I had turned my ringer off, so it was the vibration that woke me up. It jarred me out of sleep, and i considered ignoring it completely, but my curiosity got the best of me. I picked the phone up, willing my eyes to focus, but before i could clearly read who it was calling me, my thumb slipped across the touchscreen, hitting the answer button, the equivalent of taking the phone off the hook. I had to answer. Still blind, I put the phone next to my ear, hoping against hope that it was --
"Hello..." I said, doing my best to sound wide awake. I have this thing about sounding groggy on the phone. Not that i don't want people to know I sleep, but for some reason sounding sleepy makes me feel vulnerable. Go figure.
"Hey." It was not the voice i wanted to hear. Or a voice i expected to hear in a month of Sundays.
I was quiet.
"Lex?" "Did i wake you? Were you asleep?"
I looked at the clock. 3:35 AM.
"Yes." I said, too stunned to worry about whether that sounded rude or not.
"Sorry. Can i talk to you though?"
And so we talked. The conversation traveled the same roads and encountered the same barriers.
Nothing had changed.
We hung up, him feeling dissatisfied, me feeling drained. Did our interactions always leave me this way? A rhetorical question that i already knew the answer to. A year ago the call would have had me awake for the rest of the night, agonizing over details. A year ago i would have made an effort. Last night, i just went back to sleep.
In keeping with my new dedication to disclosure, I have decided to share with you a recent contretemps that has me questioning my sanity. This is the story of how in one day i transferred from law-abiding tax paying citizen, to doyenne of deceit and reluctant renegade.
In common parlance - a crook.
My saga begins innocently enough. I was in target (my addiction) browsing the aisles. Target and I have an interesting relationship. Its one way. I give and give and give. (my money.) It takes and takes and takes. (my money.) Target is the emotionally distant boyfriend that I should drop, but i keep coming back because maybe this time...
On most occasions when i go, I have no purpose. There is no pressing need that must be filled, or even a want to be indulged. I just like being there. People go to parks and libraries and to the gym to think and meditate - I go to Target. The waxed floors, complete with shopping cart wheel streaks, the unflattering fluorescent lighting. The splashes of red. (i'm sure it has a psychological effect) The smell of Starbucks intermingled with that of leather-"like" goods...all a delightful assault on my senses. Shoot. I'm getting a jones now. To me, target is the equivalent of what cheers was to Norm. The retail counterpart of your favorite local bar. And though they don't know my name (yet) - i'm sure they recognize my face.
I had decided to NOT get a shopping cart this day. Shopping carts spell doom when i am in target. I wind up filling it up with nonsense, and by the time i'm at the checkout counter, i have run up a tab of over a hundred dollars. Consistently. And now that we are in a recession, i can't just be doing that. Gotta make every dollar count.
So, I enter the store thinking about all and sundry. I quickly avert my eyes when i pass by the dollar section. I refused to be enticed by the thrill of buying cheap wares just because they are only a dollar. I have no cart. No basket. Plenty of self control. The women's section beckons me and i go over to see what's poppin. Target is great for making the perfect high-low wardrobe. target t-shirt, tsubi jeans. It works.
I see that Thakoon is the new featured designer (and one of my favorites for his higher end clothing) so i check for his stuff. Nice. I pick up a sleeveless sweater. Perfect for transitioning from winter to spring - whenever that comes (yucky snow outside) I fold it over my arm, and continue to browse. I pick up a tank top (6 dollars!) and saunter over to the underwear section. As much as i like the idea of sexy alluring underwear, it really not my type of hype. Cotton is my preferred fabric. Simple, forgiving and comfortable. They have some cute boy shorts on sale so i pick some up. I hold them in my hand.
Next stop is the magazine section. Nothing much interested me, but then i spot the new issue of Marie Claire - and a lead for an article which promises to give hints on how to achieve my best look EVER. Um hello! After seeing myself in the mirror that morning, i know i need all the help i can get. The magazine must be mine. I pick that up and continue on making my circuit.
