Yes....
....I'm eating crow. The dish is cold, and unappealing. I have to choke each bite down with a swig of hot coffee.
It's those dang edjukated metrolgists. They were right. There. I've said it.
Far be it from me not to be the bigger person and confess that for once they got a forecast correct. I'm talking about the snow storm that hit Atlanta, Georgia and how state officials started claiming it was not their fault traffic ground to a halt, people were stranded in their cars, and kids had to wait on buses for hours before being delivered safely home it was all the fault of the meteorologists, who had not kept them abreast of the snow storm that was coming.
I confess at first I was eager to jump on Atlanta's band wagon.
Then I remembered, not to long ago I learned a tidbit about the business of forecasting the weather, there are 'Extended Forecasts', and what is know as 'Now Forecasts'. Although it is the extended forecasts that the metrolgists tend to get wrong, it is the 'now' ones they intend to get correct. Especially during tornado and hurricane seasons.
Such was the case with the snow storm that hit Atlanta. It was pretty much a 'Now' event and I've heard and seen some public officials blame weather folk for not telling them the storm was coming so they could have been better prepared.
This morning, I heard the Governor of the State of Georgia admit that the proverbial 'buck' did indeed stop with him and said the state did get an update from the weather bureau, that a weather emergency was eminent, however he had not been advise or knew about the up-dated report.
Now, ya'all know it is not like me to shout out a "Here, here!" to those edjukated guys and gals. But I have to give them their do, due, dew (That's a joke son, that's a joke.) on this one. Well done. I hate to see you get blamed for getting the forecast wrong when you actually got it right...spot on right.
And, so, that is why this morning I'm eating tough, old, cold crow.
Caw, caw, caw.
P.S. Bobby is leisurely strolling along the edge of my computer desk. He/she is looking well, and says "Howdy".
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Nostalgia
I think I must have poured a spoonful of nostalgia into my coffee this morning instead of chocolate syrup because I've been thinking about my mom's red Radio Flyer. I say it's hers because I don't remember playing with it much, but I do remember using it every time we went on a shopping excursion to the end of our street to visit Lopresti's Market.
Yep, we'd be all shined and polished, and off we would go, Radio Flyer in tow.
Now, for you young whipper-snappers who don't know what a Radio Flyer is, it is a wagon, bright red in color, and along the sides of it were the words Radio Flyer. The words had streaks running through it giving the allusion of speed. It was large enough to hold two kids, if the kid in back could figure out what to do with their legs.
As I mentioned, we didn't play with it much, but when we did I recall we could get up quite a bit of speed going down a hill, but we had to be careful because the only steering mechanism was the handle and if we turned too quickly left or right the wagon would tip over and driver and passenger ended up with skid marks on their arms and legs, and bits of gravel in their elbows.
Looking back, I can see the Flyer was really not a toy, it was indeed a tool. One we needed very much. Because, without that wagon we kids would have had to tote those heavy bags of groceries from Lopresti's all the way home. Thank you Radio Flyer.
I don't remember ever taking care of the Flyer, but I seem to recall it was always clean and carefully stored away in the garage always ready to fulfill its duty. It was a member of the family.
Jump decades ahead.
After we moved to the Pacific Northwest in the 70's, my husband and I bought our youngest daughter a Radio Flyer for Christmas. It was the same size as the one us siblings had growing up. I think the first year our kids used it, but over time it came to sit in the garage, under a bench. It sat, and sat, and sat.
A couple of years later when we bought the house, I put it into action, gave it life.
It turns out, when our house was built, it was constructed on top of a marsh, tons and tons and tons of rocks were brought in to fill in the marsh, and then tons and tons and tons of topsoil was brought in to cover up the rocks.
Being a transplant from California, I didn't know and was not told about the rocks, so when I decided we needed flower gardens I had no idea it was going to be such a chore. Because, every time I stomped the shovel into the soil it would hit a rock that I would dig it out put it into my Radio Flyer. When the wagon was full I would put the rocks in a pile hoping I would eventually have enough to outline the edges of my gardens.
Boy, did I have rocks. Some were boulders so big I had to end over end them just to get them out of the way. It would have been nice if someone had told me about the marsh and rocks, before all my labors, but by the time a neighbor did, my gardens were complete, and the Radio Flyer had been returned to the garage.
