I Just Don’t Wanna Do It

Isn’t it nice when you find out a friend shares a crazy quirk you have?  Somehow relating to someone else makes it feel a bit less crazy, right?

I just learned that one of my closest friends hates to pump gas as much as I do.  I love her even more for this!

I can’t really explain why I hate pumping gas.  It’s not like it’s a difficult or challenging task.  Not even really particularly time-consuming.  It just annoys me.  The whole process of having to stop whatever I’m doing or wherever I’m going, get out of the car, go inside to pay, pump the gas, smell like gas, blah, blah, blah.

Of course, pay-at-the-pump makes it easier.  Easier for me to pay and be done quickly.  And easier for crooks to steal my credit card or debit card information.  Aargh.

As a result of my aversion to pumping gas, I never stand there long enough to fill it up.  Which is completely stupid, since filling half the tank only leads to making even more pump stops.

I have the indicator light down to a science.  As soon as the “empty” light comes on, I reset the trip odometer to zero.  Then I know I have about 46 miles to go.  And I push it right to the limit every single time.

I’ve only run out once (thank you MJ for coming to my rescue!).  Although, I think I was traveling on fumes and angel wings one morning when I was still teaching.  I stopped to get gas on the way to school, about 40 miles into my red light.  I went inside for a Diet Coke morning caffeine fix, paid for my gas, and left.  About halfway to school, I noticed the blazing red light and wondered how on earth the red light was on when I had just pumped…ooooohhhhhhh….that was when I realized I paid for the gas but didn’t actually pump it.  (Something I am embarrassed to admit has happened probably five times in my driving life!)

I called the store number on the receipt, and luckily, the cashier had seen me leave and shut off my pump so no one else got my gas.  However, I was now closer to 50 miles into the red light.  I knew I couldn’t make it to school and then back to the station after school, so I called the school secretary to say I needed someone to cover my homeroom and coasted back to the gas station on a wing and a prayer.

One would think I would be intelligent enough to realize that all this causes way more stress than just filling up the car with gas to start with.  I never said it was an intelligent or rational quirk, though!  In fact, I think most quirks are by definition irrational.

I have a friend who hated to check the mail.  Absolutely abhorred it.  Dreaded it so much she planned other things to do in order to avoid it.  Her mail would pile up in the mailbox and the mail lady would end up bringing things to the door.  I asked if she was worried about bills or hated dealing with junk mail.  But no.  She just hated going to the box and going through the mail.

A fellow teacher extremely disliked putting away laundry.  She would wash it, fold it, and stack it.  All over the house.  And then she would find what she needed to wear in the stacks of clothes.  She said she tried stacking them on the bed once to encourage actually putting them away, but she slept on the couch for three nights in a row before she finally just moved the stacks.

Another friend cannot stand going grocery shopping.  She puts it off to the last day possible, and even wakes up that morning in a bad mood knowing she has to go to the store. That one I don’t relate to….I actually LOVE going to the grocery store.  It’s like shopping with permission to buy without guilt!  In fact, I did all the grocery shopping for my mom when I was in high school, and we both loved it.

I also was in charge of unloading the dishwasher since my mom hated doing that.  She didn’t mind loading it, but didn’t want to unload it.  She jokes that me unloading the dishwasher was what she missed the most when I left for college.  (At least I think she was joking! Ha!)

What is it that makes a seemingly mundane, easy-to-accomplish task become so loathsome and repulsive?  Why do we hate something and build it up to add more stress to our lives than if we just went ahead and did it?

I’m curious to know if anyone shares my issue with pumping gas.  If not, what is your quirk?  What is it that you absolutely hate to do and will put off doing way beyond the point of reason?  What chore or task drives you mad?  Maybe you have something your partner, roommate, or spouse does for you just because you can’t stand to do it?

Years ago, I took my great-aunt shopping for the day.  On our way home, I pulled into the gas station and asked which side of the car her tank was on.  She looked at me, dumbfounded, and admitted she had no idea.  SHE HAD NEVER PUMPED GAS A SINGLE TIME IN HER LIFE.  N-E-V-E-R.  E-V-E-R.  My uncle took her car each week and filled it for her, and had for nearly half a century.  I was green with envy.  (Are you reading this, My Knight?  Hint, hint.)

So come on, people.  Confess.  What’s your quirk?


Categories: Random Rain | Tags: , | 8 Comments

Accidental Pasta in Yonkers

adventure, fly, wing in the sun, wing and a prayer

Okay, so I’m NOT a morning person.  My brain doesn’t fire on all cylinders prior to 9am, and if you get me up before daylight, it’s like waking the beast.

On a recent quest to find a great airfare deal for a family wedding in Connecticut, I booked a 7am flight.  Which meant arriving to the airport around 5:30-5:45.  Which meant leaving the house at 5-5:15.  Which meant getting up while the clock was still in the 4’s.  Which is insanity.

We packed the car the night before to minimize the need for early morning brain activity.  While I showered and dressed in zombie mode, My Loving Knight took care of the dogs and made breakfast for us.  He even had my breakfast waiting in the car for me!  We rolled onto airport property at 5:45am.  Cutting it close, but enough time that early in the morning.

Somewhere in the fog swirling around my brain, I heard my Knight say, “Did you grab my wallet?”

I panicked in slow motion, staring at him wide-eyed and cursing myself for forgetting his wallet and throwing our whole trip in jeopardy.  But then my brain slowly caught up and said, “Wait a minute……”

adventure, fly, wing in the sun, wing and a prayer

Finally, it’s daylight!

“Did you ask me to grab your wallet?”  He hadn’t, but in the early morning hours, he was clinging to a hope that I might have.

He screeched to a halt near the elevator in the garage and told me to go to the ticket desk and get us a later flight and while he returned home for his wallet.

I couldn’t think.  Couldn’t process.  Couldn’t reason or problem solve.  The world was soft-focus slow motion. I got out of the car like he told me to, still not sure what was happening.

