going down without hitting a bottom somewhere. And once you're there, there's only direction to go--up.

Actually, the Sunday Scribblings prompt is about the future of the planet. Check it out to see other takes.

Photos, for Sunday Scribblings

I love to look at pictures. This morning, as I was blog shopping, I landed on one that has some pictures that just do me in.

The Daily Coyote

I love to look at pictures of animals just enjoying life. Charlie is doing just that. I've always believed that when animals and people come together and it's a obviously a good thing, the animal has chosen them. I think Charlie's done that with Eli the cat and his human.

That's what I think about The WonderDog. He chose me. I didn't want a little boy dog. I actually, I wasn't picky at all. When the guy at work brought the puppies up, knowing I wanted one, he dropped them off in their laundry basket with one of the ladies in the front office. She called to tell me they were there and to come pick mine out.

He was sitting in her lap when I walked in, the only boy of the 5 puppies. I came through the door and he stood up and chirped at me. I patted his head and knelt beside the basket, a few feet away, looking them over. He walked to the edge of her lap, and she put him on the floor where he tumbled over and crawled in my lap. I think it took 2 seconds for him to curl up and fall asleep.

Now if that's not choosing me, I don't know what is.

And I tell you what, I wouldn't choose anyone else.

I just don't get it

The first apartment I lived in seriously confused me. I'm convinced there were gremlins in it, but that wasn't what struck me within the first 10 minutes I'd had a key to the place.

There was a light switch in the living room and another in the kitchen that did nothing. Not a blessed thing. So, I did the Monica thing, only I used noise AND lights. Because I'm cool like that.( No, really, it was because I was in my first apartment and didn't have enough things of one kind or the other to put in every outlet. But, to be honest, I am cool like that.)

I lived in that apartment for 3 and a half years. Never, never, never did I figure out what those switches went to. I don't think they did anything..they were a plant. Someone had designs to drive me crazy. Seriously.

Second apartment I moved into, same complex different building, also had a tricky light switch. This one was right by the door, on the same wall as the cable outlet. Which would be, typically, where one might want to put the TV. Also, by the door might be where one would like to put a lamp. But, because of the amazing lay-out of the place, switching off that outlet meant your TV (and VCR, and DVD, and cable box) were all shut-off as well. Again, because of the layout, you couldn't put the TV anywhere else and not have it look stupid. (Because furniture placement is everything, dahlinks.)

Now, this apartment, which I've lived in for almost 3 years, this one has a switch that only works one of set of holes on an outlet. (you know, they have 2, right? The switch only works the top one.) The outlet and the switch are next to the entry..which is fortunate. Because I actually do use it for a lamp. It's also the wall my TV, etc. are on, but there's a separate outlet for those things. Very handy.

But, it still bothers me that I don't know about those other ones. Frustrates me.

For other things that we just don't get, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings.

Why I live where I live

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, because I've been thinking of moving. I've toyed with the idea of moving to Georgia, where my brother is. I've looked at other jobs, closer to here but still far enough away to feel like I'm starting fresh. Even applied for a couple. I've really felt like that, even with everything that here has to offer me, it doesn't really offer me anything.

Anyway, I have been wondering why I live here. I mean, here is a nice enough place, decent schools (which is nice since I work in one), my church is near, I know people. My family is here. Yes, I grew up here, so there's the sense of familiarity and feeling like I am a part of this place, to some extent.

You know, it started because I just didn't have the funds to move out on my own right after college. My hometown likes to see "its own" come back to live and work here, and makes no bones about liking to hire us. So, it seemed natural. I promised myself I'd give my hometown 5 years--this is year 8. I promised myself I'd give my library 5 years--this is year 5. Thing is, I already know I'll be back for year 6 (well, 9).

It is nice being here. It's comfortable, safe. I know who I am here, and people know me. But I do want more. I want to know I can make it away from here, find happiness that meets everything I need. But I won't leave the safe place. Even if I think happiness is "out there" somewhere.