My hands are kind of full now, but not awkwardly so, so instead of heading to the register, i decide to make one last stop in the health and beauty section. My achilles. Oh baby. There is something about beauty products that I can't resist. There's the possibility of beauty and wealth and happily ever after in every bottle, jar and tube. The more attractive the packaging the more likely i am to buy it. I do quite well until I reach the burts bees section. Lotions and creams and oils...oh my. I pick up a new body lotion that promises to enhance my skin tone. Sweet. I am totally buying this dream.
Finally i head over to makeup, another sad indulgence of mine. Expensive - bobbi brown, nars - or cheap - wet n wild (best liners IMO) and nyc. I LOVE it all and i will spend a grip. The funny thing is, as much as i love make up (repping bare escentuals to the fullest) i don't wear much. I buy stuff and it just sits. I'm especially guilty with eye shadow. I always feel clownish. The same with lipstick. I'll buy a color and never wear it. I always revert back to a nude OR my old standby vaseline. Or if i want to get fancy, Rosebud salve. However i did discover navy blue shadow and i think i will stick with that for a minute. It makes my eyes really pop. This may be make up i actually wear. Other than my bare escentuals (gotta rep them again)
Hovering over the l'oreal section I see that they have finally restocked one of my favorite lipglosses - Colour Riche in soft nude. I have to buy this. The last few times i've been to target they haven't had it, and i must get while the getting is good.
My items, while not huge or bulky are becoming unwieldy. I better check out now. I get in line, and when there is finally room, i put my stuff on the belt. The cashier begins scanning my items and i watch as each article beeps as its bar code slides over the laser beam.
She's done scanning and gives me my total.
But wait.
Where's the...
I look for the tube of lipgloss i had picked up a few minutes earlier.
Its not on the belt. I look around me on the floor. Its not there either.
"What's the matter?" The cashier, in a rare display of concern for the customer looked at me.
"Nothing..." I say feeling confused. I could have sworn i picked it up. I mean i saw myself do it. Walking backwards in my mind (a sesame street-ism) i quickly reconstructed my actions up until that point. But all i could remember was picking up the lip gloss and then - a total blank. I looked back up at the cashier.
"I just thought..." I trailed off.
The line behind me had gotten long. Homegirl behind me was looking antsy too. "Nevermind." I must have thought i picked it up. Only explanation. I slid my card through the debit/credit card thingie to conclude the transaction, Got my receipt, and walked out of the store promptly forgetting about the missing tube of lip gloss. I didn't need it anyway. I have so many glosses that i could use in its place. Not to mention, it would have taken me over the 50 dollar mark, and my goal was to stay under it.
Later on that evening i had to run back out, so i threw back on my corduroy blazer from earlier that day. I didn't feel like carrying my pocket book, so i put my wallet in my left jacket pocket and...
I felt a slim rectangular shaped piece of hard plastic.
Oh no.
My finger reached in even as my eyes involuntarily closed. I was suddenly uneasy.
Don't tell me.
I pulled out the item and peered at it with one eye.
L'oreal Colour Riche Lipgloss Number 508 - Soft Nude.
No. Freakin. Way.
NO. FREAKIN. WAY.
I stared at it - equal parts confused AND amused. How in the world? When looking for it, i had checked everywhere except for my person. Why didn't I check my pockets? Oh that's right, because i'm not used to living a life of crime. My confusion suddenly gave way to fear. Deliberate or not, I had stolen. I, a person who will walk back to the department store to return a pen that i used to sign my credit card receipt, had walked out of a store without purchasing an item.
I was horrified.
In the distance i heard sirens. (probably rushing off to a accident but i swore they were for me.) I expected the swat team to descend upon me at any moment. In the far off corners of my mind i could hear the chant: "attica! attica!"
I felt woosy.