The patient man at the JetBlue counter (who has to actually be at work and functioning BEFORE daylight!) explained the next flight to Hartford would be after 4 that afternoon.  That wouldn’t work.  We would lose the entire day and miss out on visiting with our dear friends and my husband’s aunt.

I asked if they could get me anywhere in the Tri-State area.  Newark, White Plains, NYC.  Anywhere within driving distance of our final destination for the day, which was in New York.  We settled a  10:20 flight to Newark, which would put us to our friends’ house early afternoon instead of late morning.  Disappointing, but unavoidable.

My ticket was a simple $50 change fee.  My Knight’s had been booked with award points.  Non-refundable, non-changeable, sealed in concrete.

I begged.  I pleaded.  I may have teared up.  Mr. JetBlue made calls.  He begged and pleaded.  He got results.  Another $50 and My Knight’s flight was changed.

It still wasn’t daylight.

I sat in a waiting area shell-shocked, half-asleep, and still in slow motion.  As I rearranged our itinerary in my head, I remembered we had gotten a great deal for a rental car on Priceline.  We pre-paid for pick-up in Connecticut.  Which brought me to the next non-refundable, non-changeable, sealed in concrete obstacle.

No amount of begging and pleading could change the rental car reservation, so I figured we’d just have to eat that cost and book another rental in Newark.  With the two $50 change fees and the $100 rental car loss, we were already $200 in the hole.  And it WASN’T EVEN DAYLIGHT.

It was worse than I thought, though. The cheapest rental I could find for same-day pick-up, over a weekend, with a drop-off in a different state was $750. Now I was definitely awake.

I went back to the ticket counter, meek and humble, to ask if I could change my tickets AGAIN to the later Hartford flight so I could keep my original rental car.  Mr. JetBlue was on break. The not-so-nice lady at the station next to his, (who seemed just as excited as I was to be up so early), called him in the break room and on the phone and cheerfully said, “She’s back.  She wants to change her tickets again.”  I could almost hear him groan.

Mine was no problem.  Well, it was another $50 change fee on top of the one I’d already paid.  My Knight’s ticket?  No can-do.  You can only change a non-refundable, non-changeable, sealed in concrete ticket one time.  He was flying into Newark no matter what.

I couldn’t think.  I needed a Diet Coke.  And more sleep.  Part of me wanted to be furious with My Knight, but I was very aware of the many times that man has shown me mercy, grace, and understanding when I’ve made stupid mistakes.  Plus, there was a bit of a disparity in responsibilities that morning, which could have led to one partner forgetting his wallet while the other partner simply showered and got in the car to find her breakfast waiting for her.  Ahem.

In hindsight and daylight, I should have flown to Connecticut on our original flight and picked up our original rental car to drive to wherever My Knight landed.  It would have saved time, money, and stress.  But I couldn’t come up with such an elaborate plan when it was still dark out.

road trip, Connecticut, New YorkSo we landed in Newark.  Did a one-day one-way car rental and drove about two hours to Hartford, Connecticut.  Picked up the original rental car. Dropped off the one-way rental car.  Timing put us in rush hour traffic so getting out of Hartford took FOR-E-VAH.  We would have made better time and a whole lot less travel, wear and tear if we’d taken the later Hartford flight to begin with.  We probably would have liked each other a whole lot more at the end of the day as well.

We left home BEFORE DAYLIGHT and we reached our destination AFTER DAYLIGHT.  Ten hours later than planned.

But hey.

We got there.  Safe and sound.

Forgetting the wallet wasn’t fun.  But as with all things in life, it’s how you react to it.  How you look at it.  What you take away from it.

I learned that Connecticut is a beautiful state to drive through.  When we finally did arrive, we had an incredible dinner with our friends — good food, good company, lots of love.  I got an unexpected view of the Manhattan skyline.  Always a treat.

And My Knight and I shared a quaint little lunch together.  In Yonkers.  Accidental pasta in Yonkers.  Life is good.

Categories: Journeys and Travels, Random Rain | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

Happy Mother’s Day to the Other Mother

It’s Mother’s Day, and I feel so honored and grateful for having the privilege of being a Mom, especially since I get to be Dr. Smooth’s mom.  He really is an incredible kid, and I thank God for such an awesome gift.  But I also thank God for another really cool gift, and that is Dr. Smooth’s OTHER MOM.  His dad and I really hit the jackpot with that one.

It has been said that being a mother is the hardest job in the world.  I definitely do not want to dispute that, but there is one job that is quite possibly a tad bit harder than being a mom, and that is being a stepmom.   And unless you have been a stepmom, you have no idea.  I could try to explain why, but if you’re not a stepmom, you won’t get it, and if you are a stepmom, I don’t need to explain.

So I want to very publicly acknowledge and thank my kid’s stepmom for being one of the biggest blessings in his life.  And mine.

From the very beginning, she has had his best interests at heart.  She cut right through the tension between his father and me to put my son at the forefront and create a family unit for him that bridged both households to provide him with stability, love, and consistency.   Her viewpoint was that Dr. Smooth didn’t ask for his family to be split into two homes, and we owed it to him to work together and be one family.  His family.

She and I threw ourselves into that goal, and I am so proud and happy to say that we have accomplished it.  Althoughstepmom, Mother's Day all four of his parents are very much on board, it is largely because of her willingness and her efforts that my child grew up in such a stable environment.  We have always held his birthday parties together so he doesn’t have to choose or be torn.  We trick or treat together so he doesn’t have to choose or be away from the people he loves.  We make every effort to ensure if family members are in town, he sees them and spends time with them — no matter whose “day” it is.  We work with each other on booking vacations, concerts, parties, recitals–whatever it takes to make sure he doesn’t miss out in either home and can fully take part in whatever his family is doing — no matter which house it’s at.

