be here NOW (also quite possibly the longest metaphor you will ever read)

Having suffered with shinsplints for the past 20 years (thanks, uncle Sam and US Army!), I have never been much of a runner.  The seemingly untreatable shinsplints (which have resisted massage, anti-inflammatories, and ultrasound therapy), and the fact that I was quite accurately told by my drill sergeant in bootcamp that I run like I have a refrigerator strapped to my back, have given me all the excuse I needed to stay off the treadmill.

Recently, I decided to get my act together and lose weight.  Over the past year and a half, through a combination of a few things, I managed to shed a little over 20 pounds, then I hit a plateau.  Nay, a WALL.  I just couldn't lose any more.  And I hadn't reached my goal.  True, I was closer to it and feeling and looking good, but I just wasn't where I wanted to be yet.  This is the preface to why I started running on the beach, which has become not only where I broke through my own self-imposed physical limitations, but also the inspiration for a lot of self-reflection as well as the backdrop for some metaphors to other things going on in my life, like the one you're about to read.

After a particularly intense evening, I needed to clear my head and decided to talk a long walk on the beach by myself as the sun came up.  I rode my motorcycle down there, and walked up and down the beach in my boots and jeans, listening to Blue Six's Beautiful Tomorrow.  I was amazed at how beautiful and serene it was.  I felt like I had missed out on what Florida had to offer me for the past 7 years or so.  I also noticed that a lot of people were running, and thought that the lower-impact force of running on sand might be better tolerated by my finicky shins.  I decided to give it a try, so the next day I came back with running shoes and did my best.  I now do a 5.5 mile route, and I do run/walk intervals.  I don't time myself.  I don't care about that.  But through the process of using more and different muscles to run in the sand than on hard pavement, in just 3 weeks, I believe I have healed my shinsplints.  I was able to run 3 straight miles on a treadmill a few weeks ago - anybody who knows me is aware that this is like a marathon for me, and a minor miracle.  So I have found much healing at the beach.

But on to the story.

Doing my usual beach walk/run today, I noticed that there were many more shells on the beach due storm surge last week.  I always keep one eye on the ground when running, especially on the beach, since you never know what you'll step on or in, and running with wet shoes is no fun.  Occasionally, I'll see a beautiful or interesting shell or remnant from the sea.  Typically, unless it is absolutely stunning, I'll just admire it as I pass and maybe make a mental note to pick it up on my way back, should I happen to remember where it was and if the tide hadn't taken it out to sea again.  This almost never happens, the beach is constantly depositing new treasures and reclaiming old ones.  So I'm sure I missed out on many unique shells because I figured there would be a never-ending supply of them wherever and whenever I ended my run.  

The shells were so numerous they were actually making my running path a little difficult.  I saw a sandbar that had been created by the same storm surge - a huge deposit of sand, hardpacked from the recent tides, that looked so much easier to run on.  Less shells in the way, a harder surface to help me move further with each step.  Sandbars are tempting - a pristine surface, surrounded by water, that calls to you to be the first to put your footprints in it, and see what it has to offer that nobody else has seen.  But we also know that it's easy to get stranded if the tide comes in.  It's risky.  But having had enough of crunching and slipping on shells in softly packed sand, I took the chance and jumped the small stream of water separating me from that glorious sandbar.  I ran and ran, and when I couldn't run anymore, I walked.  A few times I had to jump another stream, and got my shoes wet.  I finally came to the end of that sandbar, and sure enough, my fear had come true - I had been stranded.  The tide had started to come in, and the amount of water separating me from the beach was not something I was willing to wade through with my shoes on.  So for the first time in almost 3 months of running on the beach, I actually ended my workout a little shy of 5 miles, and took my shoes and socks off, and waded in.