However, my wagon was never idle for long, for years it toted biannual yard debris, sand and dirt. It held logs from the cords of wood we bought for our wood burning stove and...those damnable rocks...every time we redesigned the landscape.
The Radio Flyer is old now (just like me) its rubber tires have rotted away, it has rust spots, and a bad paint job, too. Its handle is badly bent and the steering is shot to heck. Still, I can't bring myself to put it out for recycle, there is a great deal of history between us and hours and hours of labor, too. Plus, it's not mine to dispose. It belongs to my youngest daughter. I hope one day she wants it. All it really needs is a new set of tires and lots and lots of love.
Yep, we'd be all shined and polished, and off we would go, Radio Flyer in tow.
Now, for you young whipper-snappers who don't know what a Radio Flyer is, it is a wagon, bright red in color, and along the sides of it were the words Radio Flyer. The words had streaks running through it giving the allusion of speed. It was large enough to hold two kids, if the kid in back could figure out what to do with their legs.
As I mentioned, we didn't play with it much, but when we did I recall we could get up quite a bit of speed going down a hill, but we had to be careful because the only steering mechanism was the handle and if we turned too quickly left or right the wagon would tip over and driver and passenger ended up with skid marks on their arms and legs, and bits of gravel in their elbows.
Looking back, I can see the Flyer was really not a toy, it was indeed a tool. One we needed very much. Because, without that wagon we kids would have had to tote those heavy bags of groceries from Lopresti's all the way home. Thank you Radio Flyer.
I don't remember ever taking care of the Flyer, but I seem to recall it was always clean and carefully stored away in the garage always ready to fulfill its duty. It was a member of the family.
Jump decades ahead.
After we moved to the Pacific Northwest in the 70's, my husband and I bought our youngest daughter a Radio Flyer for Christmas. It was the same size as the one us siblings had growing up. I think the first year our kids used it, but over time it came to sit in the garage, under a bench. It sat, and sat, and sat.
A couple of years later when we bought the house, I put it into action, gave it life.
It turns out, when our house was built, it was constructed on top of a marsh, tons and tons and tons of rocks were brought in to fill in the marsh, and then tons and tons and tons of topsoil was brought in to cover up the rocks.
Being a transplant from California, I didn't know and was not told about the rocks, so when I decided we needed flower gardens I had no idea it was going to be such a chore. Because, every time I stomped the shovel into the soil it would hit a rock that I would dig it out put it into my Radio Flyer. When the wagon was full I would put the rocks in a pile hoping I would eventually have enough to outline the edges of my gardens.
Boy, did I have rocks. Some were boulders so big I had to end over end them just to get them out of the way. It would have been nice if someone had told me about the marsh and rocks, before all my labors, but by the time a neighbor did, my gardens were complete, and the Radio Flyer had been returned to the garage.
However, my wagon was never idle for long, for years it toted biannual yard debris, sand and dirt. It held logs from the cords of wood we bought for our wood burning stove and...those damnable rocks...every time we redesigned the landscape.
The Radio Flyer is old now (just like me) its rubber tires have rotted away, it has rust spots, and a bad paint job, too. Its handle is badly bent and the steering is shot to heck. Still, I can't bring myself to put it out for recycle, there is a great deal of history between us and hours and hours of labor, too. Plus, it's not mine to dispose. It belongs to my youngest daughter. I hope one day she wants it. All it really needs is a new set of tires and lots and lots of love.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Cookies, Pasta and Steak, oh.....my
So, there I was, hunched waaay over my keyboard, finger on mouse, and I'm scrolling down my facebook home page. Beautifully colored pictures delight my eye and cause my taste buds to come to life.
I've noticed over the last several months many friends have been posting recipes, most of them tend to run along the edge of being 'healthful', while some are...well, down right 'sinful'. Guess which one I lean toward?
Anyway, there I was hunched over...as Frankie enters the room.
Frankie: "Uuuuuuu, what's that?"
Me: "A cookie. A no-bake cookie."
Frankie: (Leaning in closer to the monitor) "Can we make those?"
Me: "We could if we had all the ingredients."
Frankie: "It says we can add whatever ingredients we want."
Me: "I know, but, it just so happens there's not much in our pantry at the moment."
Frankie hustles her body out of the office, I know she's on her way to the pantry. She's a non-believer. I know the 'pickin's are lean, but I call out "good luck" as she disappears down the dark hallway.
