The Clock is Ticking

I have 2 favorite Christmas gifts this year. Well, 2 favorite material gifts.

First is....

New perfume from The Man. We stopped at the perfume counter a couple of weeks ago. I was trying to decide between my old scent (classic Burberry) and a new one (Burberry London). I figured, since he'd have to smell it on me, I'd get his opinion. It was not a thinly veiled hint to buy me perfume for Christmas. But he did anyway..the whole stinkin' set--shower gel and lotion, too! I love it, love it, love it.


The other is....

My espresso machine! See, I have a coffee addiction. Detailed here and here. I love coffee. I don't know how to start a day without it. I just don't.

But, the best gift? Spending time with The Man. I feel so good around him. He's an angel, and I'm blessed.

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

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.

I'm not sure who this poem is about. There's a couple of front-runners.

In a situation I thought
improbable
(because I've learned 'impossible' is a laughable word)
I've fought so hard lately to be
practical.
Lock it all away,
Tell no one of pain, of joy.
Then, He surprised me.

Could be a faith issue. It's altered in the last few months. Went through some rocky stuff that surprised me--by both the suddenness and how deeply my heart was affected. I know my faith, which has been pretty strong for a long while now, deepened.

Could be about The Man. We've wandered back to each other again. It's so much nicer this time--we smile more, touch more, and are more at ease with each other. I thought I was happy and at peace with him before, but I don't think I really knew what that felt like. I do now.

To read some other inspired poetry, check out Poetry Thursday.

Kids,

Momma needs a new template. She's bored with this, and just not feeling like a 'red girl' anymore.

Where do you go to find your fabulous templates?

Sing it with me now....

Green Acres is the the place to be...
Farm livin' is the life for me!
Land spreadin' out so far and wide..
Keep Manhattan just give me that countryside!

I'm watching TVLand this morning. I just luuuurve "Green Acres." This morning, Lisa's mother has come to visit in Hooterville. The most touching part (and you can see where Lisa gets her brains from) is when she mistakes Eb for Lisa's husband, Oliver.

Does it bother anyone else that Lisa's mom doesn't have an accent at all???

For the 'real' name...

I'm sorry, this is a bit pathetic. "You're Not Fired."

I can't help but think that some little girl is out there thinking it's okay to behave the way this young woman did. I'm not saying that I never did those things, but not while I was in such a public position.

I think it's a breach of contract. Miss America should be upright and law-abiding. She should've been fired.

Just joined up with a great blogroll.

Blogging Chicks is a women's only blogroll.

You oughta check it out.

Just joined up with a great blogroll.

Blogging Chicks is a women's only blogroll.

You oughta check it out.

Dear you,

Let me begin by saying that I am ever so glad you took that extra few seconds to touch up your hair and lipstick after I asked for your assistance. It made getting upset with you so much nicer, knowing that at least you looked/felt good.

I came into your store on a busy-ish Friday afternoon. The store wasn't packed, there weren't lines snaking out the door, but there were several people there. To be expected on the Friday a week before Christmas, I suppose. But still, it wasn't so busy that I would be silly to expect at least a little personal service.

After wandering the store rather aimlessly for a few minutes, I approached the counter that you were safely hidden behind and asked for your help. Please note, I did not approach while you were primping. Rather, the lipstick appeared after I said "Could I get some help, please?" Once you'd dropped the lipstick back in your pocket, and made sure that your perfectly coiffed hair was still, in fact, perfect, you turned to me with a flat expression.

"What do you need?"

Well. Okay. A smile might have been in order, but whatever. From here forward, let me list in order of offense the things you should have done differently.

1. When asked to help with a bra-fit, don't do it right there in the middle of the store. I realize that this might be mostly a personal preference, but I think my bra size is something the general public doesn't need to know. Rather than whip out your tape measure in front of the register, take me back to a dressing room.

2. Once you have divulged my measurements to the store at-large, the appropriate thing to do is to help me find "my perfect bra." Not point vaguely at the greater part of the selection and say "here's what we have" then turn back to an empty counter. So, I picked out what I was looking for. Next problem.

3. If I ask for more specific help, maybe--just maybe--you should provide it. I ask about the specific size you broadcasted earlier. You opened a drawer and disdainfully said "Here's where we keep that size." Now, I understand that the drawer is labeled that size and being an educated woman, I'd already figured out that the drawer you pointed out was where that size was supposed to be. But it wasn't. That was my point. I wasn't finding what I was looking for using your system the way I understood it. That's whyI asked for help. Go figure.

4. Remind your cohorts that poor service from one of you doesn't translate to poor service from the rest of you. I stood there, searching, digging through every drawer for what I needed. Three other sales associates walked past and smiled at me. No one asked if I needed help. I thought customer service was about the customer.


After spending 20 minutes searching fruitlessly, forgive me for being a tad petty and trite. I found one thing. One. Only one. I heard rumors there were more "somewhere" but since no one would help me, I couldn't find them.