When his dad comes to pick up, he comes in and visits.  When I pick up, Dr. Smooth usually has to usher me out of the house because she and I are talking so long.  If he is “in trouble” at one house, he is “in trouble” at the other house.

mother's dayWhen she and Dr. Smooth’s dad welcomed their first child, I gave her a card expressing from my heart that she and I are forever joined.  Our children share blood; they are brother and sister.  We are forever connected.  And as their family has increased and multiplied, so has mine.  My heart has been expanded and blessed by her children being in my life and in my son’s life.  My Knight and I cherish and love those kids as our own, and we strive to be a part of their lives and support them in their endeavors.  They are our family.  And we are theirs.

It is not unusual in our family for us to pick up Dr. Smooth’s brother or sisters from school or dance lessons, or delight in having them stay with us overnight. It is not unusual for Dr. Smooth to go to a concert with both of his moms, or a BMX bike show with both of his dads.  It is not unusual for My Knight to help out painting a home for the other mom’s parents, or for Dr. Smooth’s dad to come and help My Knight with a project.  It is not unusual for the two moms to take off together for a girls’ night out, or to help each other out with a task.  It is not unusual in our family to go to church together, sit together, serve together.

I do realize this is unusual for most people.  People ask us all the time,  “How do you do it?”  And I understand that everyone does not have what we have.  For some people, there is to0 much pain, too much bitterness or anger or fear or wounds that haven’t healed.  I get that.  In fact, I appreciate what we have been able to accomplish all the more because I truly do get that.

A friend told me once there is no way she would be able to handle some other woman trying to be her kid’s mom.  But I don’t see it like that.  She is not trying to be his mom; she is being his stepmom.  His other mom.  I am Dr. Smooth’s mother, and nothing will ever change that.  I know that his love for me and my relationship with  him is not changed by his love for any other. He is lucky enough to have another mom, a bonus mom, and I thank God that she loves him too, and that he loves her.  I am forever grateful for that.

For me, it has been a huge comfort as a mom to know that when he is away from me, someone is watching over him who loves him very much.  Someone who is looking out for his best interests and working hard to give him what he needs to be a successful human being.  Someone who works with me to teach him manners and morals and ethics.  Someone who helps to provide experiences to enrich his life, whether it be guitar lessons or concerts or scuba training.

And there is actually a really cool upside to having another mom.  We all call our friends to bounce ideas off them when making decisions or facing challenges with our kids, but I am lucky enough to have a friend who actually parents the same exact kid, so I always have someone to talk to who really understands what I am going through! When she makes decisions for him in her household, I know she respects and weighs my opinions along with hers, and I appreciate that.  And even when we might disagree or don’t feel the same way about things, we respect each other and love each other and him enough to work through it and move beyond it.

I really believe that because of her and the person she is, we have been able to create the best possible situation for my kid under the circumstances.

He has parents in both homes who love him and want what’s best for him.  He does not have the tension that so many children of divorce have to suffer through.  He does not know or understand that.  He is completely comfortable being with any of us or all of us at the same time.  For him, we are all his family, and we all love him.  And that is all he needs to know.

So today I just want to say Happy Mother’s Day to a woman whom I am honored to call my friend and my co-mom.  Thank you, MaryJane.  I love you.  

stepmother, mother's day



Categories: Random Rain | 5 Comments

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm: Saturday Through My Lens

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm Today is a rainy, dreary Saturday, so I’m going to turn the clock back to last weekend for this week’s Saturday Through My Lens at the Sweetwater Organic Community Farm in Tampa.  

I learned about the farm from a flyer I got at the Cuban Sandwich Festival in Ybor City.  The olive lady gave it to me while she was convincing me to try her black olive salad, even though I detest black olives.  (She challenged me to try it, and I must admit it was delish!)

The Sweetwater Organic Community Farm’s Sunday Farmer’s Market sounded like the perfect weekend outing for My Knight and me. They feature several area vendors with handmade crafts and yummy things like fresh baked bread and smoothies.  And of course there is lots of fresh organic produce.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm fresh organic produce

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm organic green beans

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm fresh squash

 I’ve been making a lot of smoothies at home, incorporating different fruits and veggies.  I really like adding kale to my smoothies, so we picked up a bunch at the market.  One of the market vendors had a smoothie with kale, celery, cucumber, pineapple, honey and ginger.  It was so refreshing!  I never thought of adding celery before, but I will now.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm fresh kale

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm Kale

In addition to the smoothies, we also tried a salt caramel popsicle (heavenly!).  We got all adventurous and tried our first nut burger, which was actually very tasty.  I’ve been looking for recipes to recreate one at home.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm nut burger

The farm has members who pay an annual fee in exchange for a weekly share of fresh produce and herbs.  They also agree to volunteer a minimum number of hours on the farm so that the work is shared among the community.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm fresh organic produce

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm

The weather was perfect for a farmer’s market day.  It was bright and cheerfully sunny with a bit of a breeze.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm

It got quite warm as the day wore on, but the majestic oak trees gave us plenty of cool shade for relaxing and listening to the live music from local bands and singers.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm Oaks

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm

Even the sunflowers seemed to be seeking out shade to get a little break from the spring sun.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm sunflowers

While other plants seem to be stretching with all their might to soak up as much sun as possible.

Sweetwater Organic Community Farm

Sweetwater Organic Community FarmI am so thankful for the farmers who put in all the hard work so we can have fresh healthy food.  Because Lord knows I do not have a green thumb on either hand!

Sweetwater Organic Community FarmBut all these goodies make me want to try my hand at it myself!  You should visit Sweetwater Organic Community Farm’s Sunday Market before they’re closed for the summer.  The Farmer’s Market is open on Sundays from 12-4pm from November to May.  Maybe I’ll see you there!

Categories: Journeys and Travels, Through My Lens | Tags: , , , , , , | 4 Comments

It’s Easter. Choose Love.

It’s Easter y’all.  And that means Choose Love.

Every day we are faced with hundreds and hundreds of choices.  Some choices are trivial, seemingly meaningless, and others are life-changing.  In all of these, no matter how mundane or significant, we ultimately make a choice based in love or fear.