No, it wasn't my plan, to get my feet wet and sandy, but since when has the universe ever let us successfully plan anything to start exactly when we are ready for it?  That's right, never.  The water was deliciously cold but not uncomfortably so, since the sun was already up and keeping everything above the water line warm.  I waded through the deepest part of the stream and got back to the beach, and continued down the beach with my feet in the water.  I know from previous experience that there are many sharp-edged shells embedded in the sand that would love to slice me open.  Not because they are malicious, evil shells out for blood, but because that is just what they are good at and used to doing.  But these feet have seen 40+ years of rough terrain, and have developed their own protection.  It doesn't always work, sometimes I still get cut, but for the most part I know my limitations and will walk on a shell-lined beach but not a city street lined in broken glass.  Some risks are worth taking.  

As I looked at the shells I was so accustomed to running past, even though I had at least another mile in my route, I decided to stop and pick up the ones that stood out for their beauty and individuality.  I wear a small running belt to keep my phone and keys in, and there's one extra pocket for findings, but it's very small.  I have to be selective with what goes in there.  Sometimes, I'll have to take out a shell I previously thought was the most beautiful one on the beach to replace it with one that is even more spectacular.  Sometimes although they are beautiful, they are weatherworn and cracked or chipped, and a newer, more perfect one will take their place in my belt.  That's never an easy choice, but always felt like a necessary one.  But not today.  Today I decided that not only would I pick up whatever caught my eye, but I would make room for them all.  Cracked, weatherworn, imperfect, and chipped.  Since I was no longer wearing my shoes, I used them as impromptu storage and was able to bring everything I wanted with me.  I took my time and really looked around slowly and appreciated exactly where I was and what I had to choose from.  I took only what I needed to make my collection complete, and was grateful.  

When I returned to the part of the beach I had parked near, I realized how fortunate it was that I had taken advantage of all the beautiful shells a mile or so back, for on this part of the beach, there were none.  Had I waited for the perfect shell, at the perfect time and perfect place, I would have gone home empty-handed.  Instead, I had to change my planned route and take a risk, shorten my workout a little, and really just be in the here and now to find those treasures.  And I'm glad I did.

Meanwhile, in a related metaphor, Icarus knew that by flying too close to the sun, there was a very good chance his feather and wax wings would melt and send him plummeting into the sea below.  But he decided that the reward, even short-term, was worth the risk, and he soared into the sky and enjoyed the intimacy of being enveloped in the rays of the sun while he could.  It ultimately led to his demise, but it was a consequence he had looked square in the eye and decided to face anyway.

One would hope that the sun was only doing his best to give Icarus what he was seeking, and was not just testing his power to melt wax, since it meant the demise of one who was only seeking to get closer and experience more of what was being offered.

“Love, n. A temporary insanity curable by marriage.” ― Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Well, here we are again.  I'm back, and it didn't even take me two years!  But oh, how things have changed...

For one, I'm (happily) single.  Again.  I'd say "divorced", but I don't like that it bases my current status on one from my past.  Technically, they are both true in my mind, I just use the one I prefer. Not to hide my past, but to embrace the idea that I have moved past it and will not have my present or future be defined by it.  Moving on...

I always tried to keep it fairly neutral and humorous here, but the past 5 years of marriage were very difficult.  In retrospect, I should've ended it sooner instead of letting it devolve into something ugly, then unspectacularly implode on itself through an act of extreme cowardice on his part.  Instead, I stubbornly clung to what I believed to be the good in a fellow human who I had pledged to love, trust, and support (turns out I did a whole lot more $upporting than loving and trusting, but that's another post for another day on another blog).  

Suffice it to say, although the FOQ (Formerly known as "OH" Other Half, which turned out to be more of a Quarter, so he shall heretofore be referred to as "FOQ", Former Other Quarter, conveniently pronounced "FOCK") actually got the divorce ball rolling by basically running away to his home country for a few months under the guise of "taking care of his mother" (didn't happen), then informing me via FaceBook chat a mere 96 hours after my visit there ended that he didn't want to return to our house, our marriage, his children, or my country, I saw a window of opportunity and it smelled like freedom from this resource-sucking parasite of a man.  So I spent exactly one night crying about it, and about two weeks staggering around in a shell-shocked daze asking myself, "am I really gonna do this - AGAIN?!".  Yes, you read correctly.  This is not my first time at the divorce rodeo, boys and girls.  I have successfully failed at marriage not once, but twice.  See how I spun that into a positive?  That's just how I roll these days.