So, I gathered up a few things and joined the line at your register. When my turn arrived, I placed my half-dozen things in front of you, and your eyes lit up (a BIG sale). You rung up each piece, then asked "Did you find everything you needed today?" No, actually, I didn't. "Well, you should've asked for help." Hm..seems like I did. A couple times. No response.

You rung up everything, then gave me a total. I dug in my purse for a minute...must be right here...then offered up a saccharin smile....sorry. I keep my credit card right here, right where it says "credit card," but I guess I can't find it. I turned and walked out.

Okay, so it was a tad petty and childish. Oh well. I wasn't in the mood to be adult, especially feeling like the time I'd carved out of the day to visit your store was wasted.

You know what makes it worse? Your tag said "store manager." No wonder the other girls didn't help, you haven't taught them how.

Um..2 weeks ago (or something like that), the prompt offered over at Poetry Thursday was a meme. Since I didn't get around to doing it then, and I'm up at 6:30 on a DAY OFF, I'll do it now (apparently, I have time!).

Works well since this week's prompt seems to basically be a "do what you want" kind of week.


1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was... Shel Silverstein's "Boa Constrictor." (Find it here) I think this was the first time that I'd realized how words paint pictures and that, as that wasn't enough!, they tasted in my mouth.

2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and... Gosh, we must have been deprived at our school. I honestly can't remember ever having to memorize a poem. I remember reciting "The Fog" (Sandburg) and then doing an art project on it and writing our own "fog-like" poem, though.

3. I read/don't read poetry because... I do read poetry because it relaxes me. But I also subscribe to the notion that to write good poetry/prose/grocery lists/whatever, a person must read those things voraciously.

4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is... Wow, Emily Dickinson comes to mind. I imagine it would be cheating to say "all of it," huh? Well, call me a cheater. It wouldn't be the first time!

5. I write/don't write poetry, but... I do write poetry, but I wish I wrote more of it.

6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature... It feeds my mild A.D.D. quite well--I can finish a piece and do my thinking before my wanders again. But, too, phrasing and line breaks make sense in my mind. It's how I think.

7. I find poetry... Delicious. I devour it, and sometimes bleed it. Poetry is in every step of my life, kind of like my faith.

8. The last time I heard poetry... A few days ago. One of my students read his pieces to me.

9. I think poetry is like... Visual perception through one's heart. No, not everyone feels poetry intensely, but you can't deny that it evokes the visceral.

For other answers to this meme, visit Poetry Thursday.

Over at Poetry Thursday this week, the prompt is about talking walls. Specifically, what would walls say if they could talk. It's pretty interesting, if you think about it. Maybe a little frightening, too.

They'd say "MY GOD WOMAN, RUN!!!!"

No, really. I try not to listen to the walls, it's enough that I talk to myself, I don't need the walls to talk to.

Since I've been conspicuously not writing much lately, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to run with two (count 'em 2!) poems this week.

Hodge podge of tastes,
feelings,
words,
Soaked into the walls.
Do I dare ask what they know?

And...

Intimidation

New construction
No voices to fill the silence.
Untouched by
squeals of delight
and four-letter words of anger.
"First impressions are everything"
even to the walls.

For more talking walls, visit Poetry Thursday

So, I'm up way too early this morning. So, I'm watching cartoons on CBS (because the remote is on the coffee table and I'm just not interested in moving.).

This one is called "Horseland." Let me tell you what I see wrong here.

1. It's the adventures of 4 kids and their stable of horses. Yeah, the majority of America can identify with this.
2. The horses all have stripes of color in the tails and manes. Not like ribbons, like neon green and hot pink are part of the natural color. Maybe they've been to the salon?
3. The horses talk. And the paint is Jamaican.
4. The other farm animals talk too. The collie, Shep, sounds like Sean Connery. Apparently, he knows and can explain all of the equestrian skills to the cat and the pig. The cat, named Angora, sounds like Minnie Pearl.
5. In Houston, at least, it came on before 6..along with several other cartoons. Um, maybe it's just me, not having kids and all, but I don't think kids should be up that early. I know growing up, we wouldn't have been in the living room alone that early.

I understand that it's a cartoon. And yes, it did have a message (competition isn't healthy when it works against relationships). And I understand that talking animals and unnatural hair colors feed a child's imagination (I am a teacher after all, so I get this). I just wish something in it actually seemed to simulate a reality more kids could relate to.

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.

I love the day after Thanksgiving. While everyone else is up early to go shopping, I'm still laying in bed, my nice warm, soft bed. I'm propped in the window, watching the crazies race for their cars and to the mall. I hear the Big Lots opened at 6, that must be why I heard a few cars starting at 5:30 this morning.