Think about it.

Fear of failing.  Fear of losing. Fear of being last.  Fear of being alone.  Fear of being less than.  Fear of not being enough.  We make choices based on our fears of what other people will think, or how they will treat us, or what they will do.  We choose things based on our fears of the unknown, the uncertain, the unpleasant, the unwanted.

Choices that we make in fear manifest in anger, manipulation, discrimination, neglect, gossip, envy, hurt, lies, revenge, back-stabbing, meanness, and self-centeredness.  All of these take us away from God.  Away from our Higher Power.  Away from our Highest Self.

Choices made in love manifest in kindness, compassion, forgiveness, understanding, patience, empathy, tenderness, respect, gentleness, and concern for others.  Love is always the choice that takes us closer to God.  Closer to Godliness.  Love is always the Higher Choice.  Love is always the God-choice.

In the Christian faith, we celebrate Easter to commemorate and remember the death and resurrection of Jesus.  He chose love.  Without fail.  Without exception.  Above the law, he chose love.  Above society’s norms, he chose love.  Above his own safety and suffering, he chose love.  Above the loss of friends and family, he chose love.  Above his own will and his own fears, he chose love.  Even above death.  He chose love in the ultimate sacrifice any human being can offer, giving his life for others.

He was our example, our teacher, our way-shower.  And he taught us to choose love.  In fact, it was his greatest commandment for us to fulfill.

“Love one another.  In the same way I loved you, you love one another.  This is how everyone will recognize that you are my disciples–when they see the love you have for each other.” John 13:34-35 MSG

So on Easter, I am reminded to Choose Love.

When I am in heavy traffic, or the lines at Publix are unbelievably long, I am to choose love.  When I am at work, and others annoy the crap out of me or take credit for something they didn’t do, I am to choose love.  When I disagree with someone–their decisions, their actions, their life–I am still to choose love.  When I have been hurt, when I have been wronged, I am to choose love.  When I am tired, or hungry, or short on funds or time, I am still to choose love.

In all things, choose love.

In the way you treat family and friends, choose love.  In the way you treat strangers, choose love.  In the way you treat those different from you, choose love.

If you need to have a difficult conversation with someone, choose love in your words and approach.  If you need to set boundaries or distance yourself from someone, choose love in your method and your actions.

In each decision you make throughout your day, ask yourself: Which is the love choice?  Which is the higher choice?  Which is the God-choice?  And choose love.  Whether that is as small as letting in the idiot driver that waited til the very last minute to cut in, or not groaning when the British family doesn’t see the “10 items or less” sign at Publix, or whether it is as big as offering forgiveness for a blatant wrong or extending kindness to someone who  may not deserve it in your eyes.  In all things, Choose Love.

It may be hard to fathom, but we must also choose love for ourselves.  When we pick what foods to eat, how much sleep to get, or whether or not we have time to exercise.  Choose love when it comes to learning when to say no, or protecting yourself from people who suck the life out of you.  Choose love when it comes to relationships and people who make it hard for you to be healthy.  You have to choose love in how you treat them, but you also have to choose it for yourself.  You are best able to help others when you are healthy first.

I cannot really fathom how difficult it must have been to live His life.  I have no way to measure the pain of being whipped, crowned with thorns, beaten, and crucified.  I really have nothing in my life, even at my worst of times, to relate to what all Jesus encountered, endured, and witnessed.  And there is definitely nothing I have ever had to sacrifice or give up that would come anywhere close to what He willingly did.  After all, He was the Son of God.  The most powerful human being to ever walk the Earth.  Angels and heavens and universe at His command.  And yet, He chose love.

Others around us will recognize Him when they see the love. So it must be my daily mantra, my inner dialogue, my driving motivation, and my ever-renewing goal.


Categories: Random Rain | Tags: , , , | 8 Comments

Food Quirks: What Weirds You Out?

Okay, I know you’ve got one—what’s your weirdest food quirk?  Like something you can’t eat or won’t eat for some freaky reason?

I have several, and last week I found out that a long-time friend whom I respect and admire greatly shares one of my food quirks, which made me feel strangely validated and understood!  Our little secret–We cannot eat meat on the bone!

Deep-Fried Turkey Thanksgiving DayNo gnawing on a chicken leg for me! Totally disgusting, and I just can’t do it.  I am all about the boneless, skinless breast, and even then if one of those awful little veins pops or protrudes from the meat, I am D-O-N-E eating.

I love the nice, white slices of turkey on Thanksgiving, but please don’t ever ask me to help or watch while you’re carving the meat away from the big ole carcass.  Blech.

Going to the Magic Kingdom and watching people walking around gnashing their teeth on a huge turkey leg is barbaric!  And to see a huge leg of beef sticking up in the air on a carving board at a restaurant or catered event grosses me out completely.

Once we went to a dinner show where they served Cornish hens.  Oh My Lord.  It looked like a dead baby chicken laid out on its back in the middle of my plate.  I panicked for a moment, but luckily I am married to a bonafide Knight in Shining Armor, so that wonderful man quickly took the plate, turned his back to me, and picked off the best meat and gave it back to me.  (I never asked where he hid the bones, but I’m pretty sure they were on a bread and butter plate under the table.)

I’m actual pretty freaky about meat all the way around, which probably explains why I lean more and more toward Honey-Baked HamThanksgiving Daypescatarian the older I get.  Quite often I cannot eat meat if I have handled it raw and watched (and smelled) it cooking. The smell is a big thing.  If meat has a certain pungent smell or taste that is really, well, MEATY, I can’t eat it.  Especially pork.  Sometimes it has what I call a “pigginess”.  And I can’t eat “piggy” meat.

I hated fish when I was younger, but as I get older, I find more and more ways that fish is prepared that I really like.  However, if it smells “fishy” or tastes “fishy”, I lose my appetite.  (I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do tuna in a can.) So when I start to eat a fish dish, I am very careful and tentative at first, waiting apprehensively for any hint of overbearing fish odor or taste.