See, I know the problem with all these wonderful looking dishes, there are always items needed to make them that I do not have and never will have in my pantry. Plus, I'm not going to go out and buy them (especially herbs and spices) (Have you priced them lately?) when I know I'm only going to use them once. I've already jars of fenugreek, mustard seed, cardamom, juniper berries and turmeric that I bought years ago, used once and now sit with their lids covered with dust and flour particles.
Oh yes, those entrées, salads and desserts I'm looking at are tempting. So tempting.
But, I refuse to cave and give into to their siren call.
Rustle, rustle, shuffle, shuffle. It's Frankie back from her excursion to the pantry.
Frankie: "Look what I found!"
In her arms there's our box of instant oatmeal, raisins, shredded coconut, graham crackers and six of seven Payday candy bars. She is so pleased with herself, and the look on her face is like that of a child just before opening that first Christmas present.
I try to look enthusiastic, pleased with her finds and give her a lame smile.
Frankie: "What, what?"
Me: "These are great, Frankie...."
Frankie: "But..."
Me: "One very big, key ingredient is missing."
I hate being the bearer of bad news. She's looking at me as though I've burst her last balloon. She sighs, the kind she learned from me that's dredged up from the soles of her feet.
Frankie: "What?"
Me: "Chocolate, the agent that binds all these ingredients together. You melt it, stir in all the stuff, then put the cookies into the fridge to set. You've got to have chocolate."
I don't know what else to say. She stands there frozen in place, dejected. I try to make it better.
Me: "Well, actually, the ingredients we do have wouldn't make a very good cookie anyway. It would help if we had miniature marshmallows and candied fruits. Maybe some walnuts or almonds, too."
Her face brightened. "Maybe we could buy some of that stuff next time you order groceries."
I smile and nod. She leaves the room to return her treasures to the panty.
I return my gaze to my computer monitor...there is that beautiful, shiny, no-cook cookie. I scroll down through the day's entries. I wonder if there is a recipe for good, old-fashioned meatloaf there.
Damn recipes.
I've noticed over the last several months many friends have been posting recipes, most of them tend to run along the edge of being 'healthful', while some are...well, down right 'sinful'. Guess which one I lean toward?
Anyway, there I was hunched over...as Frankie enters the room.
Frankie: "Uuuuuuu, what's that?"
Me: "A cookie. A no-bake cookie."
Frankie: (Leaning in closer to the monitor) "Can we make those?"
Me: "We could if we had all the ingredients."
Frankie: "It says we can add whatever ingredients we want."
Me: "I know, but, it just so happens there's not much in our pantry at the moment."
Frankie hustles her body out of the office, I know she's on her way to the pantry. She's a non-believer. I know the 'pickin's are lean, but I call out "good luck" as she disappears down the dark hallway.
See, I know the problem with all these wonderful looking dishes, there are always items needed to make them that I do not have and never will have in my pantry. Plus, I'm not going to go out and buy them (especially herbs and spices) (Have you priced them lately?) when I know I'm only going to use them once. I've already jars of fenugreek, mustard seed, cardamom, juniper berries and turmeric that I bought years ago, used once and now sit with their lids covered with dust and flour particles.
Oh yes, those entrées, salads and desserts I'm looking at are tempting. So tempting.
But, I refuse to cave and give into to their siren call.
Rustle, rustle, shuffle, shuffle. It's Frankie back from her excursion to the pantry.
Frankie: "Look what I found!"
In her arms there's our box of instant oatmeal, raisins, shredded coconut, graham crackers and six of seven Payday candy bars. She is so pleased with herself, and the look on her face is like that of a child just before opening that first Christmas present.
I try to look enthusiastic, pleased with her finds and give her a lame smile.
Frankie: "What, what?"
Me: "These are great, Frankie...."
Frankie: "But..."
Me: "One very big, key ingredient is missing."
I hate being the bearer of bad news. She's looking at me as though I've burst her last balloon. She sighs, the kind she learned from me that's dredged up from the soles of her feet.
Frankie: "What?"
Me: "Chocolate, the agent that binds all these ingredients together. You melt it, stir in all the stuff, then put the cookies into the fridge to set. You've got to have chocolate."
I don't know what else to say. She stands there frozen in place, dejected. I try to make it better.
Me: "Well, actually, the ingredients we do have wouldn't make a very good cookie anyway. It would help if we had miniature marshmallows and candied fruits. Maybe some walnuts or almonds, too."