I don't Christmas shop that way. I think the advent of online shopping was the answer to my prayers. (Yes, MY personal prayers, never mind all you other people). I hate crowds and I hate shoppers. What happens on the day after Thanksgiving (traditionally called Black Friday in the retail world)? There are crowds of shoppers. Thank you, God--we now have online shopping and I know how to use it.

Now, in my house, this is the day reserved for TV marathons (both me watching and what they plan to show). I'm torn between the movie marathon on the Sci-Fi Channel today and watching something remotely intelligent--like the "Dive to Bermude Triangle" show on the Science Channel. Whatever I do, I'm seeing snacks in my future. Lots of 'em.

I wasn't crazy about the prompt for Poetry Thursday this week.
this week's (completely and totally optional) idea -- attend a reading

I've been to readings, even participated in a couple with the creative group that I used to sponsor at work. I enjoy them (not the smoke-filled bar, everybody snapping, variety. Just a simple coffeehouse appreciation gathering). I think they're important.

I wish I could find decent ones in my immediate area, but that might require more people be literate. Oo..yeah, sorry. That wasn't very nice. Pardon me, I'm writing this LOOONG before my coffee has kicked in. Of course, we'd also have to have a decent place to have them, somehow those places never last around here.

I will do this, I will visit some readings in the weeks/months to come. Now that I don't ever work weekends, I can certainly manage this without being a bear the next morning.

So..even though I haven't really, really written for this prompt..I did do this:

Texas Poetry Calendar Hosted at Poetz.com, it certainly can't be an exhaustive listing, but a really nice place to start.

Houston Poetry Fest It's passed for this year, but there's some info on the First Friday Readings.

I know there are others, this is just where I'm starting.

Last week's Poetry Thursday prompt was about lies. I could insert one here and give a fabulous excuse as to why I'm just now getting around to writing on it. Truth is, I got lazy last week and didn't even look. And aliens abducted me. No really..they did. *grin*

Anyway, in the description for the 'day of posting' (Poetry Thursday: the dog ate it and other lies), one line caught me. I've been walking around with it for 2 days now, knowing something's brewing.

Dana wrote "But I write to get at the truth."

Whoa. Yeah, that's part of why I write, that and cartharsis. I write to keep from exploding and to ease my body. I write to cope, to come to terms or understanding with the pain and the joy that happens in my life. (I might be a little too analytical about myself.) Truth happens, somehow, but it's never the main goal.

So, after brewing for a couple days, here's where I wound up.

The truth is Words set me free.
The truth is I am Nothing
without them.
The truth is what makes the Page
is the Lie.
The truth is Honesty is
Colored
Covered
in roses, Thorns and all
So that I may find the Beauty.

Hm...okay. After rereading that...I need to chill a bit. Literally--I need to relax. I just got all angsty (by my own estimation). Oh well. it happens.

Oh..and my title come from my favorite 'attributed to Mark Twain" quote.

Check out last week's Poetry Thursday: the dog ate it and other lies for more thoughts on lies, and the people who tell them.

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.

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

I love geese, from a distance. These guys look like they're waiting on something. I got all excited when this picture popped up today. It's the total opposite of how I'm feeling this week. (I know, I know..makes little sense.)

This week, I'm feeling overwhelmed, emotionally. Work's not a problem, neither is home stuff. But, the personal stuff is all over the place. Some is beautiful, some is messy. Some(one) is a beautiful mess.

Expectant.
A good bet something's out there.

Safety in numbers--
another good bet.


For other poetry snapshots, check out this week's Poetry Thursday.


Oh! And the picture came from here.

Just saw a commercial for Hallmark's newest piece of singing stuff. The Very Merry Trio.

In this commercial, a bunch of people are upset because the airline has just announced delays on their Christmas travels. (Really?? NO!) "Mom" pulls out The Very Merry Trio.

Suddenly, the waiting area is focused on the Trio. Everyone is smiling, the Christmas spirit is in the air. The attendant at the gate announces boarding, and no one hears him.

Yeah, right.

I don't mean to sound all humbug already--before Thanksgiving has even passed. But really, things like that don't happen, even during the holidays. Christmas is my favorite time of year, and not just because of my faith. I just love the season, the way my family is, that my brother's home, the music, the weather...oh I love Christmas time.

But I'm here to tell you, if I was flying somewhere and learned that my flight was delayed and someone wipped out The Very Merry Trio, I wouldn't be smiling at it. I'd stuff my ear buds deeper into my ears, and put my nose further into my book.

And grumble.

I love words. Always have. But obviously, as a writer, that makes sense, right?

On of my favorite pieces of poetry is from Emily Dickinson.

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant---
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind---

Isn't this the truth? Oh man..just caught what I said.

She did 'dazzle gradually' didn't she. Took a few lines to get to her point, wonder if that was planned?

Hm..I'll be coming back to this. I know I wrote a poem years ago after first reading this one. If I can't find it, I'll just redo it...I'll be back!

For more thoughts on words, check out Poetry Thursday this week.

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.