Even though i had no recollection of doing so, I must have absentmindedly put it in my pocket when walking to the cashier. My hands were full, and the smallest item was put "up" to make room for the bulkier ones. But still, don't they have cameras everywhere? How in the world could i put it in my pocket and not a single sales associate or security guard say something to me? I then began question my own sanity. Like how absentminded was i being to commit petty theft and not even know it? Is this how it begins? Am i destined to be one of those old ladies with a hefty bosom and rolled down stocking and comfortable shoes that steals batteries for my remote control so i can flip back and forth between my stories???
I had to return the item. But how? I mean i guess it would be easy enough to walk to customer service and tell them i accidently walked out without paying for the item - and offer to pay for it, but then what? And what if they decide to arrest me? I'd be locked up and all this sexy is too much for prison. Some manly chick would try to wife me up and...
Well enough of that.
Sleep that night was a restless one. How do career criminals do it? I accidently walk out of the store with six dollar lipgloss and I'm all jumpy. I had replaced it in my jacket, and like edgar allen poe's tell tale heart, my tell tale tube thumped thumped thumped, its unrelenting bassline disturbing my slumber. I was as guilty as lady Macbeth, but without all the cool dialogue.
The next morning i was on a mission. I was going to return this lipgloss.
In a supreme act of cowardice, decide to avoid any nasty confrontation and quietly put back the item. As i walked in i expected alarms and strobelights to go off, but, nothing. The security guard gave me a head nod even. I headed straight toward the l'oreal section. Pulling it out, i replaced it on the shelf with its brothers and sisters. No harm no foul right? My heart beat was accelerated. I expected the cuffs to come slamming down on me at any minute. This was the first time in EVER that i had walked into a target and had no desire to shop. I just wanted to get out of there. My body was damp by the time I exited the store. I was relieved that the moment of truth had passed without incident. Relieved...and strangely thrilled. Now that i was in the clear i could relax. Even laugh a little. I had successfully pulled off a caper! I would have a story for my grand children and with a little embellisment (guard dogs, the fibbies, and a possible hostage situation) I'll go down in history as the coolest grandmother ever.
...Of course there is not the issue of my latent kleptomania, but one hurdle at a time.
John Beltran - Felicidad Nova (i'm still dreaming of summer)
Those who can, write - those who can't, edit. - Anonymous.
Actually i'm the author of that aphoristic nightmare. But, there's a reason for my lame attempt at aesopry. For the past hour or so, i've been ruminating on why blogging has been so difficult as of late. There has to be a reason why i enter into a persistent vegetative state every time i come within one foot of the keyboard. Tonight I think i finally stumbled upon on the reason.
Well at least one of them.
Editing.
I have a big problem with editing. No, not the traditional slash and burn that has been the approach of publishing houses and red pen wielding professors, but editing in the form of self censor-ship. The knowledge that as soon as I hit publish all of my personal thoughts go public makes me scale back a great deal as far as content. Time and again i find myself emending my words. "Do I really want to put that out there?" Is what i ask myself. The answer is invariably: "Nah.." And so i snip snip here and chop chop there. The end result is this completely uninspired anemic blog.
What to share and what not? There is a fine line between being frank, and just talking too much. How to straddle that line by sharing and still having privacy? I don't know.
Candor is the backbone of any good journal. At least in my opinion. Candor is what made Anne Frank's diary so compelling, and its what make me come back to read certain blogs. The openness and sincerity. I love when i'm able to read about some fellow bloggers contretemps - relayed in a witty and candid manner, and find a piece of myself in there. Or, when someone has made insight and self discovery, and because they are able to articulate their thoughts and feelings, i learn something about myself. Unfortunately, as much as i appreciate those qualities in other blogs i can't seem to deliver the same kind of soul baring revelations. Even in the many private journals i've kept over the years (actual books) i found myself censoring what went in its pages. Going back and reading some of them, i can feel the restraint. Its difficult for me to express myself, even when i am the recipient of the expression. In the back of my mind there is always the thought..."what if someone else gets their hands on this? ...What will they think?" With a public blog there isn't an "if". Someone is going to read. Its the nature of the beast.