For other random thoughts and writings, check out Sunday Scribblings.

Experimentation

If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?

--Albert Einstein

Lately (well for a couple of months now), I've been in a state of experimentation. Every morning, I study the idea of getting out of bed. I don't go blindly into the experiment. I don't believe in running about willy nilly (as they'd say) and jumping off of cliffs without ropes on the chance that someone will catch me. No, I weigh it out, pros/cons, factor in the possible outcomes, and what I learned when I performed the experiment the day before (hence the Einstein quote above.)

See, I've been depressed. Now, that's not a diagnosis, just a knowledge that I have. And every day, simply opening my eyes is an experiment in living. I've not gotten so low as to not want to extend the experiment for a long while, but I have wondered about bothering with that day. Yesterday was like that. I got out of bed, had some coffee, walked The WonderDog, checked email and went back to bed. It was mid-afternoon before I bothered dressing and running to the store for food (yes, the grocery fairy had skipped me again. I guess I need to talk to her boss.). I had plans last night, but I begged off. I couldn't convince myself to risk leaving the house again. I really hate that.

What gets me up is knowing I have to go to work. I enjoy my work, so I often forget I'm experimenting. But then I come home, put on my pjs and go to bed. At 5 pm. The poor WonderDog hates it. I don't play, I don't love on him. He's his own island. Not good for a puppy dog. But he's been good, he tries so hard to take care of me, resigning himself to sleep all day on a pretty Saturday, rather than play in the yard.

Now, I know that some of what I've said (i.e. opening my eyes is an experiment in living) is really a commentary of the human condition and life anyway. But I also know that I've never felt like that before. I've felt listless before, but never felt like faking it was so exhausting (and, some days, so pointless). There's a part of me that wonders if I shouldn't go find some tools until I get back on my feet, and off of my face, but I can't even start entertaining that notion right now. It means leaving the house for something other than a dire necessity or work.

And you know what really hurts? The people who I think know me best have no idea. I'm not sure if that's a sign of amazing coping/acting skills or if that means they don't really know me.

For more thoughts on experimenting and experimentation, visit Sunday Scribblings this week.

I go back....

This week, Sunday Scribblings has their 100th prompt. Happy (sorta) Blogaversary to you guys!

The idea this time is to write about the things that are like a mini-time machine for you. Music is mine. Sometimes smells and tastes, but always music. And then the music brings up the smells, tastes, touches, and the feelings in my heart.



The first time I heard this Kenny Chesney song, I knew exactly what he meant.

I never really thought about, that music is so integral to who I am. I'm not a musician, not really. I can appreciate it at the nut and bolt level. I can tell you when someone's off-key. I even direct an instrumental choir at church. But I just realized that I regularly made sound tracks for my life.

Okay, we all do that right? Make mix tapes? Or, I guess, CDs or playlists now. I've done it for years. I caught myself the other day making the list of that defined love and life with The Man. (I was only doing that because I couldn't focus on the death of my grandfather so I picked something else that made me feel warm. The Man and I aren't together anymore so our sound track is decidedly different now than it was a few months ago, but the warmth is still welcome.)

Songs can reduce me to tears, leave me uplifted. Cure every hurt, and amplify the pain.

I've been thinking a lot about my grandmother this weekend. Next week will be 4 years since she passed. Grandpa just passed this last Friday. These two songs were her two of her favorites (sung by her one of her favorite "new guys" in country music, Alan Jackson.) We sang "I'll Fly Away" at her funeral.



For other time machines, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings.

Dear Diary

It's time to bare all. I'm going to finally admit a silly, almost embarassing crush I've had forever. Ever since I first saw the reruns of the tv show, so many years ago. It burns me now that I can't find those reruns anymore.

I've always had a thing for the young David Cassidy. Why, oh why wasn't he born 15 years later? It wouldn't have been a celebrity crush I had to hide from everyone.