**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

I've been AWOL for a couple of weeks. Well, maybe MIA. Life got in the way again, and my writing took a hit. Unfortunately. But, when it came down to choosing between getting a couple of hours of much-needed sleep and writing, sleep will win every time.

But, I should be getting back to this stuff soon. Sleep isn't being elusive anymore--for a variety of reasons.

So, over at Poetry Thursday, the theme this week was 'avoidance.' Particularly, it's poetry that we avoid--poets, time periods, genres, whatever. We all have things we avoid--I tend to avoid Chaucer, because, frankly, it hurts my head. I avoid Poe because all the poetry that was taught in my English classes was his dark stuff, similar to his dark short stories. I adore his short stories, I hate his dark poetry. I realize that not all of his poetry is dark, but what I was introduced to is, and I just won't read the rest of it.

I also avoid rhyming poetry. Ugh. I realize that to follow a particular rhyming pattern is much more difficult than to just write, but I feel so stifled when asked to rhyme. Like I'm being boxed in. And I'm claustrophobic.

So, I've no poetry to share this week...still recuperating from some other things and the creative juices are focussed there...just wanted to share.

To see more on the poetry we avoid, visit Poetry Thursday.

Daddy shared this with me. I wish to 'high heaven' The WonderDog was HALF this smart!

A heart-warming segment from Texas Country Reporter, with Bob Phillips. For more information visit Texas Country Reporter or Skidboot.com

In my literature classes (as in "here's how to choose literature for children and young adults"), we learned about the different levels of reading maturity.

My professor had several she listed, there's generally 4. The 'lowest' level is supposed to be 'unconscious delight'--when someone, usually a young reader, gets caught up in a series like Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys and is just reading because they've gotten excited about reading. The 'highest' is aesthetic reading--reading to enjoy the beauty of the prose.

But I disagree, I get caught up in unconscious delight all the time--I read for the sheer joy of reading, because it excites me. I inhale books...and yes, I'm an aesthetic reader at times, a lot of times.

And so...

Unconscious delight--
simple joy in the words
lost--no, found!--in dreams

For more thoughts on reading, visit this week's One Deep Breath.

Austrian's body found 5 years after death

This is pathetic. Wouldn't it be common sense to check on someone whose mail keeps piling up outside his door???? Where I come from, if a neighbor's papers pile up for more than a couple of days, people check on 'em.

Really, what is the world coming to these days?

I just looked at my calendar for the week. I do this every Sunday night, I guess I'm starting the great switching of gears, getting ready for Monday morning. This week, though, there's something bizarre about my schedule...

There's very little on it.

I mean, there's work stuff, and boy, those days are packed. But there's almost nothing else. In fact, only one day has anything scheduled beyond 4 p.m.

I flipped threw my book for the year...there's no other week since school started that can boast this lack of evening events.

Flip back a bit more...there's no week in 2006 that meets that criteria. Even spring break had evening stuff...and dog-sitting.

You know, I'm willing to bet there hasn't been a week in at least 2 years that didn't have something at least two of the nights. It almost feels wrong, like "what have I forgotten to write down?"

I love it.

At home....Sean Combs In public....P. Diddy

Home....Christopher Bridges Public....Ludacris

Home....Shawn Carter Public....Jay-Z

Home....Trevor Smith Public....Busta Rhymes

Home....William Adams Public....will.i.am

Home....Johnathan Smith Public....Lil John

Makes me wonder...what do their "new" friends call them? The ones who didn't meet them until after there was a public name (a stage name). Hm?

This came up because this afternoon I saw P.Diddy's new video, "Come to Me." Pretty good song.

Oh...and the most famous one...

Public....The Queen

Home....Jayne *giggle*

Judge dismisses alpaca paternity suit
It's an animal for Pete's sake (whoever Pete is). Okay, okay, I understand that she has to know who the father is for pedigree purposes. Fine. I'll buy that. But you know..the kid's a year old, and now she's worried?

Chocoholics find a venue and a menu
New York gets all the nice stuff. Geez.

Lights go off in Iceland, clouds dim sky for star gazers
What a neat event! I just went out Friday night to star gaze, and had to go in search of a back country road to see anything.

Any of you out there dabble in design? I'm incredibly bored with this template and want something new.

Problem...I've found some backgrounds and images I want to use, but can't make it work out the way I want it to.


**Update...this one is temporary, I think. I don't know.

**UPDATE #2...okay, I'll keep it. Especially now that I've moved all my extras in *grin*.

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.

The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week was about bringing synaesthesia into poetry. In short, synaesthesia is a neurological condition in which the senses are coupled--so that one a person's perception of something with one sense is always connected with another sense. Hm..I'm not sure I got that down clearly. Check out this 'article.'

Anyway, I really thought I could run with this one. I read a book this summer called Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens which was about synaesthesia, particularly one woman's experience. It's fascinating.