And so not much has changed. My inability (or, should i say reluctance?) to share has effectively sucked the life's blood out of this latest venture. My electronic journal. I choose to keep the meat and potatoes to myself, so when it comes time to write, i am left with nothing but fluff and filler, a weak framework to build any train of thought.
Not that i wanted this journal to be dedicated to my peculiar brand of pathos. My intent isn't to go Kafka on these internets. (not that i could even if i wanted to) I'm not full of deep dark secrets and the assorted paraphernalia that accompanies tortured souls. Nevertheless, some things will probably always remain in the "vault." Or even if i reveal them, it won't be in this forum. But, I mean, should it be so hard to share how _____ makes me _____ . Or when I ______ I ______. Oh and that ______ and ______ kind of ______. And did you know that __________ ?
This is what i'm talking about. I edit all ^that^ stuff out, and whats left to discuss? I'm left writing another entry on my hair woes, or my weight woes...or how i feel old...woes. Topics which really need to be sent out to pasture.
But, quoth the raven - nevermore. From this point forward i am declaring an emotional glasnost of sorts. Less editing, more sharing. And maybe I'll learn a little more about myself in the process. Ok, I probably won't but at least this thing will have a pulse again.
The Avalanches -Two Hearts in 3/4 Time (makes me feel like summer)
Winter is in full swing, and with it, the requisite freezing temperatures. Today the mid atlantic states were averaging temperatures in the low 30s accompanied by wind chills which brought those figures down lower - the mid two high 20s. Brutal.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
What galls me is that there are people who actually enjoy this weather (oh, hi Rashad :-P). Strange right? I mean really. Why? What is the appeal of chapped lips, broken capillaries, and frostbitten appendages? For the life of me i can't see anything of value in that. Well unless you're one of those black market organ dealers.
To be honest, i'm of the opinion that people who take pleasure in frigid temperatures are also people who get a kick out of eat disgusting foods like beets, consider potted meats a delicacy (see: spam) and enjoy all manner of things pickled. (I had a coworker who would bring in a jar of pickled eggs *retch* every monday and would snack on them throughout the week. Horrifying.) In other words, true masochists. Knowing that people like this exist, and are enjoying that which makes me so miserable, makes me even more agitated. If people weren't so judgmental, i'd go into hibernation at first frost. Kodiak bear mode. No one would see hide nor hair of me until the darling buds of may. Oh if only this world were mine...
I knew things were awful when i was afraid to put on my bra this morning. You read right. Taking it out of my dresser (located in a chilly corner in my bedroom) and putting it up against my skin was the equivalent of removing a bandaid. There's gonna be pain, so you gotta be swift. It was so cold, the metal clasps making a mockery out of my own body heat. After deliberating for a minutes, i took the plunge. Five seconds of sheer terror. No one should have to contend with that.
The bad news is that its only going to get worse. At least as far as this week is concerned. The forecast is pretty bleak: By friday a high of only 21. Awful. How many more weeks of winter? Why is this season so darned long? Can i hang? Will I? Only time will tell.
In the meantime should you see me with my eyes tightly closed, do not interrupt my reverie. I will imagining sexy people on sexy beaches eating sexy food while basking in sexy temperatures. Yeah...
Royksopp Remind Me (Whatchall know about this right here?)
Is when i see people and places and things from my past and notice how much they've changed.
I get sentimental a lot.
I've always been a bit of a bleeding heart and unredeemable nostalgic. Most things that people can easily part with, discard, or relegate to some cobweb covered corner of their memory, I cling to for dear life. Sometimes the things i hold on have actual value beyond their appearance. For instance I have a big red gum wrapper in one of my scrapbooks, and though it looks like trash, it isn't. There's actually a very sweet story behind it. (well sweet to me anyway.) I keep most of my movie/concert ticket stubs. However, many times my separation anxiety occurs with meaningful and jejune in equal measure; for instance my collection of of magazines. Not so much a collection as the fact that i can't seem to throw any of them away. Only as valuable as the season they are printed for - I am still loathe to toss them. It takes effort for me discard an Elle or W or Allure in the trash. Every issue is like a collector's edition. (even though they are not)
But its not only my personal effects that get me misty eyed.