But after the shock wore off, and finally realizing I'm dealing with what is most likely some form of a sociopath, I didn't play around.  I got a lawyer.  An expensive one.  And I'm going against my natural inclination to be kind and fair and give him more than he deserves.  Quite frankly, anything is more than he deserves, and far more than he earned, but in the interest of enabling him just ONE MORE TIME so he has the resources to GTFO of my country and therefore my face, it's worth parting with a few inconsequential things and dollars that I will quickly replace.  There's of course no guarantee that he'll flee (other than many past years of cut-and-run behavior), but I have already kindly informed him that if he sticks around in this city that he spent the last 4 years bitching about, he'll have a front row seat to the new fabulousness that my life without him will bring.  And oh, am I bringin' it...

I may or may not have had a little bit of a 'wild phase' since pulling the plug, I will not confirm or deny.  But let's just say that hypothetical 'wild phase' *did* happen... I think I probably would have gotten a few things out of my system.  And I certainly have found out who my real friends are-- and aren't.  That was almost more disappointing than the marriage itself falling apart.  Because no matter what you tell yourself while it's happening, you KNOW at the core of your soul that it isn't working.  But sometimes there's mitigating circumstances that make you decide to stay there.  But when people who have spent years posing as close friends betray you and clearly don't give a damn?  That shit stings.  It's always shocking to have a closeup view of extremely dysfunctional human behavior, especially when it's directed right between your eyes.  But I'm ok.  It's like removing a festering splinter from the palm of your hand.  Hurts while you're doing it, but eventually it will heal and you'll be better for it.  I know I already am.

So stay tuned...more fabulousness is yet to come.  I shall return to my blog!  More frequently than quarterly!  I promise!  I'm sure I'll have some dating foibles to rant about eventually.  There's something to look forward to.




  

I WON'T grow up!

(No, this is not a picture of me, but it's exactly how I feel.)

Ok, I HIGHLY recommend you follow this link over to Hyperbole and a Half.  Allie Brosh, the author/artist/genius behind the site is officially my hero for at least eleventy-million reasons.  But mainly for being able to articulate what depression feels like and the effect it can have on the life of an otherwise normal, intelligent human being.  I love the graph at the top of her post here, it accurately illustrates the hamster-wheel of a cycle I seem to have been stuck in for all of my so-called adult life.

It starts in Phase 1, where I'm just coping, managing to get by accomplishing the bare minimums.  Turning oxygen into carbon dioxide.  Keeping cats from starving to death.  Retrieving mail from mailbox.  (Not opening it though.  Not there yet.) Growing hair and nails.

Then there's some wind in my sail (or maybe just a fire under my ass due to a deadline), and I'll go into the second phase.  I'll restock the cat food.  Maybe tear open a letter or two (but still not deal with the content.  Too ambitious for Phase 2.)  Answer ringing cellphone.  If I have a compelling reason, I may even shower.  Leaving the house voluntarily might even happen, if I have a hair appointment and it's not raining.

Buoyed by the wild successes of Phase 2, or maybe under the influence of too much caffeine or hepped up on diet pills, the manic productivity of Phase 3 begins.  And it's not entirely unwelcome, because living in any of the other phases for any length of time makes it *really* hard to keep up with life.  Enter the "CLEAN OUT THE EMAIL INBOX!!", "REORGANIZE THE SOCK DRAWER!", "PATCH ALL THE HOLES IN THE WALL!", "START ALL THOSE PINTEREST PROJECTS I'VE BEEN PINNING FOR MONTHS!", "TAKE THE CATS TO THE VET!", "PAY THE BILLS!", "FILE THE PAPERWORK!", "DO THE TAXES!", "THROW THAT PARTY!", "CALL THOSE FRIENDS YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IN EONS!", "LEARN ALL THE PRODUCTS YOU'RE ALREADY SUPPOSED TO KNOW FOR WORK!", "DINNER!? WHO NEEDS DINNER? LET'S CLEAN THE FRIDGE AND REPAINT THE KITCHEN!" phase.  It's an awesome ride, there's never enough hours in the day to do it all, but hey, there's always tomorrow, right???! .... RIGHT!!??  The sense of accomplishment for getting done the things the rest of the world doesn't seem to struggle with is very satisfying.