I played with stuff all week..all week. I honestly think I've got a touch of synaesthesia, so I thought this would be so much easier for me than it has been. I think I'm just too focused on some other things that are distinctly not poetic this week.

So, I'm thinking about my writing. It's gotten better, more prolific the last few months. I thank the creative writing blogs and prompts that I've run across for inspiring me. I also attribute it to the people who have positively commented on what I have dared to post--wow, it's amazing what a little ego-stroking will inspire. Of course, at least some of the blame for my recent surge of writing can be placed on The Man--happiness will do that to a girl, you know?

But this post is supposed to be about synaesthesia. Allegedly. In thinking of my writing...one thing comes to mind.

When I write, really write, I feel the words on my skin. But I feel the words long before I "get" them. It's like static electricity. You know, when you get that little bit of a tingle on your skin and the hairs on your arm stand up a little bit--that feeling the kids giggle about when you do the balloon trick. It's how I know something's cooking, something's stirring.

When the words come, it's more intense. You know the feeling of the electricity in the air during a lightning storm? When the air is charged and you get the feeling that lightning could literally strike at any second, right near you? You can hear and feel the buzz and almost taste something a little coppery in the air. (Well, I can). I get that feeling when the words come at me. Sometimes, it's easy, like a slow-building rain storm. Other times, it's like it hits me...like those huge crashes of thunder your aren't expecting and shake the house, setting you off-balance for just a few seconds. Sometimes those nearly violent ones are God-sends, other times I want to run and hide.


For other thoughts about synaesthesia, visit this week's Poetry Thursday: a feast of the senses

This is my favorite picture of The WonderDog. My mother took it and he's actually staring out the door I just left through and crying.

I guess at this point, I'd had him about a year, maybe a little more and we were in hopeless "puppy-mommy" love. I've always been a dog person and can't imagine any home of mine without a dog (it was so hard those years before WonderDog!).

All of this to set up a poem that has nothing to do with WonderDog or dogs in general. *Grin*

Eyes out the window
running through dreams far more grand
than the day inside.

The last couple of days have been pretty, and I've been stuck inside. I have windows...that look out over a beautiful...hallway crowded with students.

Check out other poetry at One Deep Breath.

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.

I live on the Gulf Coast of Texas. We joke that we only have 2 seasons around here--summer and something that's not summer OR one of the other 3 recognized seasons. It doesn't really cool off around here until December, and sometimes not even then. I've got pictures of me riding my bike on Christmas Day in two different years. One year, I'm bundled head to toe. The other, I'm in shorts.

That leads me to...

Wish it would cool off,
leaves would change, be nice out, but
no such luck 'round here.


and


In Texas, leaves do change.
From bright green to dirty brown
No reds, or oranges here.

Check out other posts about Autumn at One Deep Breath.

Okay, so this week, I'm cheating a bit..again. (I call it cheating if I never manage a poem for the prompt.) I wrote the post here last week, in a response to a conversation I had with someone important to me.




For other offerings about a poet's voice, check out Poetry Thursday.

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.

We're all guilty of it. The words we put on the page (the screen, the text message) may or may not reflect precisely what we think they do.

Words that are meant as innocent can be misconstrued as meaning more than you thought.

But that's the danger of writing, isn't it? Writers spend their whole lives crafting meaning and tone on white pages. Some can do it without much effort. Others (like me) agonize over it.

Words that are meant as innocent can be misconstrued as meaning more than you thought.

This is something I know, and something I really think about when in direct communication. But my writing, what does and doesn't get posted here or on my other blog, is done for me. Yes, I know others are reading it--I mean, I've put it out there for the world to see. But what a stranger takes from it is for them to decide. So, because I know what I mean in my writing, I've fallen into the trap of not crafting well.

Only now, someone I care about more and more is reading me. And some of my words have been thrown back at me. Not maliciously, just enough that I was left trying to explain what I meant. Well, more correctly, I was caught explaining not the meaning--that was clear--but more the implications of that meaning now.

I'm being vague on purpose...I don't really want to get into a discussion here of what exactly happened, because, honestly, it's not your business and I don't want your opinions. No offense intended, it's just that there's only one person's who's thoughts on this matter to me...and I hope that person knows it.

Anyway, I think this will be good for me, and my writing. It's prompting me to think more about intent and projected meaning. This is a good thing.

And (insert name here), thank you. I hope this will do some good things for us.

I read something tonight that just defined my writing life.

I didn't write it. But I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to voice the need the way this writer did.

Read it here....3am Scribblings.



And here's my comment.

Wow. Beautiful poem, or mantra, or whatever. For the record, poetry is defined only by the writer--if you think it is, then it is. Worry about form some other time. *grin*

LOVE this line..."...if sanity is to be achieved..."

I started writing, seriously in high school. Then stopped at 20 (during that 'blank' spot in my memory). I came back to it about 4 years ago. And even more so, seriously so, since May. I'd realized that I was avoiding myself, and doing so, for me, incited insanity.