Shhh..don't tell The Man. ;)

Beautiful Phenomenon

Check out the prompt over at Sunday Scribblings for this week. You'll find other thoughts about this topic as well.

We're supposed to discuss amazing phenomena that caught or does catch us. Gosh..there's just so many. I could go into those things that astonish and perplex me (like how people could actually feel sorry for Paris Hilton. But, I digress.). Instead, I would rather think about the phenomenon that gets me in the heart, every time.

I'm a high school librarian, by trade. I've always believed that my career is not a job, it's a calling. I was designed for this role, among others. While some may think that the most important part of my job is teaching and curriculum-based, I would disagree.

I'm a connection for the students that I work with. I'm someone who isn't harping them on to get school work done, or do their chores, or by golly pull your pants up. I just talk to them. I tell my colleagues that I have 1800 kids...and I care about all of them equally and to the best of my ability. Even when their behavior is unlovable.

I used to think, when I taught elementary school, that most amazing thing I got to see on a day to day basis was the "lightbulb" go on over a student's head. You know, when, after struggling and struggling, they suddenly GOT IT, whatever it was.

Now, it's when I look up to see who's standing at my office door and hear "Miss, can talk to you about something?" It means I got through to one of 'em. One of those 1800 kids has realized that someone gives a damn and isn't going to tell them what to do, but is going to listen and help them make choices. That's the phenomenon that makes what I do every day worth it. Why I go back.

I'm a librarian, which, by definition almost always means "book-pusher." That's the last part of my job. The first is loving those kids.

Inspiration

Hm...where does my inspiration come from?

I've written so many times about the way words affect me (here and here), my thoughts on just poetry in general.

But where does my inspiration come from? That's so much harder.

I take pictures a lot..my camera's almost always handy and I think the most fabulous gift I ever bought myself is my camera phone (and then I learned how to blog via my phone. Ain't I spiffy?). I rarely share the pictures I take, but I just look back at them and smells and feelings and words come right up (there goes that synaesthesia again).

Sometimes I'll hear a word or phrase and I'm just done in. I used to carry little bits of paper with me all the time. Now I text the phrases to my email address.

I'm a rehearser. I rehearse the important (and goofy...and sexy...and duurrrrty) conversations I want to have with The Man. (It makes me glad I run with an MP3 player strapped to me, people think I'm just singing along.) Sometimes I'll say something--or feed the words I want him to say--and it'll spark something else.

And sometimes I'll hit the prompt for Sunday Scribblings, or Poetry Thursday, and sometimes even One Deep Breath and I can't help but write.

When it hits, it's different every time. Some days, I have to stop everything and go with it. Other times, it marinates for a long while. I can always tell when I'm going to have to stop and focus on the word--my (self-diagnosed) A.D.D. gets so much worse. I've just got no chance of focusing on anything else. None.

For other thoughts on inspiration, check out Sunday Scribblings this week.

Puzzled

I've always liked the word 'puzzled.' It feels good in my mouth, but I think that's because I like z-sounds. I don't think I use it very often, but I do tend to hold those words that taste especially good in reserve, so they don't get used too often.

I spent a fair amount of time puzzled this week. It managed to leave me on edge, and feeling insecure. The insecurity kind of scared me. It showed up in overly-emotional ways with The Man. I even raised my voice to him, and started crying because I'd realized what I'd done. I don't think I've ever done it to him, and I know he's never done it to me. I'm sure my doing so and my sudden tears were more than a little puzzling to him.

Last night, it hit me. It's not that I was feeling insecure about my relationship with The Man, that's good, that's solid. It's more that I was feeling very puzzled by reactions and feelings I was having (again, see this post).

People puzzle me. Myself the most. I used to joke with a friend about it. He'd make some comment about "never understand you, woman." I'd answer with "join the club, man." Sometimes, it bothers me that I don't understand myself more. Most of the time, it's just nice to know there's still things to learn, even about myself. I'm sure it's not easy for people around me, probably hardest for The Man (he doesn't have the advantage of knowing me for years).