Her face brightened. "Maybe we could buy some of that stuff next time you order groceries."
I smile and nod. She leaves the room to return her treasures to the panty.
I return my gaze to my computer monitor...there is that beautiful, shiny, no-cook cookie. I scroll down through the day's entries. I wonder if there is a recipe for good, old-fashioned meatloaf there.
Damn recipes.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
I'm not, seriously, I'm not.
I'm not going to watch the Super Bowl. Seriously, I'm not. Don't care about the teams, don't care about the commercials, don't care about the 'super star' halftime, don't care, don't care. Matter of fact, I might not watch sporting events ever again. You will notice I didn't say 'never' because time and time again I've been told to "Never say never." Never is a long, long time.
Since sportsmanship has been spiraling downward over the last several years, I've become quite disillusioned. Not just with football, but all the other sports as well. I used to like hockey a lot. We have a team here, and as the kids were growing up it was the one sport we could afford to go to as a family. Great sport. You could count on some roughness, and an occasional 'throw of a punch', for which the player would spend some minutes in the penalty box.
As time went on the confrontations became more physical, helmets were knocked off, shirts almost ripped off a player's back. Blood was shed. Sometimes whole teams came off their benches and it was hard to officials to regain control.
It seemed to me the crowd liked the confrontations more than the game. I no longer enjoyed attending. Eventually, we stopped going.
I began to wonder if the fighting was encouraged on purpose, were the players instructed to (if the occasion presented itself) 'throw a punch' on purpose, to excite the crowd, and increase box office sales?
Over time I've found this kind of behavior has become acceptable. Professional Baseball is particularly known for teams "clearing the bench" to participate in a melee. I don't get it. Why is that necessary?
I hate when people say this, but, "I remember when players (of any sport), played for the love of the game." Not the money, not the fame, not the fortune, not for the fact they have come to be believe 'they are above the law' and can do what they darn well please. Now it seems it is acceptable to participate in spousal abuse, to try to get away with murder, to have countless sex partners and countless children out of wedlock, and...drug abuse is rampant, drinking and driving in a hundred thousand dollar sports car, brings nothing but a chuckle and slap on the wrist...unless there's a horrific accident and some one is killed. Yes, all the above are things that have soured me against sports...all sports.
Yet, these sports figures want us to have our children look up to them as role models? I don't think so.
I'm realistic enough to know I can't change society, that turning point is wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay long past, but I can change me. And I'm going to do that, and that is why I'm not going to watch the Super Bowl, or the Olympics, or just about any other sporting event any more.
So, have your party, watch the game, I hope it is filled with good sportsmanship and fair play. However, as for me, I'm going to watch the Kitten, and the Puppy Bowl. Those events sound much more enjoyable to me.
Since sportsmanship has been spiraling downward over the last several years, I've become quite disillusioned. Not just with football, but all the other sports as well. I used to like hockey a lot. We have a team here, and as the kids were growing up it was the one sport we could afford to go to as a family. Great sport. You could count on some roughness, and an occasional 'throw of a punch', for which the player would spend some minutes in the penalty box.
As time went on the confrontations became more physical, helmets were knocked off, shirts almost ripped off a player's back. Blood was shed. Sometimes whole teams came off their benches and it was hard to officials to regain control.
It seemed to me the crowd liked the confrontations more than the game. I no longer enjoyed attending. Eventually, we stopped going.
I began to wonder if the fighting was encouraged on purpose, were the players instructed to (if the occasion presented itself) 'throw a punch' on purpose, to excite the crowd, and increase box office sales?
Over time I've found this kind of behavior has become acceptable. Professional Baseball is particularly known for teams "clearing the bench" to participate in a melee. I don't get it. Why is that necessary?
I hate when people say this, but, "I remember when players (of any sport), played for the love of the game." Not the money, not the fame, not the fortune, not for the fact they have come to be believe 'they are above the law' and can do what they darn well please. Now it seems it is acceptable to participate in spousal abuse, to try to get away with murder, to have countless sex partners and countless children out of wedlock, and...drug abuse is rampant, drinking and driving in a hundred thousand dollar sports car, brings nothing but a chuckle and slap on the wrist...unless there's a horrific accident and some one is killed. Yes, all the above are things that have soured me against sports...all sports.
Yet, these sports figures want us to have our children look up to them as role models? I don't think so.