This is how I release the pent up anger, pain, love (since I can't yet say that to The Man). Your mantra captured why I must write. Thank you.

I read something tonight that just defined my writing life.

I didn't write it. But I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to voice the need the way this writer did.

Read it here....3am Scribblings.

Over at One Deep Breath this week, the prompt is to write tanka, which is...

A Japanese verse form in five lines, the first and third composed of five syllables and the rest of seven.[Japanese.] (That means a 5-7-5-7-7 structure.) American Heritage Dictionary

I lurve playing with form. Like other writers I imagine, my writing notebooks/spirals/journals/grocery store receipts are full of bits that have the same words in various arrangements. I rearrange and rearrange until the breaking mimic my thoughts. And sometimes, until the shape on the page feels right.

Several of you, dear readers, may have noticed I don't follow directions very well...but when it comes to physical poetic structure (like syllables on a line), I'm excited by the challenge. I may still run amok with the rules of content, but I can't follow all the rules, now can I? (I love that word--"amok.")

Anyway, here's my offering. This one came way easier than anything I've written for any of these prompts lately.

Smiling local girl
big dreams in a small, small world,
faith in the future.
Waiting on the spin to stop.
Waiting on the spin to stop, for her.

Check out more tanka, and other poetry, at One Deep Breath.

Promised pics of the WonderDog. My poor rough and tumble little boy is now a showdog.

So, this morning I dropped The WonderDog at the new groomer's shop. The old one is harder to get into than MY hairdresser, and I schedule those appointments 2 months in advance.

I guess I wasn't completely awake when I dropped him off. When I said something about a schnauzer mustache (he's part schnauzer), I guess I wound up agreeing to an all out schnauzer cut.

Yep, extra short on top, longish on bottom. BIG eyebrows. Oh my. I'll add pics to this later. I've never seen him look so funny.

And now he's beat. Apparently, when he spends all day away from me, he doesn't go to the bathroom or rest. Our usual 10 minute walk took half an hour and after zipping about the house for 5 minutes, he's out like a light.

And he looks funny.

I stole this from Poet Mom, who I found thanks to Poetry Thursday.


How do you like your eggs? either soft-scrambled (so they're still fluffy, not dry) or over-medium.

How do you take your coffee/tea? Double cream, double sugar.

Favorite breakfast foods: Honestly..oatmeal or Malt-O-Meal, with milk, honey, and dry cranberries.

What kind of dressing on your salad? Really good blue cheese.

Coke or Pepsi? Dr. Pepper. Or Diet Coke. Coke and Pepsi both are nasty unless they're diet.

You're feeling lazy. What do you make? Pasta with bought-sauce. (I usually make my own on the spot.)

You're feeling really lazy. What kind of pizza do you order? thin crust canadian bacon and pineapple.

You feel like cooking. What do you make? I LOVED the beginning of Poet Mom's answer---"Do I really? How odd of me." No, really, I like to cook. I'm probably making some sort of kill you on the spot Southern comfort food.

Do any foods bring back good memories? Hm...lasagna always makes me think of the first year my dad decided we'd have lasagna for New Year's. Buttermilk pie always thinks of dinners at Grandma's.

Do any foods bring back bad memories? Geez, I can't think of any.

Do any foods remind you of someone? Buttermilk pie makes me think of my grandmother, cinnamon rolls (homemade ones) make me think of my grandfather.

Is there a food you refuse to eat? Pakistani, Indian. Most fruits and vegetables (just not a green fan), liver, onions....um...yeah, it might be eaiser to list what I will eat.

What was your favorite food as a child? Hm...spaghetti-os. With 'meatballs.'

Is there a food that you hated as a child but now love? Avocados

Is there a food that you loved as a child but now hate? Um...probably something Grandma tricked me into eating.

Favorite fruit & vegetable: Blackberries and carrots

Favorite junk food: Something salty

Favorite between meal snack: Yep..something salty

Do you have any weird food habits? I eat chili dogs with mustard for breakfast.

You're on a diet. What food(s) do you fill up on? Um...I don't know, probably salads.

You're off your diet. Now what would you like? Lots of pasta

How spicy do you order Indian/Thai? No to the Indian. Thai, about a 5, maybe a 6.

Can I get you a drink? Certainly. A great 'rita or maybe a vodka tonic (Grey Goose please)

Red wine or white? Yes.

We only have beer: Domestic? Shiner. Foreign? How about a St. Pauli Girl?

Favorite dessert? Well, something chocolate probably. Or, buttermilk pie.

The perfect nightcap? Hot chocolate with some Godiva liquer. Or a kiss from The Man. (no, you can't eat it, but whatever.)

From the American Heritage Dictionary:

sol·i·tude n.
1. The state or quality of being alone or remote from others.
2. A lonely or secluded place.

Solitude is something that I often welcome, and often struggle with. Tonight, I think I'm struggling, but it's a night I find myself needing it.