Meh.  Enter stage 4. Kinda sore and tired from all that "achieving" in Phase 3.  I deserve a bit of a break after being so extremely super-awesome, right?  Go back to retrieving mail, but since there's no backlog now, just let it pile up a little.  It won't get out of control.  Again.  Lose interest in painting kitchen after paint samples are splotched on every. single. wall.  Besides, the ceiling has to be scraped before we paint the walls and that takes too much work and hurts my neck and shoulders and I do a crappy job anyway but a professional would cost $500 and I'm broke because I paid all the bills and I don't have the money to do the full reno so there.  That's how I justify not painting the kitchen for now.  Get sick of seeing paintbrushes, trudge out to shed to hide the brushes of shame out of sight and get COMPLETELY OVERWHELMED by the shitshow that is my shed.  Some demented human-sized squirrel stored --- nay, HOARDED--- everything he could find in here and I can't even enter due to the extreme amount of crap stacked to the ceiling in there.  Wade 3 inches into the sawdust and carpenter effluvia, toss brushes on mystery shelf, run back to house and assume fetal position.  Proceed to rock and try to cry but empty people can't make tears.  Phone rings, turn it off.  Too much to deal with.  It's probably a bill collector anyway and there's no getting blood out of this rock.  There's a sinkhole in the yard, and well, the house will just have to sink into it because our ever-increasing house insurance doesn't cover sinkholes, and I don't have a spare $20k to completely re-grade the front yard and install new driveway and french drains and cut down the Vietnam that is my front yard forest.  And no, the loft will not get re-tiled with the world's most finicky rectified-edge oversized porcelain tile (that we already bought scads of) because it's not level and we can't level it and professionals don't want to touch it.  So all of the loft detritus will continue to live in the office, which necessitates working --- ahem, "working" out of my bed and sliding into Phase 5.

Ah yes, Phase 5.  We've seen this before.  Make dent on my side of bed.  Wake up with deeply aching muscles from doing NOTHING AT ALL and sleeping weirdly.  Creakily get up, pee, return to dent.  Rinse and repeat until another deadline or compelling event comes along to wrest you out of your funk.

Allie somehow manages to make this funny through her adorable illustrations and streamlined commentary.  I don't have the time or the talent to do the same, but hopefully you get the idea.  I don't know how I got here, to this point where I have to do everything or else it just doesn't get done, but I'm ready to get off the ride now please.  Somebody else needs to drive this car at least some of the time because frankly, I don't know how I do it all. 

nighty-nite

Dear child living in my house,

Thank you eversomuch for napping/gaming/whateverthehellyouweredoing right through dinnertime then deciding to fry (and by fry I mean "burn") some eggs at 9:30.

That is EXACTLY the smell I was hoping to drift off to sleep to. 

Love,

your stepmomster 

in which I remodel my house, herd many cats, ride a motorcycle, teach fitness classes, and become a stepmonster

We have much catching up to do, my few but intrepid followers! 