While running a few errands with my dad over the weekend i noticed his footfall was a bit strange. As we walked across Walmart's parking lot and headed toward the automatic doors, i fell a little behind him in step to observe him further. He was limping. Now my dad has had a slight limp for a minute. This was nothing new and up until this point it had been barely noticeable. His dad had one in the same leg and i always assumed it was genetic predisposition(please don't let me inherit that gene) However as we entered Walmart it was more pronounced than ever.
"Daddy!" I said, alarmed, catching up to him and falling in step, "Why are you walking like that?"
His response?
"I'm getting old."
At 55 my dad is hardly what i consider old, but he is right. He is getting old, his body is no longer the machine it used to be. Even in the face of this reality his comment still stung. In my mind my dad is forever the spry 35 year old who could do anything and everything.
My dad, the man whose mechanically inclined mind helped me design a lever that catapulted (not literally) me to the top of my 5th grade science class. My dad who helped me build an awesome scale model set of native American dwellings f (wigwams, adobe houses, longhouses and teepees...totally banging and i got an A+) for social studies. My dad who knew cars better than anybody, and on top of that skill, could fix just about anything in the house (for ex: my parents were remodeling the kitchen, my mom wanted the stove and the sink put in opposite positions, so my dad switched the gas and water lines. We didn't blow up.) My dad who used to ride his 10 speed to work. ( i thought he was SO cool) My dad who would take us(the kids) to watch him and his friends play softball. My dad who did all those things was now walking a with an obvious limp. It disturbed me more than i cared to admit. I was forced to look at him no longer with the eyes of a child and see him as he was, an older man. It hurt.
I instantly recalled the time when i was talking to my mother and she was telling me that he was taking his car to the shop to get an oil change. "What?" I was confused. My dad would NEVER take his car in to get something as simple as that done. It was unheard of. My dad kept jars of gojo pumice handwash around the house because when he wasn't at his job, he was underneath a car, changing the oil, putting in spark plugs, installing an alternator...etc. etc. He was getting his hands dirty and he loved it. But he needed something more heavy duty than dove to remove the oil and dirt - or else my mom would put a hurting on him. How could he be the same man? He was now taking his car in and paying someone to do a job he used to enjoy doing on his own.
Change is the only constant - Heraclitus
Change has always been difficult for me to accept. My comfort zone has always been with that which is known, or if not known in the truest sense, feels familiar. Change for me has always been the hot new dress you buy because it looks good, but when its time to break it out you don't because aren't sure if you're really going to like how it fits. So you dig deep in your closet and put on old faithful, because it does justice to your curves and hides all of the trouble spots. Comfort.
I driving around in the old neighborhood a few weeks back and i was aghast at how different things were, certain landmarks that i figured would always be there were gone, or, if they were still there, had been altered beyond recognition. It was weird and disheartening. I found myself missing those places and the people that were associated with them terribly. Certain part of my life were no longer tangible, and it bothered me.
When i visit my grandparents i often beg them to take me to go see places from when they were young. We drive through backwoods, dirt roads, and they point out locations that are now overgrown with trees and grasses and teeming with wildlife -
"this is where i went to school"
"this is where your grandpop used to live"
"a small shop used to be right here..."
"there used to be a road here that we would take to get to town - long before I95 was built"
And i stare in amazement because there is nothing there that indicates that this was anything other than woodland. Occasionally there will be the remains of buildings, or an indentation indicating that there once was a road. But really, all that remains of those places/things is their memory.