No one may visit
the navy moments. Quiet--
hear, feel, the silence.

(I suggest reading a couple of posts down to catch the 'navy' reference.)

And...

Solitude.....pull me
out of solitary dark,
back to light, to life.

For more thoughts on solitude, visit One Deep Breath.

I never thought I'd write non-fiction. Well, not anything more than the training/semi-technical lessons I write for work or these blog posts. Non-fiction isn't my preferred reading material, unless it's a good biography or from some part of history I'm particularly taken with (right now, that would be royal Tudor England and the Salem Witch Trials). Non-fiction to me seems to take so much work. Checking facts, researching, organizing...ugh. Yes, I'm a librarian and researching really is my shtick, but that's work. Yes, I realize fiction writers put in a lot of research hours, depending on their story line.

Writing for me is has always been about release, escape. I don't want it to feel like work. I've never been drawn to writing something so involved that I have to do a lot of research to get the settings, situations, or details right.

But then, I started reading pieces of creative non-fiction. Oh this is so me. So...here's the first bit of what I've been working on. I've posted it before..a few weeks back. But since I've gained all kinds of new connections (readers), let's see what you think of it now...


Anywhere else wouldn't make sense.

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My parents still live there.

My mother would kill me if she knew I'd told you that.

Maybe I should explain. In my hometown, there is no "wrong" side of the tracks. There's the side where everything is—grocery stores, banks, fast food joints—and the side where everything isn't. It just happened that way, no particular reason. I grew up on the empty side.

When I was little, and the world consisted of school and the neighborhood, I didn't notice or care. Kids are like that. Sixteen year olds are not. Suddenly, upon reaching that magic freedom age, the world multiplies in size. And living on the wrong side crimps your style. Inevitably, the people you want to pass your time with aren't over "here." No, they're over "there" - with stuff to do and knowing glances.

Life lesson number one--you need to figure out on which side the world says you're supposed to be. You don't have to agree, of course.

For more things people never thought they'd write, visit this week's offerings at Sunday Scribblings.

The Poetry Thursday prompt this week was "blue." I danced around it all week. I thought about the implied meanings in the color blue---sadness, calm (well, some shades), water, sky.

I looked at the sky Wednesday night and thought about how it perfectly matched the color my brother's eyes--this amazing midnight blue crayon color. He has this stained glass look to his eyes, but all in midnight blue.

I thought about my own emotions, and how I can't remember ever thinking of any one of them as anything but a shade of blue. From periwinkle to midnight to electric to cadet (yes, I know my crayon box very well).

I looked around my house, at all the blue in my furniture and decorations, and how, though I love other colors more than blue, blue is the one I seek for comfort.

So, I got around to this. I've never titled a poem before, but this one I thought needed something.

All My World

Needing the world to stop~~navy
Looking for escape~~wild blue yonder
Creature comforts...connection with my family~~midnight
What I feel with him~~blue violet
Day in, day out drudgery~~cadet
At peace~~robin's egg

Check out the colors I mentioned, and others at the Crayola site.

For more blue poetry, visit Poetry Thursday.

Speeding driver blames lack of goats

Oh really? I've found myself wondering before how I'll explain my driving to an officer some days--on days I was thankfully not stopped. But, I've never, ever thought I'd blame it on something that wasn't there.

Like a goat.

The Man and I met online. And one of the things that jumped out at me is that he had read The Five Love Languages. I was very impressed that I now know of TWO men who have read the book. Anyway, he asked what my languages were. I think I gave him the wrong answer. Oops.

The Five Love Languages
My primary love language is probably
Physical Touch
with a secondary love language being
Words of Affirmation.

Complete set of results

Physical Touch:		10
Words of Affirmation:		9
Quality Time:		5
Acts of Service:		4
Receiving Gifts:		2

Information
Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

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Genetically engineered grass found in wild - Environment - MSNBC.com

I mean, really people. I understand why someone would develop this. Honestly, I get it--green caretakers have a huge responsibility, in keeping the place looking nice and protecting...well, the green. And we should make it as easy as possible for them. Frankly, I think we're encouraging them to be soft--people in the same job a hundred years ago just pulled up those damn weeds by hand. Uphill both ways in the snow, y'know.

It seems that all (or nearly all) science has a downfall. And now we'll have herbicide-resistant weeds. Did no one see this coming? This is just like the dinosaurs changing sexes in Jurassic Park and breeding outside the lab. What was the line? "Life finds a way."

Well, maybe not that bad. But close. Who'd have thought we'd be over run by golf green grass?

Over the summer, I went to lunch with my mother a few times. Almost always Chinese food. That boggles my mind--when I was growing up, she flat refused to ever eat Chinese food. I don't know what happened.

Once, as we argued over the check, we cracked open our fortune cookies. Hers was something appropriately fortune-like.

Mine said "You will be successful."