I’m also freaky about eggs.  I don’t particularly care for the taste of eggs.  So I’ll eat eggs that are scrambled in cheese or wrapped around plenty of omelet ingredients, but if I can TASTE the actual eggs involved, I’m out.  My poor Knight makes French toast for breakfast, but if there’s too much egg on the bread, he has to eat my slices because I’m done once I taste the egg.

Milk has to be consumed before the date on the jug.  Not a day after.  And if milk “crusties” have dried up around the rim or outside of the jug, count me out.   No “crusties” in my milk.  And the milk has to be really, really cold. Lukewarm or room temperature milk reminds me too much of drinking fresh cow’s milk that got brought in the house straight from the animal’s belly when I was a kid.  Gag.

Sometimes it’s something that I actually like the taste of, but I can’t get past a mental quirk.  For instance, I tried frog legs once, and they’re right–it tastes like chicken!  But no matter how much I liked the taste of it, with every bite my mind was picturing a frog and seeing a humongous frog jumping through the air, legs extended all muscular and chewy and yep! Right there, I was done.

It can even be a food I really like.  I love shrimp! Shrimp po’boys, shrimp creole, shrimp alfredo, fried shrimp, broiled shrimp, garlic shrimp, coconut shrimp, shrimp etoufee  (sorry–was channeling Bubba for a moment).  But sometimes the act of peeling the shell of the shrimp and deveining it reminds me that I am basically eating a bug, and suddenly it’s much less appetizing.  And if you bring me the big king prawns with the eyeballs still on their little antennae, it’s all-she-wrote and I’m through with dinner.

Sometimes our food quirks are more rituals or habits.  Many people, including Dr. Smooth, do not allow their foods to mix or touch on the plate.  And I tend to taste everything on the plate, but then eat my least favorite item first, saving my favorite to savor last.

My Knight does not sprinkle the salt directly on his food but instead sprinkles it in and around the general vicinity of his hand (mostly on the table) and then tosses a portion of what made it in his hand in the general direction of his food, almost like he’s casting a spell or incantation with it.

What about portions?  If you have milk left over after the cereal, do you pour more cereal to make it even out?  If you run out of bread and there’s pasta left, do you have to just leave it on the plate?  Or are you like My Knight who has to carefully ration out his fries so that every bite of burger has an adequate fry-count to accompany it?

Textures anyone?  I have friends who can’t do pudding or yogurt because it’s too slimy. Some say no coconut because it’s too grainy or they forego grits and oatmeal– too lumpy.  People who like raw vegetables may hate the changes veggies undergo when cooked.  Limp spinach?  Droopy asparagus? Some say no.

I generally love mushrooms in all shapes, sizes, and forms.  But a truffle dish in Italy with ‘shrooms the consistency of thick snot almost signed me off these mellow fellows for life.  I love coconut, but tried coconut water and couldn’t stomach the “chunks” in it.

I’m very thankful to have plenty to eat and beyond that plenty of choices, really I am.  I am extremely thankful to live in a country where my daily meal plan doesn’t consist of bugs or intestines or monkey brains.  But I do have my quirks.  And I know I am not alone…..so come on.  Cough it up—what’s your food quirk?  (Speaking of which, does anyone feel a little nauseous when someone vigorously coughs at the table while you’re trying to eat?)  Spill the beans, folks. What freaks you out and ruins your appetite?

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Harvey at the Beach and My Butt on a Bike

SSShhhhhhh! Don’t tell My Knight, but I actually had a great time camping in Harvey this weekend! No, really, I did!

flying a kite, Jetty Park Campground, Cocoa Beach

Flying a kite with Harvey

We went over to Cocoa Beach to camp at Jetty Park for My Knight’s birthday weekend.  I am always a bit apprehensive about a Harvey weekend and the amount of work that entails.  I still (even after this weekend) maintain that camping is too much work to be called a vacation, but it is getting a bit easier the more we do it.

One of my beefs with camping is that you have to pack up everything you will possibly need, load it into the camper, take it to the campground, unpack it and organize it for access, and then at the end of the trip, you get to pack it all back up again, and bring it home to unpack it.

I prefer a hotel or a cruise, where I just pack my suitcase and someone else worries about all the other details.

Luckily, we are getting to a point with Harvey where the packing is not as much of a hassle as before.  We have a “camper set” of towels, sheets, dishes, silverware, pots, skillets, etc., that lives in the camper so it doesn’t have to be packed every time.

The meal planning and food packing stresses me to the hilt.  I mean, if I can’t stand to figure out what’s for dinner in my own kitchen with a full pantry, how am I supposed to figure it out ahead of time and bring every single thing needed to prepare it?

But my incredible Knight offered for us to walk to a nearby restaurant for dinner Friday night and then bike to a pizza place for lunch on Saturday.  Can this man get any more wonderful?  So I only had to come up with breakfast (cereal anyone?) and dinner for Saturday night (how about leftover pizza?) and I was all set.

Jetty Park campground was really nice–horseshoe pits, shuffleboard courts, a concession stand, and clean bathhouses (always a plus!).  My Knight had booked a site that was right by the bathhouse since he knows I am not a fan of walking over the river and through the woods to take a shower at night! Love that man!

Jetty Park Beach and Campground

Jetty Park Beach

The best part about Jetty Park is the beach.  A quick walk across the campground or a quick bike ride down a meandering path leads straight to the Atlantic Ocean.  Can I just tell you how awesome it is to head out to the beach in the morning, lounge around in the sand soaking up rays for a couple of hours, and then just leave the towels and blankie to save your spot and head back to the camper for some A/C, lunch, and a nap?  Late afternoon/early evening, it’s back out to the beach for relaxing as the sun goes down and the breeze grows cooler.

The weather this weekend was incredible.  Beautiful blue skies, highs in the 70s/low 80s, and a constant tropical breeze!  It was the kind of weekend that gives you August amnesia and makes you think it’s always this nice to live in Florida.