I don't exactly remember coming to a decision like "meh, screw that blog" or anything like that, I think it's more accurate to say that I just neglected and abandoned it due to the high quantity and velocity of other things being flung in the direction of my brain, and it got left out in the cold to shrivel and die.  But, HOORAY FOR THE INTERNETS!  Where all things stay alive unless someone removes their pages/links/trackbacks.  So it was here -forlorn and cobwebby, to be sure, but still alive- when I rediscovered it and decided to dust it off and try to revive it.  I think FaceBook also exploding in popularity (and yes, me getting sucked into it) may have had something to do with it.  I thought, "hey, great, another online outlet where i can express my thoughts and feelings to people who want to hear them..." FAIL.  That is NOT what FB is for, IMHO.  There's a growing number of people who are dropping off of it now, or just not checking in for many valid reasons, as eloquently described in my bloggy friend CPU's post here.

So now that we've established that I'm back for reals, and that THIS is the appropriate outlet for my thoughts, let's catch up on the gossip, shall we?!  Ahh, where to begin?

Well, remember that house we bought almost four years ago, that was under almost-constant construction?  Yup, you guessed it.  Still under almost-constant construction.  *sigh*.  I am amazingly consistent about some things - mainly (and ironically) my need for change and improvement of my surroundings, as if by osmosis it might improve ME as well.  [I am a Libra, actually, so this might just be true.]  My Other Half (remember OH?  He's still here, which is also a miracle for many reasons...) still hates the whole of nature with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.  Because everywhere 'nature' is (and by 'nature', I mean trees, rocks, grass, dirt, weeds, and other things that need maintenance), motorcycles aren't.  Therefore, all his hatey-ness.  

Nature = bad.
Motorcycle = good.

That about sums up the OH and his thinking.  But more on that later.  LOTS more, I'm sure...


In other news, I still do professionally the same thing I used to do (which is demonstrate software and try to convince potential customers to buy it), but for a MUCH bigger, better company. Yaaay, me!  Their recruiter actually tracked me down and had to romance me over to the 'dark side': the bigger company had been EATING MY LUNCH on the daily when it came to market share, and I was sick of it.  SICK OF IT, I say.  So they were the 'bad guys'.  Which the recruiter brilliantly countered with, "well, JC, if you're part of their team, they're no longer the enemy...riiiight?", spoken in the voice you use when reasoning with a small child who will not let go of that nasty lollipop they dropped in the sand.  Long story short, I surrendered the nasty lollipop despite all of the good memories I had associated with it, and it has been replaced by one of those comically huge, Willy-Wonka-dream-inducing multi-colored suckers the size of my head.  I'm SO glad I made that leap.  I'm in a much better place because of it.  And now we all know how easily bribed I can be with candy, or even just a candy metaphor.

CAT UPDATE SECTION 

I believe at my last posting we still had our original set of cats that we moved from Miami:  Roscoe P. Cattrain, Romeow, Frijol, and Boo-Boo. Well, that's changed too.

First, we lost Roscoe, literally.  He just went out one day (oh yeah, they all staged a coup and decided they were indoor/outdoor cats.  We really had no say in the matter.) and didn't come back.  He was almost 18 at the time, and as my blog archive documents, was starting to have health problems, and much like elderly humans, was getting increasingly cantankerous.  Cat lovers know that given the option, sick or elderly cats will run away and hide from their owners rather than die right there in the middle of everything.  I fully believe it was Roscoe's time and he knew it, and being the noble critter he was, wanted to spare his mama all of the drama (that rhyme was totally unintended, and a little cringe-worthy, given the context.  I'm aware.), so he went and died in private.  A neighbor recovered what we believe to be his mortal remains, so we believe him to be at rest, over the rainbow bridge, surely biting people in the afterlife as he did so often here.  We miss him.

There is a colony of feral cats in my neighborhood (which I have taken charge of, since nobody else stepped up) that was reproducing like, well, wild animals.  Shortly after Halloween a few years ago, I heard a squeak come out of the copse of trees in my front yard (which we have nicknamed "Vietnam", by the way), and upon searching for source of squeaking, found 3 adorable little kittens.  A tortie (who was adopted by a nice lady at my vet's office), a tabby (Conan), and an orange tabby (Punkin).  Conan and Punkin brought our tally up to 5 cats, which, in a big house with a cat door and a big yard, is a perfectly reasonable number.  Kind of.