I'm realistic enough to know I can't change society, that turning point is wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay long past, but I can change me. And I'm going to do that, and that is why I'm not going to watch the Super Bowl, or the Olympics, or just about any other sporting event any more.
So, have your party, watch the game, I hope it is filled with good sportsmanship and fair play. However, as for me, I'm going to watch the Kitten, and the Puppy Bowl. Those events sound much more enjoyable to me.
Monday, January 27, 2014
I'm going out on a limb
I know this is going to sound 'nuts', but I'm going to write this anyway.
Yesterday I was in the pits...I was at the bottom of the ocean, sucking mud. Today I'm much better. But, I've been thinking.
You know how people (whoever they are) have been telling us that weather can affect our moods. I think that might be true.
I've been living here in the Pacific Northwest for decades now, and my body has (I'm pretty sure) prepared itself for what the winters are like, and I expect grey skies, weeks of rain, long lasting downpours, off and on showers, and drizzle, lots and lots of drizzle. My brain tells me this is going to happen and I expect it. I hum, de-dummm through the cloudy grey months. I'm okay with that.
This winter has been perhaps one of the strangest I've encountered since moving here. It has been unusually cold, unusually dry, unusually foggy, but most of all unusually sunny. Yes, I said that strange winter word...sunny.
I think the sun has screwed up my psyche, which according to my 'big book', is "1. relig. HUMAN SPIRIT the human spirit or soul. 2. phychol. HUMAN MIND the human mind as the center of thought and behavior."
I'm talking about #2 as in the sun has messed with my winter thought and behavior. I think my mind has convinced my thought and behavior it is summer. It should be warm and I should be outside not stuck indoors.
As a result my physical body wants, yearns to be outside soaking up that natural, wonderful warmth, and vitamin D, and my mind is telling me I should be doing that.
All the while my common sense is saying "That's ridiculous...it's cold, too damn cold to be outside...get a grip old woman." Hence, my conflict. I'm really screwed up.
I need help.
I think help just might be on the way. Because I was thrilled to see clouds when I opened my drapes this morning.
I think I've mentioned here I am trying to wean myself away from all those edjukated meterolgists on the television, who precisely tell me what to expect and when, only to be disappointed again and again. So much so that I've decided to go with the visual, 'what I sees, is what I gets'. However, I do check the weekly, very brief weather reviews on my favorite Internet weather site a couple mornings a week.
This morning was I pleased to see a string of those cute, puffy, grey clouds with rain drops falling out of them, they tell me I can (perhaps) expect lots and lots of grey skies, and chances of showers on and off over the week, whoop, whoop.
Geeze, you've no idea how I hope they are right, cause my psyche wants normal, it needs normal winter weather; although a good stiff drink might give it a boost, too.
And, there you have it. My wacky theory about my craziness of late. Has the strange weather in your neck of the woods been making you a bit wacky, too? Let me know, would you? Maybe I'll write a thesis about this.
Yesterday I was in the pits...I was at the bottom of the ocean, sucking mud. Today I'm much better. But, I've been thinking.
You know how people (whoever they are) have been telling us that weather can affect our moods. I think that might be true.
I've been living here in the Pacific Northwest for decades now, and my body has (I'm pretty sure) prepared itself for what the winters are like, and I expect grey skies, weeks of rain, long lasting downpours, off and on showers, and drizzle, lots and lots of drizzle. My brain tells me this is going to happen and I expect it. I hum, de-dummm through the cloudy grey months. I'm okay with that.
This winter has been perhaps one of the strangest I've encountered since moving here. It has been unusually cold, unusually dry, unusually foggy, but most of all unusually sunny. Yes, I said that strange winter word...sunny.
I think the sun has screwed up my psyche, which according to my 'big book', is "1. relig. HUMAN SPIRIT the human spirit or soul. 2. phychol. HUMAN MIND the human mind as the center of thought and behavior."
I'm talking about #2 as in the sun has messed with my winter thought and behavior. I think my mind has convinced my thought and behavior it is summer. It should be warm and I should be outside not stuck indoors.
As a result my physical body wants, yearns to be outside soaking up that natural, wonderful warmth, and vitamin D, and my mind is telling me I should be doing that.
All the while my common sense is saying "That's ridiculous...it's cold, too damn cold to be outside...get a grip old woman." Hence, my conflict. I'm really screwed up.