We took a long walk along the edge of the surf and saw a crowd gathered around an immobile sea turtle.  His huge black eyes looked so sad, and my heart hurt to think of how confused and scared he must be, stranded on the beach with some unknown ailment, surrounded by strange-looking humans and uncertain of their intent.  A few kind strangers kept drizzling water on him to keep him hydrated, and a sheriff’s deputy stood guard over him until an animal rescue team could get there to help.

Sea Turtle at Jetty Park Beach

Poor Sea Turtle

With the A/C and nap calling our name in the early afternoon, we made the BRILLIANT decision to have a sandwich in the camper for lunch and then take a bike ride for pizza later for dinner.  Oh Boy.

I have to make an embarrassing confession here.  I hate riding a bicycle.  It’s not that I don’t know how.  It’s not that I’ve never done it.  It’s not that it’s hard to do, or particularly taxing.  I don’t know how to explain it, but I just do not feel comfortable and confident on a bike.  I’m always a little unsure of what it’s doing, or what I’m doing, or what’s going to happen next.

I’m fine if we are on an open trail, or the campground loops, or one of those paved-over railroad track projects.  But to ride on city streets or on sidewalks with traffic and pedestrians and such FREAKS ME OUT.  My Knight had conveyed to me when he was selling, um, planning, the weekend that the pizza place was just a few blocks away and we could easily ride there by bicycle.  So, okay, I’m game.  After all, there’s pizza involved.

Bikes at Cocoa Beach in Jetty Park

Bikes at the Beach

But once we arrived at Jetty Park, he further explained that we would be riding DOWN THE BEACH to get to the pizza place.  Like, in the sand.  And remember that due to our itinerary alteration, we’d be riding back DOWN THE BEACH after DARK!

Um, no.  I have trouble maintaining a bicycle in an upright position on hard pavement.  And this man thinks I can balance riding in the sand?  Really?  It’s not even a beach cruiser.  It’s just a plain old bike.  I protested mucheth.

Surely there was a way to get there on solid ground.  And without being in heavy traffic.  Surely there were residential streets or back roads.   There had to be.  So I snagged a “tourist map” from the gift shop at the campground.  You know, the ones that show all the fun places to eat and shop and play, but aren’t really drawn to scale or physically accurate?  The ones that don’t show ALL the streets in the town?  Only the ones with businesses who paid to advertise around the edges of this silly map?

Well, according to my handy-dandy tourist map, there was indeed a series of back roads that would take us to the pizza place with only a few blocks minimum on the busy main thoroughfare.  In fact, it showed this route as a path for those renting scooters, and the little cartoon scooter riders drawn on the map looked like they were really enjoying the ride.  I wasn’t thrilled with the part of the journey that would include crowded sidewalks and traffic lights, but it beat falling on my face in the sand.

We set out for pizza around dusk, and I was reminded after a few blocks that I have not been on a bicycle at all since December, and that was only from the camper to the bath house and a few trips around the camping loop at Alafia State Park.  No heavy riding and no long rides.

One would think that the combination of a soft bike seat and the ample padding of my derriere would be sufficient cushion for road riding, but after several city blocks, I had started noticing some pain in my rear-end-region.  It was nothing unbearable, but it was a bit foreboding considering we were not even to the “residential” portion of our trip, and we still had the whole ride back to sit through.

So I kept adjusting my rumpus on the seat, putting the left cheek more on, then the right cheek.  Leaning forward, leaning back.  Standing a little when we came off and on the ramps for side streets so the bumps on the pavement didn’t jar too much.

I had started to question my love of pizza and my need for dinner in general when we finally reached “Ridgewood”, the side street that was to lead us out of city traffic and into residential bliss.  After a brief discussion between me and My Knight regarding the proper observation of traffic intersection laws for bicycles on sidewalks (I’d just like to point out that the cop agreed with me!), we turned out of the nerve-wracking main street and off into beautifully manicured lawns and gorgeous pastel houses of the beach-livers.

The pizza place was clearly marked on my tourist map between Harding Street and McKinley Street.  So once we passed McKinley, we would simply go to Harding and take it back to the main thoroughfare and come back along the right side of the road ready to dine!

It seemed to be only a couple of blocks away based on the cheerful scooter riders on my tourist map, but we were already nearing twenty minutes of biking and McKinley  wasn’t anywhere in sight.  My butt was burning, and there seemed to be bones in my butt that I never knew I had now protruding through the skin at the bottom and rubbing against the bike seat in an incredibly uncomfortable dance.

Where was Harding? Where was McKinley?  Maybe one of the beach residents would just let us come in their house and eat to get me off this damned bike?

It was then that it dawned on me that we had passed Washington Street, Adams Street, Jefferson and then Madison.  I realized with great disappointment that the street names were our country’s leaders in chronological order.  My tourist map only showed a couple of names before Harding and McKinley.  It definitely was not accurate and to scale, and it mentioned nothing about a full-on Tour of Presidents.

I scrambled to remember how many presidents I had before McKinley, but the pain in my butt must have overridden the US History files in my brain.  Where was Patti Frier when I needed her?  I began to say the full names of each president out loud as we crossed their street, trying to jar my memory…Jackson Street—Andrew Jackson, Old Hickory.  Oh, Martin Van Buren.  Harrison–William Henry Harrison.

My Knight in the WaterMy Knight seemed without a care. He of the triathlons and daily/weekly cycling jaunts of miles upon miles cruised along effortlessly behind me, unaware of my aching buns and building annoyance.  Well, not exactly UNAWARE, since I was pretty vocal in my complaining, but still.

By the time Lincoln was shot, I had become convinced that maybe we would be in Jacksonville before we found Harding or McKinley.

But then, on the horizon, in the dim light of the setting sun, I thought I saw a capital M with a little c on the street sign.  I got so excited that I forgot to stand up over the raised bumps to cross his street. Ow.