It gets worse.


A little over a year ago, some of the ferals that escaped my traps (part of a trap-spay/neuter-release program) squirted out four more kittens.  There were already about 11 cats in the feral colony, and I really didn't want to add to it.  So I decided that come hell or high water, I was going to capture and domesticate those wild kittens, with the intent of re-homing them.  So I did.  Sort of.  I successfully trapped and domesticated them (with a LOT of time, help, and chicken-flavored baby food).  Rehoming?  Notsomuch.  I still have 2 of them, JP (Jazz Paws and his brother Mel), but found good homes with our friends for Mel's twin, Tater (who is now named Lucky - insert your own joke here-), and the runt, a black and white Tuxedo female we called "Scooter".

As we were domesticating those 4 feral kittens, a neighbor's kid brought me 3 more squealing kittens he had caught that needed a home and looked to be a little younger than my wild kittens.  My inside voice said, "Dammit, kid, I'm not the effing SPCA!" while my outside voice apparently said, "Sure, just put them right over there with the others."  Dangit.  

Enter Sunny, Vader, and Daisy. [I did not name these cats...I blame their names squarely on another critter recently brought into our shelter, story on that later!]  Sunny, who had the best disposition of all, was put up for adoption at our local no-kill Humane Society, amongst MANY MANY tears on my part.  Vader unfortunately fell ill and had a rapid decline over this past Christmas, and disappeared to cross the rainbow bridge.  We miss him.  Only Daisy remains with us from that litter.


For those keeping count, that brings us up to 8.


The feral kittens and the stray kittens were sequestered in our guest room for a few months (don't worry, they had tons of toys, lots of love, and daily visits lasting many hours, mainly due to the amount of cleaning that needed to be done in a room housing 7 kittens!) while we worked on domesticating them, getting them used to human contact, and taking turns getting each one to the vet and tested for diseases prior to allowing them contact with my original herd (now known as the "East Side OG's").  Once we had found adoptive homes for as many of them as possible, we relegated ourselves to taking ownership of what we had domesticated (them's the rules!), and realized we needed to integrate the new kids (West Siiiiiyyyyyyde!!!!) with the old kids (East Side OG, yo.).  This went about as well as you could expect an integration of two separate gangs to go, with a lot of caterwauling, posing, scratching, and spraying.  The cats didn't behave too well either, heh heh.  But seriously, I was traveling quite heavily with my job, so I wasn't able to do a slower approach to integrating the two communities, which to this day, a year later, I regret.  The reason I have so much regret over it is that Conan, who had been named for his boldness as a kitten, got bullied and apparently couldn't take it.  He started staying outside for longer and longer periods of time since West Side was throwing gang signs at him left and right.  Just like people, each cat deals with conflict differently.  Some people dig in and stay in the face of opposition, others just flee.  Poor little Conan fled.  He and Punkin had been our resident "bedcats", always looking for a cuddle with a warm hooman.  We had fed both of them with an eyedropper as kittens and formed what we thought was an unbreakable bond.  Unfortunately, Conan just couldn't hang, so he stayed away.  I would hunt him down when I wasn't traveling, bring him in the house into a "saferoom" with no other kitties, love on him and feed him and take naps with him, but over time he started reacting badly to this, and was growling and hissing at me, behavior I had never seen from him before.  Around this time, I asked my neighbor if he'd seen him and he informed me that they had been letting him into their house at night occasionally and that his new wife LOVED this little kitty, who got along swimmingly with their cat Sam!  I was simultaneously heartbroken and relieved.  I thanked them, apologized that once again my cat overflow was affecting them, and basically relinquished any dreams that I'd ever get my Conan back.  