Sometimes they'd recount stories i'd hear a wistfullness in their voices as they talked people and places that are long gone. It never occurred to me that I might experience the same thing at some point. Now that i am, i find myself balking at it, resisting the change. To be sure, there is much that remains from my youth. Its not as bleak and depressing as i'm sure this entry reads. I just marvel at how much is different from then til now - and i'm not looking forward to see how much it will change in the future. Still i know that no matter how much i may not want it, things will change, and its up to me to accept it, and successfully be able to experience sentiment without wallowing in the past.
I guess this is what they call growing up.
The Jacksons - Blues Away (a gem not heard often enough)
I've been intermittently staring at this page for the past half hour, trying to conjure up words about something, anything. Nothing is coming. Nothing meaningful, nothing mundane. In the reserves of my mind there is usually some bagatelle of information that i can pull out and build upon. A little anecdote about my life, or perhaps something i've observed that will serve as a stimulant and get the writing juices flowing. Apparently my mental coffers have been emptied of all their goodies, so that even my ephemera has become ephemeral. When did blogging become a chore?
Honestly i think the hair thing may be symptomatic of something else - a need for change in my life in general. (Here i go deepak chopra-ing again) Sometimes i feel i'm way too complacent with myself. When a challenge comes my way, i always rise to the occasion - but those are external challenges. Rarely do i challenge myself. U. N. Owen (get that reference and i'll marry you...well if you're a dude) has never been a friend of mine. Maybe a change in hairstyle will kick things off? Of course there is always the chance that cutting my hair will merely send me spiraling down into a morass of pyscho impulse based behaviors, which will undermine any goal i'm trying to achieve.
All this sturm und drang could be caused by the fact that my Seasonal Affective Disorder is in full effect. (self diagnosed. reading a magazine a few years ago where they described it, and i went hey! that's me! lol) Don't you love how there's an official disease for everything? Gives my bad moods an air of respectability. lol. Yesterday was a rainy miserable mess, and today, although not rainy - is a mixture of clouds and sun, and for the past hour it has been more clouds than anything else. Combine the clouds with the the cold temperatures, et voila! You have a cauldron full of double double toil and trouble.
Any of my fellow bloggers taken a solo vacation? I don't mean business trip or a weekend of solitude. I mean like three days or more of you, by your lonesome. Is that the equivalent of dining alone? I haven't done either. I'll go to lunch by myself in a heartbeat, but dining in the formal sense? Never. I always chicken out. According to glamour(or was it cosmo?) dining alone is one of the things every woman should have done by the time she is forty. How is that for a goal? Anyway, they didn't say anything about vacationing. Is that just too lame? Would planning a trip for one to the _____ (insert location here) showcase my pluck, or be a sad commentary on my existence?
So today is the first day of Two Thousand and Nine. Can you believe it? I can't. Two thousand and nine. My tongue is forming the letters but my brain still is having trouble computing. It was a DECADE ago that everyone was running around like chickens with their heads cut off as the spectre of 2000 loomed ever nearer. Remember that? Everything had to be Y2K compliant. Even watches. I kid you not - i saw a timex that had a"y2k ready" label on the box. I think i saw it at one of those discount clothing stores my mom shops at on occasion. You know, you can find all the designers you love - for like close out prices. I like the idea of those stores, but my problem is you have to LOOK. Yeah, i'm not scrounging around on some over stuffed rack to find that one magical dress that was 1500 at saks, but because of a messed up seam, i can buy for fifty dollars. I like my clothing pretty and arranged, mannequins dressed to impressed, and the warehouse with clothing tossed hither and thither just doesn't work for me. Of course if you happen to be out shopping and run across something you'd think i'd like, then by all means...
But where was i? Ah yes. The whole Y2K brouhaha. Alarmists horded food in their basements, while chicken littles went as far as building/refurbishing fallout shelters. Fun times.
We are now ten years past that, and though our fears of exploding URLs never materialized, things did happen that did have far reaching effects on the world at large. 9/11, the war in Iraq, Michael Jackson calling Tommy Mottola devilish...
Its certainly been a time of upheaval.