The tourist map showed Harding as the next street!  Pizza was close and I could get off this torturous method of transportation!

My excitement faded when Cocoa Beach’s city planners reminded me that Roosevelt, Taft, and Wilson all served after McKinley.  Isn’t there some stupid little song you can learn to remember the names of the presidents?   Or is that just state names?

Finally, out of the darkness, in the pale orange glow of a street light, I saw the name of what will now be my favorite president for all time.  Warren G. Harding.

We turned and pedaled with feverish efforts back toward the main road. Only to find that the pizza place had been back at the intersection of McKinley, three presidents ago.  I will definitely buy an accurate street map the next time we are at Jetty Park.

I wish I could tell you the pizza was worth every rotation of the tires and every term served by the leaders of our country on the grid of Cocoa Beach’s map.  It wasn’t.  It was really crappy pizza.

It poured rain for a bit while we ate, but it had cleared by the time we left, leaving behind a beautiful moon.

My Knight tried to convince me to try the beach.  It will be much quicker, he said.  It’s a straight shot down the beachCocoa Beach to Jetty, he said.  It won’t be crowded at night, he said.

And who can resist the siren call of a handsome man asking you to cruise along a moonlit beach in the mist of the crashing surf?

Evidently, I can when my butt cheeks have bones protruding through them and I can barely walk.  Okay, so maybe barely walk is a bit dramatic, but it did hurt.  And as much as I dreaded traveling back through history in the dark with no light on my bike, I was a little more apprehensive of trying to balance in the sand in the dark with unknown critters crawling into our path (either from the sea, the sand, or the two-legged upright variety).  I protested again.  Mucheth.

But he’s a pretty persuasive guy, and it was his birthday weekend, and I hate saying no to a challenge.  So we walked our bikes through the sand and out to the surf to reach the wet, hard-packed sand.  (Let me interrupt my bitching and complaining long enough to say that the moon on the water was absolutely breathtaking, and the eerie calm of the beach deserted at night was entrancing.)

I have to admit that being able to see the lights of Jetty Park on the horizon at the end of the beach was a powerful motivator, and it did seem for a moment that this would be much quicker and easier.  However, not even my well-seasoned cyclist Knight could pedal in the wet sand at high tide, so he admitted we needed to go back to the Presidents.

It was a long, hard, dark ride back.  I have never been so glad to see Harvey as I was that night.  My butt ached, and I laughed in pain as I tried to lift it in all its glory off the bike seat and up into the camper as My Knight laughed with (at) me.

Needless to say, we didn’t bike anywhere Sunday.  But we had a splendid day.  We played shuffleboard, flew a kite in the breeze, and reclined in our camping chairs underneath Harvey’s awning, relishing in the wonder of a gorgeous spring day.  It was very relaxing, and I enjoyed having our little camper and our own little spot in paradise.

We took the dogs for a walk, and then we took a stroll to the campground office to book another weekend at Jetty Park in June.  And I am actually looking forward to it!

But does anyone know of any butt-cheek exercises I could do to toughen up before then?

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Heee’s Baaaaackkkkk!!!!

So it’s been a couple of months since we came home to find a Boston terrier on our back porch.  We hadn’t seen around again.  Well, until yesterday, that is.

I was trying to get out the door to go and pick up Dr. Smooth from school.  And as always, I was running a tad bit late.  I was juggling my phone and his tennis racket and tennis shoes with one hand, and my purse and his lunch bag and a water bottle with the other.  I managed to push the alarm set button on the keyfob with my thumb, and I opened the door with a couple of fingers of my left hand while juggling the stuff I was holding.

Suddenly a blur of black and white blew past me and inside the house.  I recognized him immediately as he headed for the kitchen.  I dropped everything, running after him yelling, “No, Paul! No! Outside! Outside, Paul!”

He completely ignored me, and I realize that could be because the dog’s name is not actually Paul. He's Back!

I clapped my hands; I stomped my feet; I yelled “Outside!”.  But Paul was not having it.  He was running around the kitchen with his tongue and tail both wagging.  In the pantry – “Got any treats?” To the water bowl – “Woo, I’m thirsty!”  To all three dog bowls – “Wow! I’m like Goldilocks with the three bears.  But why is there no food in these bowls?”  And to the sliding glass door – “I remember that pool!  I hung out there one night!”

Round and round and round the island we went, and Paul was always just a couple of steps ahead of me.  I finally caught him and ran my finger through his collar to pull him to the door.  He flopped over on his back and became absolute dead weight.  He would not budge.  I pulled him gently and he slid across the tiles on his back for a couple of seconds before the entire collar just slipped over his head, and then up and off he ran.  Round and round and round the kitchen again.

It was about that time that the alarm went off.  I hadn’t thought to turn off the countdown when my departure got delayed.

My dogs were already going nuts, freaked out by my yelling and the presence of another dog in their house.  But when the alarm sounded, they really hyped up.  Dexter howled louder than a wolfman on a clear full-moon night.

If Paul was freaked out in the least by the alarm or the howling, he didn’t show it.  He was back in the pantry, scouting for a treat.  I caught him there, and got his collar back on, but then I had to sprint to the alarm panel to cancel the alarm before the security system called.

When I came back, he was exploring the living room, and as he paused to sniff a pair of shoes by the door, I scooped him up and put him outside.  Somehow as soon as his feet touched the ground, he was immediately headed back in.  We wrestled over the threshold for a few seconds as he tried desperately to get his head in the door and I tried desperately to keep him outside.  I finally got the door closed and stood inside staring through the glass at him.

I wondered briefly if I was going to be able to leave the house, but in a move that reminded me of “Squirrel!” in the movie UP, he suddenly forgot he wanted in and took off running down the sidewalk.


I really need to figure out which house Paul lives in (and his real name) so I could talk with his owners about keeping their dog safe.  On a leash.  Or in their yard.  Or in their house.  Or out of my house.  Maybe we could arrange play dates and Paul could come visit, since he obviously enjoys it here!


