The Clock is Ticking

***Note: this one is cross-posted. Hey, some of you don't read both blogs.

I've been thinking a lot lately about language. Mine, in particular. To be more specific, my use of "foul" language.

See, The Man and I have decided to make a conscious effort to clean up our language. We both cuss too much. He was in a conversation with a coworker a few days ago who commented on the incredibly foul language of another colleague (let's just, it would make a sailor blush). She pointed out that he does cuss, not as often the others they work with, and he almost always checks her (the colleague he was talking to) reaction. She doesn't like the language at all. It pushed him to do something about his own habit.

I've spent a good few months feeling guilty lately when I cuss around him. A random "damn" or "hell" has never bothered me, but I know I've gotten comfortable and that's not all I'm saying anymore.

I will admit that sometimes, there just aren't other words--either for emphasis or intensity. I mean, come on, when I fell a few weeks ago and nearly broke my tailbone, saying "shoot" just didn't do the pain justice. And I've always thought you should say what you mean (and mean what you say, of course.) I've even been known to use the "f" word for shock value, or to make sure I'm getting the attention I'm needing from the person I'm talking to.

A friend of mine said that swearing wasn't banned in his household. However there was a rule about the use of certain 4-letter words. You couldn't use them just 'cuz. You had to be creative in your use. In my house, creative use or not, you got punished. But we're all different.

I know I need to curb my mouth. Does that mean language will disappear from my writing? Not all. Some words just can't be replaced, specifically because of the implications to writing.

I mean, really--would "fudge" really replace "fuck?" I think not.

I've been thinking a lot lately about language. Mine, in particular. To be more specific, my use of "foul" language.

See, The Man and I have decided to make a conscious effort to clean up our language. We both cuss too much. He was in a conversation with a coworker a few days ago who commented on the incredibly foul language of another colleague (let's just, it would make a sailor blush). She pointed out that he does cuss, not as often the others they work with, and he almost always checks her (the colleague he was talking to) reaction. She doesn't like the language at all. It pushed him to do something about his own habit.

I've spent a good few months feeling guilty lately when I cuss around him. A random "damn" or "hell" has never bothered me, but I know I've gotten comfortable and that's not all I'm saying anymore.

I will admit that sometimes, there just aren't other words--either for emphasis or intensity. I mean, come on, when I fell a few weeks ago and nearly broke my tailbone, saying "shoot" just didn't do the pain justice. And I've always thought you should say what you mean (and mean what you say, of course.) I've even been known to use the "f" word for shock value, or to make sure I'm getting the attention I'm needing from the person I'm talking to.

A friend of mine said that swearing wasn't banned in his household. However there was a rule about the use of certain 4-letter words. You couldn't use them just 'cuz. You had to be creative in your use. In my house, creative use or not, you got punished. But we're all different.

I know I need to curb my mouth. Does that mean language will disappear from my writing? Not all. Some words just can't be replaced, specifically because of the implications to writing.

I mean, really--would "fudge" really replace "fuck?" I think not.

Oh, this is great. Being an English major, I'm always a little itchy about grammar and punctuation. I'll grant I'm not perfection in human form when it comes to this, but some things are just freakin' obvious.

Like quotation marks.

The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.

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. ;)

I'm up at 6:30 on a Sunday morning. Do you realize there's very little on at this time of day on Sunday?

I did find one thing that interested me. A&E Biography is airing it's biography on David Cassidy. Of course I'm watching...I've always had a crush on the YOUNG David Cassidy. You know, The Partridge Family era. It's really kind of sad that he was such a cliche'--sex, drugs, and, well..not really rock and roll, but music.

He looked so old after the Partridge Family ended. His age lines were just horribly obvious. And the hair. I don't think I'd ever realized a man could use his hair as an acting prop. He really did though..you know, when it was long.

He's pretty neat, still though. Definitely remade himself, on his terms, not the studio's.

The random prompt generator over at Poetry Thursday when I visited this morning said "combustible." Instantly, I'm getting images and pricks on my arms (that synaesthesia thing again). Obviously, the initial images run to flames and danger.