Anyway, this wound up being just a wander for my mind. But, I wrote--this is twice this week!

For my puzzling thoughts, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Chronicles, for Sunday Scribblings

This week the prompt is "Chronicles." I finally took five minutes to stop and see what the prompt was this week (I've been preoccupied as of late.). Definition #2 from Answers.com says a chronicle is a detailed narrative record or report.

Actually, it's the subject of my recent preoccupation that I've been thinking about in terms of chroncling lately. I started a list of the things that are making me smile, making me tingle, my heart swell, and my disrupting my sleep (in a good way).

I may have mentioned The Man has returned. We've been back together nearing 2 months. It was instantly more serious than we were in the fall. I'm 10 kinds of happy, and in such love. I keep wanting to write about it, but don't feel like I can do it justice. Some days, what I feel for him just overwhelms me.

So, anyway, in a rush of love one night, when I couldn't do anything else, I started listing the things about him, about our time together that make me sing. In a sense, it's a chronicle of things, a 'detailed record' of the things that define my love for him, our love for each other.

Maybe, one day I'll share it with him.

Change and the New Year

Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man. ~Benjamin Franklin

I think I've said this somewhere before...but I don't do New Year's Resolutions. I don't believe in them. I can't think of any good reason to resolve to change once a year. Yes, I know, you can decide to make changes at any point during the year, but people make such a big deal about it at New Year's.

I don't think Old Ben meant that you should start in January working yourself over to be a new man. Instead, I think when the new year starts, the idea is that you're better than you were when the last one did.

Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us. ~Hal Borland

There's an old prayer, rumored to be found in the Bible of a freed slave who died in battle during the Civil War.

"Lord, I ain't what I oughta be,
And I ain't what I wanna be,
And I ain't what I gonna be.
But Lord, I thank ya,
I ain't what I was."

That's what I think about during this time of year. I honestly do sit and think about how I've grown and changed during the course of a year. And where I'm heading.

On New Year's Day, my mother will ask us to share our resolutions. She's obviously never heard..

Never tell your resolution beforehand, or it's twice as onerous a duty. ~John Selden

So, even if I did really, really make New Year's resolutions, I wouldn't share them.

All that being said, I do have a change I'm going to endeavor to make. I'm gonna stop cussing. It's really gotten to be too easy for me to let those 4-letter words slip out. I tried once before, even set myself up to put a quarter in a jar every time I said one. The idea was that once I'd gone 2 weeks without paying the jar, I could take the money and go do something fun. I made it to $4, then decided it was really stupid and did away with the cup. And kept cussing. (Should I note that the first $2.50 accrued inside of about 20 minutes?).

One last thought about resolutions and change, from dear Mr. Twain...

Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual. ~Mark Twain

For other thoughts on change, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Nemesis, for Sunday Scribblings

Last week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings was about heroes. This week is about your nemesis.

I'm not sure I'd be 'allowed' to write about the person I actually think of as my nemesis. Out of deference to my dear friend, I won't even try, because I wouldn't be able to keep a civil tongue in my head. But when he reads this, I'm sure he'll know what I wanted to do for this prompt.

So, instead...a bit of my brand of farce.

My arch-nemesis, renewed on a daily basis, is my alarm clock. I'm not a morning person. I think I've told you that before. I completely adore the mornings that I can wake without the alarm clock. In fact, I dream of those mornings. Let me explain.

I have to wake in stages. Three, sometimes four, attacks at the snooze button are the norm. I actually set the alarm for 30 minutes before I should get up (which is roughly 50 minutes before I have to get up). Before I found an alarm clock with a 10-minute snooze, all I'd been able to find was 9-minute snoozes. I'd actually set the alarm for twenty-seven minutes before I intended to get up.