I thought I was. Well, am. Anyway, I didn't think it was a "future" event. I mean, yes, I'd like to be successful in my future (in those things that are important to me), but I'd like for it to be a continuation of my current success. Not something new that I haven't experienced before.

Success is a personal thing, for me. A very large part of me doesn't care one bit if anyone else ever notices it. I don't need someone praising me for all I've done/accomplished.

That doesn't mean I don't want it now and again. There's a part of me (like in every human) that wants everyone to see it and acknowledge it. I want someone tell me they're proud of me, that whatever wonderful thing I've been granted is "great." There's nothing wrong with that.

I put my whole self into the things I do, and I like that be noticed sometimes. I guess, for as self-sufficient as I like to think I am (success-wise, at least), I'm not. That's okay, though. Humans weren't meant to do it all on their own, were they?

For more fortune cookie thoughts, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Reading through some old-ish emails this evening. Jason asked where the "Jayne" came from. Here was my response:

Honestly, out of my head. I got to playing around with pseudonyms last year, when I started writing my version of the "great American novel" (which was deleted within months because even I didn't care about the characters anymore--and really, my blogging was much better writing.). I wanna publish under a pseudonym for a very odd reason--so that when my mother reads this fabulous book by a new author, I can let her rave about it before springing it on her that I wrote it.

No, there's nothing in that statement that would suggest therapy, is there?

Teehee...

I think I'm supposed to be upset by this. But I just can't bring myself to do it.
Jessica Simpson ordered to be quiet

As an educator, this disturbs me.
Fired TSU president still teaching at school
Still teaching ACCOUNTING, even.

Um..this is so vastly important to things like running a city, huh?
NYC mayor backs Shakira for best video

Thank God Washington thinks this is just a diversion.
Iran president challenges Bush to debate

This just warms my librarian heart.
'Challenged' books drop to all time low

Seems to me that this is an attack on the cultural heritage. Or maybe I'm just to wired tonight.
Warsaw mermaid has chest covered for Miss World

Damn the luck.
Man shot in robbery turns from hero to prisoner

Good for them.
128 students suspended in Ind. school

Note to self: make sure my husband knows how to find the hospital.
Women gives birth while stuck in traffic

So yesterday, I spent the afternoon with The Man. YAY! It occurred to me I'd never laid eyes on him before 5 o'clock. Kinda weird. After 7 weeks of knowing him, and I'd never laid eyes on him during the day. So, what'd we do with our rare Saturday afternoon? Ate lunch and took a nap.

I know, I know..we're wild and crazy people. Someone should stop us before we hurt ourselves.


Anyway, we're sitting there, watching swimming something or other races (are they called races?). A woman from Australia won and apparently set a world record in the event. Or very nearly. The Man posed an interesting question.

What's going to happen when we can't set any new world records?

Well, something along those lines. We talked about it. You know, at some point, people aren't going to be able to be any better/faster/bigger than whoever set the last record. Not without enhancements, anyway. And wouldn't that somehow miss the point?

The human drive to be "the best" escapes me. To a point, I want to be "the best," but really only at being me (hmm..pardon me while I channel a self-help book for a minute). I don't have any desire to be better at anyone or everyone at anything. At least not in the things that don't really count, to me at least. Like swimming or walking on water or bubble blowing.

What would I like to earn the world record in? Why..I'm glad you asked...

• Being a daughter to my parents, a sister to my brother.
• Loving the WonderDog.
• Sitting still and enjoying silence.
• Being happy with who I am.
• Dealing with my 30th birthday. (geez..I'd also like that thought to stop hurting)
• Being there for my friends.
• Loving unabashedly, transparent and unashamed.

Hm...this post went down a different path than I thought it would. That's okay.

Music is essential in my life. A song brings back everything--memories, perspective, smiles, pain. When asked if I'd rather give up my sight or my hearing (if I had to choose), I pick sight every time. I know I could get by, and though it would hurt to not physically see the people I love, I think I'd be driven insane if I couldn't hear music. Oh, and the voices of the people I love, of course.

That's why I love music ring tones. I like having a fun thought of the person attached to the ringer when he or she calls. For my mother, I hear Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried." It used to be Ozzy's "Mama, I'm ComingHome." Teehee...my mother finds Ozzy deplorable.

For The Man, I have Christina Aguilera's new one "Ain't No Other Man." Early last Saturday, he sent me a text. I woke to his song, crying before I registered I was awake. It was the first time in just over a week he'd contacted me. I'd thought he was gone and I'd been sick with hurting. When the music started, my heart caught and I couldn't pick up the phone.

Phone rings--rockin' beat
wakes me, brings on tears. Release.
Sobbing, but hope springs.

You couldn't know. 'Ain't
no other man' hurt like you.
Better loving, now.

We're better now..still testing waters, tasting at love. But it's so much better this week.


The prompt this week for One Deep Breath was about the sound of music. Read more offerings here.