But I didn't intend for this entry to go down a solemn path so i'll steer a little to the left...
I've never been a big "New Years" person. When i was a kid, it held a quaint charm because i was allowed to stay up and watch the ball drop, as dick clark narrated the waning moments of the exiting year. I could make phone calls (past midnight!) to certain of my friends(if their parents allowed) to wish them a happy new year. Those days of childish excitement are long gone. Dick Clark has been supplanted by the unctuous Ryan Seacrest, and my dreams of a New Year filled with gumdrops and bubble gum have died in the reality of bills, aging, and other sorrows to horrific to put into writing.
I know. Great way to approach a new year right? Perhaps i need to turn to the left a little more..
So do my fellow bloggers do the whole resolution thing? I'm not a big resolution maker because part of the whole resolution process is having resolve and i have none of that.
I have resolution anxiety.
So many things wrong...where to start? Ahhhhhh forget it!
I mean really. The new year approaches people get all "you have any resolutions?" Because suddenly everyone wants to discuss all their embarrassing faults in lurid itemized detail, and by asking you to elaborate on all the things that suck in your life and need fixing, its reassures them that they are not alone in their inadequacies because your life could use as much improvement as theirs. It provides a schadenfreude-ish pleasure.
So, I don't really make resolutions. Not that i don't have a plethora of things that need re-tooling (and when i say plethora i MEAN plethora) but its because i have so much to work on that i shy away from enumerating them. I really don't want to ring in the new year with a grand total of all the ways i suck. I believe that in some circles that method is labeled as "avoiding the issue(s)."
That said there are a few things i plan to work on in earnest, in the spirit of self improvement - and they are:
1. Getting Mo' Fit.
I go through fits and starts with my exercise routine, and unless i want to go the way of "The Oprah" (yes she gets a definite article now) i better get with the program and stick to it.
2. Get Organized.
You ever miss a day of school when they were teaching you something that would serve as a foundation for the rest of that course? In Spanish 1 i missed the day we learned how to tell time. A small detail (so it seemed) but apparently spanish speaking peoples like telling the time as much as english speaking peoples. (I know i check my watch fiftly lemn times a day.) That day of absence still haunts me because i still struggle with telling the time in Spanish. Not that i need to, but dangit i should be able to. cuarto...menos... How is it I can say and read relatively complex sentences(for ex: hi how are you?), but can't say the time of day? What part of the game...? Well in that same manner, i think i missed the part of life where you learn how to be organized. In my early twenties life was handled in a slapdash devil-may-care fashion. It was shameful. I've since grown way better, but old habits die hard.
3. Appreciate the Moment.
A friend and I were discussing this and we came to the conclusion that we don't do this enough. But i don't mean Epicurean way of enjoying the moment. I don't want the morbid to be a motivating factor in my enjoying what i'm doing when i'm doing it. Its just too many times i've been doing something, and instead of appreciating it - i was ruing the fact that soon whatever it was that i was doing would be done. Sad. For example - the day i turned 21 i near had a nervous breakdown. I was freaked because i was an official official adult. 21. I was old ( or at least i thought) and instead of appreciating the fact i was 21 i kept mourning the fact that i wasn't 20. And now...i'd give my eyeteeth to be 21 again. But since i'm not, i'm going to enjoy the fact that i'm...well you don't need to know that. And, that was a terrible example, but you follow the general idea. I hope.
4. Getting this blog to suck...less.
This blog has been at ebb tide for a while now, and for the life of me i cannot figure out why. My knack for prattle - the concrete slab this blog is built upon - has failed me. Is it possible that the minutiae has become so minute that its rendered nil? Perhaps i just have a bad case of block. I don't know. Whatever it is, i want it to get fixed stat. This joint is bleak.
All said and done though? I'm generally optimistic for 2009. I'm going to work on making me the best me i can be. I figure if i do that...all the rest will fall into place. I wish all of you happiness, good times and the ability to weather whatever storms come your way. *Treacle alert*
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