(As an aside, why NINE minutes? What was magical about that number? Other than to incite general pissiness in my morning attitude. Which is pissiness enough, frankly.)

When the alarm goes off the first time, I grumble at it. Think troll. Pissy, blonde-headed, librarian troll.

Second time, I whine. "Mmmm......noooooooooooooo." At this point, WonderDog starts making grumble noises.

Third time, I cuss. One of those long, drawn-out expletives. "Sheeeeuuutt." Or usually, more of a "Fuuuuuuuuuck me." (Mark the calendar, that's the first time the F-word has appeard in any form in my blogs.)

If I need a fourth (or fifth) time, more whining, more cussing. Then a general scramble because I'm now running behind and the coffee and ironing fairies took the flippin' night off. DAMN IT. This doesn't happen terribly often, because WonderDog's bladder can only make it through 25 minutes of snoozing, not even the full 30.

All this really boils down to the fact that I can't think of any place nicer to be until 10 or noon than my bed. It's warm, and soft, and perfect. The only way it could be any more perfect is if I happened to have a good smelling man in bed with me, warming the other half. (I'm not being facetious. And I'm rather particular.)

Of course, as I write this, it's 7:30 am, on a Saturday, marking the 8th day in a row that I've been off (we got a week for Thanksgiving) and I'm my couch. See, the WonderDog won out this morning, and is adamant about not going back to bed. If I thought he'd entertain himself quietly while I did return to my little nest, I would do it in a heartbeat. But, since we've only just turned two a month ago, well....that's not going to happen. You'd give in, too, if eight pounds were standing on your neck.

Oh well, I think I'll take a midmorning nap in a bit. Crawling in bed and all.

Heroes (for Sunday Scribblings)

This week's prompt is centered around the word 'Hero.' You can choose any of these variations: hero, heroine, my hero, my heroine, or you can just use the word as you like.


Dictionary.com Unabridged
he - ro
1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.
2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal: He was a local hero when he saved the drowning child.
3. the principal male character in a story, play, film, etc.
4. Classical Mythology.
a. a being of godlike prowess and beneficence who often came to be honored as a divinity.
b. (in the Homeric period) a warrior-chieftain of special strength, courage, or ability.
c. (in later antiquity) an immortal being; demigod.
5. the bread or roll used in making a hero sandwich.

I've had trouble with the word "hero" the last several years. Really, since I started teaching. My students have all had heroes. It's always, a sports figure or a wrestler or a racer or an actor. A few have even put Bill Gates on a pedestal.

This bothers me.

Yes, I can appreciate the things those men and women have done. And yes, I admire them for those things. I'd love to have Lance Armstrong's ability (only cuter), Michael Jordan's skills (only cuter), be able to sing like Leeann Rimes (only cuter), or Bill Gates's money (only WAAAY cuter).

But I don't believe those people to be heroes. They're driven, they're ambitious, intelligent, strong, awesome people. But they aren't heroes. They're people with a job that they do every day. Yes, it's an amazing job that, because of they're determination, has put them in the spotlight. But they're still just people like you and me.

My heroes may not have super powers or ridiculously amazing skills, or even money. But they do have honorable qualities that last far longer than those things.

So, here's my short list...

1) Daddy. Now, as a "daddy's girl" this is probably to be expected. However, my dad is a noble person (without the nobility bit). He has never sat idly by when there's something he could do or say to stop or prevent wrongs. His heart is of the purest sort and he has an honest and real love of "right."

2) Ryan White. I've never head of a teenager more courageous and noble. Yes, many (too many) deal with horrible diseases, but few would stand taller under international attention the way he did. He didn't give up. AIDS can be crippling for the people who have it and those that love them. Ryan his family were never crippled by it. They thrived.

3) My students. I listen to them talk everyday. I learn about what they bring to school with them--family lives I can't dream up, pain and sorrow. Hell, just teenage drama and angst. It amazes me that they get up everyday and do their thing. Sometimes they break my heart, sometimes they make me wish I was more than I am.