I need help.
I think help just might be on the way. Because I was thrilled to see clouds when I opened my drapes this morning.
I think I've mentioned here I am trying to wean myself away from all those edjukated meterolgists on the television, who precisely tell me what to expect and when, only to be disappointed again and again. So much so that I've decided to go with the visual, 'what I sees, is what I gets'. However, I do check the weekly, very brief weather reviews on my favorite Internet weather site a couple mornings a week.
This morning was I pleased to see a string of those cute, puffy, grey clouds with rain drops falling out of them, they tell me I can (perhaps) expect lots and lots of grey skies, and chances of showers on and off over the week, whoop, whoop.
Geeze, you've no idea how I hope they are right, cause my psyche wants normal, it needs normal winter weather; although a good stiff drink might give it a boost, too.
And, there you have it. My wacky theory about my craziness of late. Has the strange weather in your neck of the woods been making you a bit wacky, too? Let me know, would you? Maybe I'll write a thesis about this.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
I'm ill.
Oh my, this is terrible. I've a terrible malady. There is nothing worse for a writer than to suddenly have zero, naught, nil, zip, nada, to write about. Seriously, my mind is blank, my muse is off somewhere...maybe the Riviera, some sunny Greek Island, or The South Pacific snorkeling among exotic fish and beautiful coral...and I'm left here all alone. An empty shell.
There is no medication known to man that can heal me. I've been resorting to home remedies like splashing cold water on my face, and Frankie has been slapping my cheeks with some white gloves, encouraging me to duel with her, reminding me there's a 50% chance I'll lose, and never have to write another word again.
(Well, that's just plain mean!)
However, she does have a good point. To write or not to write another word again is in my hands, without having to resort to violence. All I have to do is stop writing right here and now.
I've had Writer's Block before, but have always been able to pull myself out of my slump and move on. This morning is different.
Over the last week I've been overcome with emotional issues. I've become disillusioned with sports, disgusted with celebrities, disheartened with society in general. I want to scream and yell, I want to pour out my soul in the sorrow. I feel as though I've been bound to a stake, in the center of a mound of twigs and sticks, all that's necessary is for someone to come along and set them and me on fire.
The joy of writing about good news, the excitement of having learned something unusual and rare, or even the silliness of my life seems all for naught. There is no joy in Joyville today folks. I'm sick. I'm sad. I'm disappointed. I think for the first time in my life, my glass is less than half full, and I no clue what's happened to my rose colored glasses.
So, that's it for today. I'm going off to wallow.
There is no medication known to man that can heal me. I've been resorting to home remedies like splashing cold water on my face, and Frankie has been slapping my cheeks with some white gloves, encouraging me to duel with her, reminding me there's a 50% chance I'll lose, and never have to write another word again.
(Well, that's just plain mean!)
However, she does have a good point. To write or not to write another word again is in my hands, without having to resort to violence. All I have to do is stop writing right here and now.
I've had Writer's Block before, but have always been able to pull myself out of my slump and move on. This morning is different.
Over the last week I've been overcome with emotional issues. I've become disillusioned with sports, disgusted with celebrities, disheartened with society in general. I want to scream and yell, I want to pour out my soul in the sorrow. I feel as though I've been bound to a stake, in the center of a mound of twigs and sticks, all that's necessary is for someone to come along and set them and me on fire.
The joy of writing about good news, the excitement of having learned something unusual and rare, or even the silliness of my life seems all for naught. There is no joy in Joyville today folks. I'm sick. I'm sad. I'm disappointed. I think for the first time in my life, my glass is less than half full, and I no clue what's happened to my rose colored glasses.
So, that's it for today. I'm going off to wallow.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Am I having fun yet?
Seriously, there are not enough hours in the day.
Yet, it seems I waste quite a bit of it.
I'm thinking about printing out a schedule, you know, 8AM personal hygiene, dress, etc. 10:30 coffee break. 1PM, quit work have lunch, and so on and so forth. Maybe then I could then accomplish everything I want to get done every day.
Of course each week, each month would be different. That would mean I would have to adapt (waste time) rewriting my schedule every single month and how time consuming would that be?
For instance this month, I'm gathering together all the paperwork I'm going to need for state and federal taxes and going through last year's files, shredding those I no longer need and setting up the empty 2013 files for this year's bills, receipts, and miscellaneous paperwork, too. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
I hate it, I hate all of it. However, I know this is all necessary since my fear of making mistakes on my taxes and having the state and/or the IRS coming after me is enough to MAKE me work through the hate. So every year January is a very ugly time.