But, then...the leftovers of last night's dream win out. It wasn't remotely hot and steamy, or even PG-13. It was decidedly PG, bordering on G. But it struck, mid-dream, and lasting into the morning, a mild "combustion" feeling inside.

So, though there is not poetry here, today. There may well be some later.

I did find something interesting this morning, to share...

PoetryKits

Interesting stuff there. Enjoy.

Check out Poetry Thursday for some other poetic offerings.

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.

We both fall into this trap.

um...ok...

Something (unexpected...unpleasant...)
happens
and rather than deal with it head-on

um...ok...

And then one of us prattles on explaining,
while the other sits in silence.

um...ok...

(For other offerings, check out this weeks posts at Poetry Thursday.)

Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
--Oscar Wilde

I've reason to believe that dear, dear Oscar was correct. If I might say so myself, I'm pretty damn interesting a good 90% of the day, once I get through breakfast.

Note: Breakfast must consist of either 4 cups of strong coffee, or 2 SINGE THE EYEBROWS STRONG Espressos. It doesn't matter if there's anything else for breakfast. This is the law, and I follow the law.

The people I classify as dull after I have coffee are, well, dull. Rather, they are DUH-ll. Put me to sleep, pass me more coffee, "look, a diversion" dull.

But in the mornings, if I've progressed beyond the queen troll stage (read: "had one or 2 cups of coffee, already"), they're brilliant in the since that they catch my attention and make me giggle appreciatively, as opposed to at them.

What do you think???

Okay..so I haven't kept myself completely separated from the modern world (AKA, the 'Net)...here's what I've been looking at as of late...

daily dose of imagery

Twitter ----addicting, beware

Rebound Designs ----for those who need to start their Christmas shopping, I'd like one in red, please.

My Life's Work ----like so many other things, the government hit this nail on the head perfectly.

Ning ----Social networking without the craziness of MySpace.

Okay, so I'm not the quintessential sports fan, or heck, even the best baseball fan ever, but...geez...I hated hearing this.

Biggio says goodbye

Alright, I know I've been gone awhile, again. I'll make my excuses now..because it's my blog and I can do it. (Normally, I wouldn't try to make the excuses, but oh well.)

The longterm obstacle has been my insomnia. It's just been awful. Two or three hours a night, if that. On the rare occasion, four hours. And I do mean rare. Now I've never slept through the night, anyway. I've always woken up at least once and been totally awake for 15-30 minutes and then gone back to sleep. My insomnia has been worse in the last year or so. I now know that a lot of it had to do with some medical issues that are finally being discovered and dealt with. So...it should start getting better.

BREAKING NEWS!!!!!

I SLEPT ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE NIGHT LAST NIGHT. I didn't wake up once..not even at 3 a.m. like I have for as long as I can remember.

It's utterly amazing to me. Those "8 hours" everyone talks about? Yeah, I know what that feels like now. I never have before. I can't remember ever sleeping through the night.

Okay...what else? I know there are more excuses.
Anyway, I'm not going to promise to be good and write regularly, but I'll promise to try. (No Yoda comments please.)

Okay..go read this post at As If!

My personal choices and beliefs aside, the story concerns me. I'm not concerned about those students who are standing up for their rights (you know, those inalienable ones).

No, I'm concerned about those students who will walk away feeling like second-class individuals, or heck, just sub-human because they don't fit a lawmakers concept of "the norm."

It's what I'm listening to here at work, too. I've had quite enough of the intolerant talks being had outside my office door. No, they aren't about me, or even specific people. Just general talks. By someone who should know better than to be so damned intolerant.

A literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art.

Hehe..this'll be fun. I immediately thought of this piece. Frankly, it's bothered me for years and years.

And so...here's what I think, after God knows how many years of existence, the red dot has to say.

Yes, I'm a dot.
Yes, I'm aware that I'm a big, red dot.
No, I don't "mean" anything.
Well, not really.
But I'm sure you've read some sort of
"deep, inner meaning"
in my roundness.
No, I don't want to know what it is.

Hehe...I had too much fun with this!