Along for the ride

The prompt this week at Sunday Scribblings is
"I don't want to be a passenger in my own life." (Diane Ackerman)

I'm at odds with this one. It's got me thinking about choices. Particularly the choices I make in my own life.

When you speak to my dad, his pat answer to "How are you?" is "Wonderful, wonderful." Lately, he mixes things up with "Just ginger peachy." Mother's answer is always "pretty good."
I've been thinking about the differences in their personalities.

Dad's a 'wonderful-wonderful' personality. Mom's a 'pretty good' one. Got it? Dad's positive, Mom's mostly positive. Daddy is the one who is attractive to me when I need a parent--or even when I don't. Mom grates on me, because being 'pretty good' seems to correlate with being a bit tactless. I don't know want to be that person. (Tact hasn't been an issue, but it's close cousin pessimism is.)

I've listened to myself this week. I never say I'm 'wonderful-wonderful.' I'm always 'not bad' or 'pretty good.' And I think that's a hindrance

I've pretty much been along for the ride the last few years. Occasionally I make some navigatory remarks, but for the most part, I just sit quietly in the passenger seat. Not always a bad thing. But, it's left me 'pretty good.'

I want to be 'wonderful-wonderful.' (I'd shoot for 'ginger peachy' but I think I need to take it slowly--ginger peachy sounds like a bit much for me aim for just yet.) And I think that being wonderful-wonderful is a conscious decision. A decision to be made daily.

Okay..so keep me honest, kids. No more 'pretty goods.' Only wonderful-wonderfuls, please.

For other thoughts on this prompt, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings

Morning

Lose an hour in the morning, and you will be all day hunting for it. ~Richard Whately
But I ask you, is it really lost?

There is no snooze button on a cat who wants breakfast. ~Author Unknown
Or a WonderDog who needs to go outside. Dear Lord...if I could get him to walk himself, mornings would be easier.

There is no hope for a civilization which starts each day to the sound of an alarm clock. ~Author Unknown
I agree. All it does for me is make me want to cuss. If I start the day cussing, oh we're all doomed.

Luxury is an ancient notion. There was once a Chinese mandarin who had himself wakened three times every morning simply for the pleasure of being told it was not yet time to get up. ~Argosy
Haha--SWEET! I want this too! Can I wear my tiara at the same time?

Early morning cheerfulness can be extremely obnoxious. ~William Feather
This is why I can handle Katie Couric better as an evening news anchor.

Okay, seriously...

I'm not a morning person. At all. Let me repeat that....AT ALL. Don't look at me, don't talk to me, don't touch me. Let me get my coffee and a shower, then I can face you. After another cup of coffee, we can discuss leaving the house and facing the world. No, maybe I'm not that bad. But I do come by my morning issues naturally.

My mother used to wake us in song. She'd turn on the overhead light, singing stupid songs and then pick at me when I'd be vaguely ogre-esque. Little did I know...

Apparently, my dad very rarely gets up when she does. In 30 years of marriage, he'd never watched her morning routine, at least not the part before the coffee. For some reason, he was up one morning and followed her into the kitchen. She never spoke while getting the coffee pot ready. He's chatting a little, talking to the dog, whatever. She started the coffee and stood there, staring at it. He suddenly realized that not only was she not talking, she wasn't moving, just waiting on the carafe to have enough in it to pour the first cup before it finished the cycle. He asked if she was like this every morning and she very quietly, very slowly shushed him.

THIS IS ME. Every morning. The world's greatest innovation is the coffee pot that starts up on its own. Mine died and I miss having coffee ready before I crawled out of bed. I'd set everything up before bed, and then fall asleep, knowing the day would start positively. Mm...Until I get coffee in my system, functioning isn't a possibility.

Geez..I've already been through one (small) pot of coffee. I think it's time for another.