So that's a hella-long explanation as to how and why we now have 7 cats.  Which, when you consider that at one time we had 13 or so living under our roof, is not a bad number to be 'down' to.  Honestly, it's not ideal.  We still have gang issues.  JP is the dominant male from West Side.  Romeow is dominant male from the East Side OG's.  Anytime the two 'kings' vie for the same position of power on our bed, it gets ugly.  Poor Punkin gets bullied by all of the West Side gang, but is too much of a Daddy's boy to run away like his brother.  So he just hisses and spits and growls and protects his territory as best as a little stripey orange dude can.  So yeah, we still have fighting and spraying and all kinds of kitty fun to deal with on a daily basis.  

CAT UPDATE SECTION OVER


Boy, that was a saga.


OTHER EXCITING DEVELOPMENTS

When I wasn't busy trapping/herding/domesticating/wrangling cats, I managed to find some time to learn how to ride a motorcycle!  I know, I was surprised too.  The OH had gotten pretty heavily into a local bike club that seemed pretty nice and I kept getting pressured to participate.  My options consisted of: get on the back of the OH's motorcycle and just pray a lot (not a good option for an atheist), or show up in my car and have to fight for parking.  One of the members offered to teach a bunch of us spousal members how to ride, and whaddaya know, I took to it!  I loved it immediately.  That's not to say that it doesn't scare the #(&% out of me on the regular, but honestly, if it doesn't scare you, you're doing it wrong.  So yeah, I'm a biker chick now too.

 
While trying to deal with all my motorycle-riding-cat-herding-traveling-house-construction-doing stress, I started going to the local gym.  Sporadically, at best.  But I discovered one thing I loved:  Zumba (I think I'm supposed to put a Trademark symbol or somesuch, I'll figure that out later) fitness!  I started slowly, going one or two times a week, since I could barely make it through that class as it was.  Eventually I got more serious and started going more often.  At some point, I became such a regular that people started telling me I should become an instructor!  So I did.  (I blame that on another Libra quality, we're easily suggestible.)  When I had enough time in my schedule, I was going about 6 times a week!  It really helped me get into shape but also helped me meet my current social circle of girlfriends, who keep me sane.  So yeah, I'm a Zumba and Zumba Toning instructor.  Add that to the resume under "Biker", "Cat Herder", or any of the other crazy titles I now hold.  Although mostly I just sub, I travel too much to have my own class.  I drop into my friends' classes and they are kind enough to let me lead a song or two.  It's major fun, I'm glad I discovered it and made it a part of my life.




ONE LAST MAJOR CHANGE

And when I say "major", I cannot emphasize (mainly because my font sizes max out at THIS BIG) enough exactly how major this is/was.  My OH has two children.  I don't mention them a lot, since if I were a child, I wouldn't want my life to be unknowingly documented by some weirdo on the interweb talking shit about me, so I try to give them the same consideration.  (I say "try" because it kind of shows that I have good intent here, even though I'm about to fail miserably.)  For reasons that are best left private, about the time I was busy abandoning this blog, my life felt like it was falling apart because OH and I decided that his son (we'll call him OHjr, since he's like a little clone) should move in with us.  Those of you who know me know that I am basically allergic to children.  I'm not terribly maternal, and am more likely to be nominated "Best Drill Sergeant Impersonator" than "Best StepMother" ever.  Nonetheless, it was in the best interest of the kid, so I didn't just agree, I'm actually the one that made the offer.  

Not to make this sound like it was some easy thing!  The first time OHjr came just to VISIT, I think my body had a premonition that it was going to drastically alter the course of the future, because I broke out in a bad case of the itchies, head to toe.  No joke.  My body was rejecting the proximity of somebody else's child who I hadn't even met.  That's deep.  Luckily, once he showed up, he was quite the sweet kid, he was 13 at the time but very very polite and I could see he just wanted to be loved and accepted.  So my itchies calmed down and I put my selfishness aside and decided to do the right thing for the kid. You can rest assured that many of my future posts will surely be me lamenting my trials and tribulations as I venture into step-monster-hood.  It's been an interesting two years, that's for sure! 