**Fire a volunteer (when you really need the warm body)?

**Tell someone that you think she's being a bigot and is teaching impressionable young minds to be bigots too?

Forget the volunteer bit. There's little that can really be done about that.

But the bigot thing. I just had to listen to a conversation about "Straight Pride Parades" and "White History Month."

I think I wore him out. He hasn't moved in 3 hours.

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.

Just roaming around the internet this afternoon, while waiting on the Nascar race to start.

First, Visual Personality DNA... Here's mine...


Check out yours. I'm not certain mine's exactly right, but it's interesting.

Then, of course, being a Nascar fan, I ran across The Church of the Great Oval. Odd little site. A mix of just general Nascar commentary, and the driver's astrological forecasts for race day. Ok, sure. But it is fun to read.

Youths probed for daubing swastikas on sheep
Okay, so we're worried about why the kids behaved this way toward the good-natured sheep. What about just painting swastikas? I mean, yes, it can result in fines or prison time in Germany, but how about why swastikas???


I noticed something this week. Actually, I've noticed it before, but I'm mentioning it now. Because I have a small mouth (jokes ahead aside, my friends), I use a youth-size toothbrush. Okay, a child -sized toothbrush. I can't find one anywhere that doesn't have cartoon characters on it. There's not just a plain old toothbrush. I had, finally, found one without characters on it, but it's got a blinking light in the bottom but they were out this week. Certainly makes The Man's daughter laugh at me.

I find it really embarassing to stand in the lane at Wal-Mart at 30 years old trying to decide between Dora and Strawberry Shortcake.


What's the smell? Oh, it's the police
Um. Okay.

They could make it realistic, though...donut smell.

One question...why can't he just be a well-socialized cat?

Mama cat adopts Rottweiler puppy

I mean, doghood can't be all it's cracked up to be.

Okay, a few weeks ago, I wrote about my clock and a case of the "I want ones."

Well, they passed. Quickly, in fact. Well, they started fading before I wrote that post, and were pretty much gone by the end of the day after hitting the publish button.

I've always wavered about wanting children. Well, wanting my own children. I've gone from naming my future babies to shying away from babies in general--related or not. I've thought about adopting older kids--which is certainly something to consider if that's what God has in store for me and my one-day husband. But I've never imagined myself pregnant, giving birth (though I do know that if that ever happens, I am not one of those women who want a natural birth. Give me drugs, in quantity, please.). I've never looked at my friends who have new babies and wanted that part.

Babies don't scare me, any more than older children scare me (now, adults, they scare me). I've babysat, kept my friends kids, and goo-gooed and gah-gahed with the best of them. I've just never felt that pull for longer than a little while.

I'm perfectly happy being Aunt Jayne and would be the most devoted of step-mothers if that's how things happen. I know a couple of kids I'd love to be wicked step-mother to. In that "love you to bits, miss you all the time, saw this and thought about you, can't wait to have you home with us again" kind of wicked.

But is my clock still ticking? Well, yes. But not for kids. It's more about getting on with life.

A friend sent this to me. I'm going to share it, but then I'm going to insert my own commentary.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..one old love she can imagine going back to,and one who reminds her how far she has come..Except for those of us who want a love she'd never imagine leaving to be the one who reminds her how far she's come.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to..Hmm, sounds like planning for the worst. I can't agree with this. For the same reasons I don't believe in prenups.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE.. something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour..And still agonize over what to wear. (I'll deny it and call you a liar if The Man ever learns of this--I change clothes at least 3 times before I settle on something to wear when I'm going to see him. Even when I'm going to his place late and wearing my pajamas. Every time.)

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..a youth she's content to leave behind..The Man might not believe this of me..but I do have a youth I'm quite content to leave behind in favor of my present and my future.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age..Okay, so I'll share a few things, but there's some things that will never be retold.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a blacklace bra..Check...check...working on that (and not necessarily in that order).