For other thoughts on mornings, check out Sunday Scribblings this week.

Repeating, but this time with a different focus

**This post feels very disjointed to me. It's the first honest writing I've done in a few weeks and I'm feeling rusty. So, bear with me.

Back in July, I posted this haiku:

Things are not as they
teach us--the Earth is hollow;
I have touched the sky.

I wrote then about it being a 17 syllable catharsis. Lately, it's come to represent mystery for me.

This week's prompt at One Deep Breath is about mystery, specifically the unseen. And so, I'm thinking on it.

I don't do well with the unseen, with being in the dark. I tried to explain this to someone recently, when in the midst of a non-argument argument (which we were so good at), and was told that I was being selfish. I never imagined it as being selfish, more a method of self-preservation, protection. And from him, at the moment, I felt like I needed protection (yes, I mean from him, but not physically.). There are so many things out there that I can't see. Some actually give me comfort (God in my life), others terrify me (the future). Not knowing what was coming prompted the defensive maneuvers.

I need to become more comfortable with the unseen, the unknowable.

But how the hell does one do that?


Okay, so this is my least favorite offering EVER. To see some better stuff, that maybe isn't so disjointed, visit One Deep Breath

S(k)inful thoughts

Start with this post over at Pocket Myriad. It's what jump-started this particular musing. The first paragraph set my mind to wandering.

Okay, now that you've read it, let's begin. And if you didn't, go back..you need to or this may not make much sense.


PocketMyriad's reminder of the fact that the skin is the largest organ of the human body set me to thinking about the way I (physically) feel some emotions on my skin. I wrote in my previous post about how I feel my writing in my skin, like electricity. That's not the only thing I feel on my skin.

When I'm upset or angry, my skin feels physically raw. I remember taking a friend with me to pick up things from the house of an ex-boyfriend who had ended the relationship very harshly. When this friend leaned over to touch my shoulder to comfort me, I jerked away, the way you might if someone touches a burn...I literally hurt to the touch.

Happiness feels like soft cool grass in my parents' backyard. I love to lay (lie?) in the grass and doze on a not-too-warm day. Usually, I start out reading out there, but I always wind up with the book on my chest, or my face on the book.

I'm discovering what love really feels like, on my skin. It's an interesting process because the feeling changes on me and it's honestly very new to me. Sometimes, it feels like...well...you know those boxes with the pins in them and you can press something into the pins and leave the shaped impression? You know..everyone does their face or their hand...it's "desk junk." If I could find a picture, I'd show you. (Take that as an open invitation to help me, if you can, please!) Anyway, sometimes it feels like I'm in a human-body size one of those boxes. Other times, it feels like the velvety leaves of my violets--soft and safe, and comforting (I inherited the violets from my grandmother). Lately, I've noticed a new feeling--it feels like the tingle I get on my tongue when I smoke a menthol clove cigarette (which is a favorite new--occasional--vice, thanks to The Man.). It feels cool and a little exciting. Hm..and it's touched with a bit of that skin-prickly feeling that I'm doing something naughty. Like I still sometimes feel when I have a cigarette, even though I used to smoke a pack and a half a day. Normally, not being able to "name" one sensation to go with an emotion would drive me crazy...but I'm enjoying this evolution for a multitude of reasons.

Switch gears...I promise the rest of this is connected.

I had a date with a guy a couple years ago who seemed great. Then the date happened. Oh my. His choice of dinner conversation was...awful.

Sex. And not just sex in a general way, though he did manage to talk about it academically for a bit. No, he proceeded to give me a run-down of how great his former girlfriends thought he was, how no one ever left unsatisfied, and "trust me..never had to fake it." I got details---"and then I'd..."---and was asked personal questions---"so if I touched you..."---that I didn't answer. Not because I refused to answer, but because he wouldn't give me a chance. I'm shy and don't particularly like confrontation, and often do just bear a situation rather than speak up. So, I sat there very interested in my food and silently willing the waiter to come back by so I could order another margarita and maybe drown my disgust.