Since this is already most assuredly the longest blog post in the history of EVER, I'm going to sign off for now.  Also, it's almost 3 pm and I'm still in BED in my PAJAMAS.  Haven't been this much of a slacker in a loooong time!  But hey, it's Sunday, so I'm allowed.  It's been great catching up with you!












  


















 

A pound of chewy Sprees? Sure, why not?

Why oh why can airport convenience stores not sell the unhealthy snacks I want (yet don't want) to eat in a normal, smallish size?

Consumed by my need for something sour, artificial, and chewy, I was basically just forced to buy a pound of Sprees. All of which I will eat prior to landing.

AAAAAAND...SHE'S BACK!

Thank you, thank you!

Phew. That sure was a long silence. Don't ask for an explanation, I don't have one. Got distracted? Sure, sounds good. You already know I keep myself busier than most people in the universe, so I'm sure you're not surprised that I got distracted/ran out of time and/or energy/lost interest/fell into a (temporary) black hole of depression/just couldn't eek out a post. It happens.

But like an undercooked green pepper, I'm baaaaack, when you least expected me. Actually, it was reading this tremendous, amazing blog that inspired me to return to my blog. Sadly, I couldn't even remember my own url when I went looking for it, and almost had a myocardial infarction when I typed in someone else's blog address and didn't find mine. Thank goodness I'm completely unoriginal in creating passwords, and was able to log back in via Google. Google saves my world once again.

The other thing that brings me back to this is my extreme talent for procrastination, and also a million little pet peeves sneaking up on me, with no good outlet for them. Because FaceBook is good for some things, but if you just vent your pet peeves there, you become that complain-y person, and I'd rather do that in semi-private, in my blog, where only people who know and expect me to be complain-y come to read about it.

Speaking of my procrastination, I've been tasked with introducing a concept and a customer at a large public event my (new and fantabulous) employer is sponsoring. Tomorrow. I also have a friend-date tonite with a certain bestie whom I miss terribly and simply CANNOT wait to see. Do you think said introduction has been written yet?

Do you know me?

Predictably, I will go out to a fancy-schmancy dinner, spent too much, eat too much, drink too much, then come back to my room tired, bloated, and in a PANIC. Then stay up way too late creating a crappy introduction to a concept that's already going to be beaten to death by other presenters.

Oh, and I just learned that the main presenter has been called away on a 'family emergency', and his partner (read: probably lesser presenter, likely not a good public speaker) is going to be tasked with delivering the whole thing alone. This is not good for me. He'll probably want me to go longer with my introduction...which means I need to stay up later and do more talking than I wanted to. Ugh.

And on the subject of procrastination, I was distracted by some festive-looking jellybeans in the hotel minibar. Keep in mind I'm in a fancy hotel in downtown Washington DC. These "minibars" are actually weight (and I suspect motion-) sensitive displays that will automatically charge your room for anything you remove. Creeeeeepy.

So because I'm trying so hard to not be prepared in time (I've only had like 4 weeks notice. Don't judge.), these jellybeans are yelling louder and louder at me. So I decide I can afford the $6 I'll likely be scammed out of for taking (or even just moving) them, and I snatch them out of the display. I stand there, frozen, waiting for an acknowledgement of my transgression against the sanctity of the display, but ... nothing happens. No click, no clack, no satisfying "sssssnick" of something being tabulated.

The silence makes it even more creepy. Electronic things that tabulate should somehow confirm to us that tabulation has occurred.

Then, the jellybeans were a letdown. They weren't the festive name-brand ones I was hoping for, and these ones are disturbingly patriotic. Yep, just red, white, and blue. That, to me, defeats the purpose of jellybeans entirely. There should be lots and lots of different weird flavors to choose from. If you limit me to just 3, once I have experienced a few of each, I'm immediately let down and bored. And now berating myself for paying $6 to experience cherry, coconut, and blueberry. Cherry, coconut, blueberry. Cherry, coconut, blue...ok you get it.

If you're gonna distract me, DISTRACT ME, dammit. *sigh*.

Well, onto dinner, time's a-wastin'!