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE...one friend who always makes her laugh.. and one who lets her cry.. Definitely.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family..My favorite yellow chair, and my rocker.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored.. Okay, eight plates, 3 wine glasses (yes, 3), and a recipe that shows how much I love them. Oh, and seating for 4.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE..a feeling of control over her destiny.. Mostly. And that's me, personally. I mostly have that feeling. About the things that affect only me. But where The Man's concerned...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..how to fall in love without losing herself..This I do know, though it's taken a few missteps. For me, this love has been the want I want to lose myself in, but I haven't--and that's a good thing.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship. Yep, yep, yep.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..when to try harder.. and when to walk away..I've managed to not walk away when I should've, but it's the trying harder when I want to walk away that I never learned.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..that she can't change the length of her calves,the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.. But I can make my calves look longer, hide the width of my hips, and move.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..that her childhood may not have been perfect.. but it is over..We are the SUM of our experiences, not each experience.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..what she would and wouldn't do for love or more..I believe it's called conviction.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..how to live alone.. even if she doesn't like it..Let's see, this week makes 6 years living alone, not counting the years living alone in a dorm room. For the record, I hate it.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..whom she can trust,whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally.. But sometimes, you can't help but take it personally, particularly when the one you could trust suddenly becomes the one you can't.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..where to go, be it to her best friend's kitchen table,or a charming inn in the woods when her soul needs soothing..Yes, the park. His voice.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..what she can and can't accomplish in a day..a month.. and a year..One thing at a time.

EVERY WOMAN IS SPECIAL..and she should embrace that..

I AM EVERY WOMAN..and so are you! Well, some of you are! *grin*

He's been sitting there with the blank stares for 20 minutes. Hasn't moved a muscle.

From my hammock.

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.

**Pardon me whilst I stretch a bit. I'm a little out of practice again. Dang it, I need to write more--well, write more here, as opposed to there. (I know, I know, that makes no sense, but it sorta does, doesn't it?)

The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week is "the body knows." What does the body know, you ask? Well, all kinds of things. This morning, it happens to know quite well that I was out until 1 this morning. Quite well.

But that's not what's on my mind. Sticking to my "theme of the year," here is what my body knows, this morning. This one's even titled, and I rarely ever do that.

Because of a look...

Beating heart ceases, briefly,
then rushes to catch back up.
Full-body flush,
the color rising just before the heat.
Twinges of dancing in my toes
My eyes go wet, not quite welling.


Hm..that felt rusty. I'll have to get back to writing/blogging on a more regular basis.

For other body-knowledge, check out Poetry Thursday.

We had an interesting discussion at the lunch table a few weeks ago. Seems yet another celebrity had done something stupid and had been assigned therapy for something thoughtless he had done. Next day, Lindsey Lohan's listed as the newest in-patient for rehab.

Now, it's Britney. After having shaved her head.

You know, I'm a little tired of this. I feel sorry for any one who's going through a rough time and has a breakdown of sorts. I really do. I've been pretty damn low myself and done some stupid, stupid things. I'm just tired of hearing about celebrities who suddenly throw themselves into anger management therapy and/or rehab. It almost seems to be an easy way out.

Don't get me wrong, I know rehab and therapy are not easy paths to take, particularly if you are really, truly serious about what you're doing while in them. It just seems to me that we're all supposed to be feeling sorry for these celebrities who go off the deep end and then check themselves into rehab. And I'm not sure I do. People every day--regular people--check into rehab or start therapy programs without all the hoopla.

Maybe it's horrible of me, but I can't help but wonder how many of these apparently newsworthy stories are publicity stunts.

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.

Okay, okay, so I haven't posted anything in weeks. I know this. I've been preoccupied. Blame The Man. I don't mean "The Man" that keeps you down. I mean "My Man."

So, since I know I should post, and I'm churning some ideas I'm not ready to share, I'll do a news review. Here's what's caught my eye this evening.

Toddler's temper ousts family from plane
I really don't see the problem here. Thank you, flight crew, for deciding to remove a child whose parents wouldn't enforce the rules. I may be misreading this, but it sounds like the flight was already running late. I don't know if this was because of the child, but I wouldn't be surprised.

Oh...more later.

Yep, it's official. Someone's lost her mind.

Panty Check

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.