Finally, he took a deep breath and said "So..tell me what you like." I let him have it. I assumed a husky, throaty voice, looked him in the eyes and said, "Well, what I really, really like is....a man who really understands how a woman's body works." He was nodding enthusiastically already. Puh-lease. "I'm gonna do you a favor, honey, and let you in on a little secret...and please think of this as a Public Service Announcement. I really love a man who understands that the largest sexual organ in a woman's body is between her ears, not her legs. And if you ever hope to really satisfy a woman's needs, you've got to get inside her head first." I then excused myself to the restroom before I could get too tacky. When I returned, he was gone. Oh darn.

Anyway, that PSA I gave him is SO true, and not just for me. Women tend to be less visceral about sex and men tend to have a hard time understanding that. It's why lots of women are more likely to read erotica than watch porn. Don't get me wrong, the physical aspects are wonderful, but women often find themselves needing more than just the physical, they need the intellectual side of it, the brainy sex, the feeling that we're here because you want the total package, not just the sex. It's not just about the skin.

So, with all that said...and thinking about synaesthesia, and skin, and...hmm...I better stop. Some things I just can't share, even with the relative anonymity of this blog. Sorry. *grin*


For other thoughts and feelings about skin, visit this week's Sunday Scribblings.

Instructions....

The prompt at Sunday Scribblings (which I'm doing on a Tuesday) is about writing instructions. The first thing that's come to mind everytime I read the prompt since it was posted (on Friday) is the song by The Fray "How to Save a Life." The lyrics are here It's haunting, for reasons I can't explain or understand.

I have a hard time with instructions. I don't always follow them. I don't know why. If I'm putting something together, or dealing with a difficult recipe, then sure I follow them. But when it comes to other things, I have a hard time with it.

Maybe I don't like the constraints.

Ok, I know I don't like constraints. A friend used to tell me "you can tell me to do something or how to do something, but not both." Hehe...I can't manage that either. If I ask you to do something for me, I'm likely to do the back seat driver bit as well. I try to hold my tongue, but yeah...that don't always work.

There's a fine line between instructions and parameters, I think. Tell me something I'm supposed to do and what the box the finished product should be in looks like but don't tell me how to get it in the box. (ooo, wordy). I'll get ya there, my way, in my time. Just wait.


For other thoughts on instructions, check out Sunday Scribblings.

Easy Bake Oven

This week over at Sunday Scribblings, the prompt is to write about something we've researched. I've spent all week coming up blank. This morning, I was still at a loss.

So, I've been rereading some things on my blogs, looking at some other things, thinking about the evening I had with The Man last night (mmm), and cuddling with the WonderDog, thinking about my upcoming birthday. And it's come to me.

Easy Bake Ovens.

(I'm sure The Man is thrilled that thoughts of last night have led me to thinking about Easy Bake Ovens. I don't think there's really a connection, I'm just a little more A.D.D. this morning than usual.)

The one I played with when I was little looked like this, except I think it was more yellow. I got it as a hand me down from a neighbor girl. I can remember making peanut butter cookies in it ALL THE TIME. I loved it.

I've been thinking about it again. They're so cool now! Like the Oven and Snack Center and the Real Meal Oven. Way neater than what I had when I was little.

And there's even gourment cookbooks to use with your Easy Bake. Like this one with a recipe from Bobby Flay (they're right..I didn't know my Easy Bake could make food like this!), or the official one from Hasbro.

Websites are posting Easy Bake recipes, too. Take a look at cake mix replacement recipes at The FUN Place.

There's also The Cooking Inn recipes

Gluten-free recipes on this site.


I still think this would be an awesome gift to get. I can only imagine how much fun I'd have. teehee.


For more writings, that are probably more intellectual, check out Sunday Scribblings.