Then, of course, if you recall I mentioned a few days ago I want to start an exercise program. Baaaaa, haaaaaa, haaaaa. So far I've exercised twice. Oh, it's not that I don't have the time in the evening, as I'm vegging on the sofa every night. It's just getting my lazy 'you know what' off that damn sofa to begin with. That's hard!!!!!
I'm also working just about every day (including weekends and some nights) designing merchandise. I can't really complain about that because the time spent on this activity is the best part of my days. They say if you are doing what you love it's not really work and I find that to be true, I just hope some day I make a little money at it.
Then of course, there's the miscellaneous stuff that happens every day. The trip to the mail box, the weeds that catch my eye on the way back to the front door. The rose bush I have to trim because my gardener neglected to do it. It seems there is always something outside of my daily schedule calling to me.
I remember a conversation I had with my husband. I told him our retirement was not what I expected it to be. He asked what I meant. And, I replied, I though we would have traveled, gone places, seen things. Brought home treasures.
His reply was "Why would you have thought that? And he made his way out the door to his part time job.
I sighed.
Sadly, now I have no desire to see exotic places...well, except for a few...and it appears I am following in his footsteps by working now myself. I feel I am living my own "Green Acres", trying to accomplish something, but not really achieving anything. Like Oliver Wendell Douglas, I've got door knobs falling off, closet doors that fall to the floor, and poles to climb to use the phone.
I wish I could spend my days Like Lisa Douglas, in swishy, chiffon dressing gowns doing 'out of the ordinary' things ladies of leisure do. Maybe then I'd get rid of the mind set that I must be doing something, and it wouldn't matter I'm wasting time. Till then, I need help...somebody, anybody.
Yet, it seems I waste quite a bit of it.
I'm thinking about printing out a schedule, you know, 8AM personal hygiene, dress, etc. 10:30 coffee break. 1PM, quit work have lunch, and so on and so forth. Maybe then I could then accomplish everything I want to get done every day.
Of course each week, each month would be different. That would mean I would have to adapt (waste time) rewriting my schedule every single month and how time consuming would that be?
For instance this month, I'm gathering together all the paperwork I'm going to need for state and federal taxes and going through last year's files, shredding those I no longer need and setting up the empty 2013 files for this year's bills, receipts, and miscellaneous paperwork, too. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
I hate it, I hate all of it. However, I know this is all necessary since my fear of making mistakes on my taxes and having the state and/or the IRS coming after me is enough to MAKE me work through the hate. So every year January is a very ugly time.
Then, of course, if you recall I mentioned a few days ago I want to start an exercise program. Baaaaa, haaaaaa, haaaaa. So far I've exercised twice. Oh, it's not that I don't have the time in the evening, as I'm vegging on the sofa every night. It's just getting my lazy 'you know what' off that damn sofa to begin with. That's hard!!!!!
I'm also working just about every day (including weekends and some nights) designing merchandise. I can't really complain about that because the time spent on this activity is the best part of my days. They say if you are doing what you love it's not really work and I find that to be true, I just hope some day I make a little money at it.
Then of course, there's the miscellaneous stuff that happens every day. The trip to the mail box, the weeds that catch my eye on the way back to the front door. The rose bush I have to trim because my gardener neglected to do it. It seems there is always something outside of my daily schedule calling to me.
I remember a conversation I had with my husband. I told him our retirement was not what I expected it to be. He asked what I meant. And, I replied, I though we would have traveled, gone places, seen things. Brought home treasures.
His reply was "Why would you have thought that? And he made his way out the door to his part time job.
I sighed.
Sadly, now I have no desire to see exotic places...well, except for a few...and it appears I am following in his footsteps by working now myself. I feel I am living my own "Green Acres", trying to accomplish something, but not really achieving anything. Like Oliver Wendell Douglas, I've got door knobs falling off, closet doors that fall to the floor, and poles to climb to use the phone.
I wish I could spend my days Like Lisa Douglas, in swishy, chiffon dressing gowns doing 'out of the ordinary' things ladies of leisure do. Maybe then I'd get rid of the mind set that I must be doing something, and it wouldn't matter I'm wasting time. Till then, I need help...somebody, anybody.
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