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A while back, Dr. Smooth and I arrived home to find My Knight doing a weird dance outside the front door motioning for us to get out of the car and come inside.

“Where’s your phone?  Where’s his phone?  Where’ve you been?  I’ve been trying to call both of you.  Why aren’t you answering your phones?”

Although there was some volume, frustration, and urgency in his voice, I didn’t get the feeling anything tragic had happened.  So I was curious but not overly concerned.

“We didn’t hear the phone.  We were singing and had the radio turned up,” I said nonchalantly as I gathered things from the car.  “And we stopped to get gas.”

“HURRY UP!  Come on!  I’ve been trying to call you!”  He was waving his arm like the boat was going to leave and we were going to need to jump from the shore to make it.

“What’s the matter?  What’s going on?” I asked, starting to get concerned.

“Just come here.  You have to see this.  I’ve been trying to call you,” he repeated.

“You said that.  We couldn’t hear the phones,” I explained again, wondering what on earth could be so exciting and urgent INSIDE our house.  What was up with this man?

“Come on,” he said, waving his arms again.  We were clearly NOT moving fast enough.  He led us through the living room and kitchen and out onto the pool patio, not even giving me time to put down the shopping bags.

As soon as I stepped onto the patio, I was greeted by a bouncy, happy, exuberant Boston terrier.



“What the hell?” I asked.  My mind zoomed to furious like a rocket.  I thought My Knight had brought home ANOTHER dog.  Considering that we are maxed out at four dogs already, I was none too pleased.

“I came home and he was here, inside the screen room,” he said.

“Awesome!” shouted Dr. Smooth. “Can we name him Paul?”

“We’re not naming him anything!” I shouted back.

“Where did he come from?  You don’t know anything about this?” asked My Knight.

“No! What do you mean he was inside the screen room?  How’d he get in here?” I asked.

“Come, Paul.  Come, Paul,” Dr. Smooth said, patting his thighs and beckoning to the hyper dog.

“Stop calling him that!  We are not naming him Paul and we are not keeping him,” I said.  “He looks really clean and well-fed.  He has to be someone’s pet.”

MK:  “But how did he get in here?”

Me:  “I don’t know.  Maybe someone found him loose and figured he must be ours since we have more dogs than anyone else in the neighborhood.  But he can’t stay here!”

DrS:  “Why?  He’s great, Mom!  Sit, Paul! Sit!”

Me: “His name is not Paul.  And we’re not keeping him.”  I turned to My Knight, who looked just as excited as Dr. Smooth.  I was very worried as to what that meant for my household.  “This is someone’s pet.  You know we can’t keep him, right?”

MK:  “But someone put him in here.”



DrS: “Look, mom.  Paul knows Sit!  I wonder what other commands he knows.”

Oh no.  Oh no.  Oh no.

Me:  “We are not keeping Paul.  Uh, whatever his name is.  We are not keeping him.  We have FOUR dogs already.  We are bursting at the seams with dogs.  No.  We have to find his owners.  I am sure they are missing him.”

MK: “Well, you aren’t going to be able to find them tonight.”

DrS: “Yeah, Mom.  Can’t we just keep Paul tonight?”

No. No. No. No. No.

Me:  “We really need to find his owners.”

MK:  “How you gonna do that?”

I had no idea.  But I was certain that we could not take another dog.  We are animal lovers.  And if I had more room and more money, I’d take ten more.  But I don’t.  So I can’t.

Me:  “I’m going to walk around the neighborhood and knock on doors and ask if this is their dog.”

I got a leash and set out with Paul and Dr. Smooth.  I quickly realized it was after 9pm, and there are over 70 houses in our neighborhood, so this may not have been a great plan.  But I was determined Paul was not staying at our house.

I walked to the other end of our cul-de-sac, hoping that Paul would pick up a familiar scent and magically lead me to his owner.  But he picked up every single scent on every single blade of grass in our neighborhood.  I don’t think this crazy dog had any idea where home was, or even cared to find it.  He was the happiest, most excited little being on the planet just to be alive and sniffing.

I went to my neighbor a few houses down who is a close friend.  I thought perhaps she might know Paul’s owners.  She suggested a house between mine and hers because she had heard barking there and knew they had dogs.

I watched for any sign of recognition as we approached the front door, but Paul was clueless.  I rang the bell and was immediately greeted with extremely loud and deep gruff barks that would have never come from a Boston terrier.  I quickly passed Paul’s leash to Dr. Smooth and told him to get Paul out of sight.  I didn’t want to keep him, but I didn’t want him eaten alive either.

A young lady opened the door with her two very large dogs, and I explained about Paul.  Her parents both came to the door then, and her mother said she had owned a Boston terrier for years.  She got teary-eyed as she talked about the dog passing away years earlier.

I thanked them and apologized for the inconvenience and started walking again to catch up to Dr. Smooth and crazy-happy-bouncy Paul.Paul's Road Trip  My Knight was standing in the street by our house, so we stopped to update him.  While we were standing there, the young girl from the house with the big dogs came walking up.

“My mom really wants the dog,” she said.  “We’ll take him if you want.”

As much as I wanted to be rid of Paul, I also wanted to make sure he made it back home to his owners.

“I really think he lives somewhere in the neighborhood.  I want to try to find his home,” I replied.

“Well, we can take him tonight, and then my mom will put up posters and call the shelters tomorrow. And if we don’t find his owners, we’ll keep him,” she said.

So I let Paul go with her.  And then I worried the rest of the night whether or not I had done the right thing, and whether or not Paul was okay with them, and whether or not Paul’s owners were worried sick.  Fate had trusted Paul to us by mysteriously dumping him inside our screened room, and I had just passed him off.  I felt horrible.

But Paul has a happy ending!  The next day, the young lady’s father called to say they had located Paul’s owner in the neighborhood and Paul was back home safe and sound.

I still have no idea how Paul ended up in our screen room, but I think I’ll put a “No Vacancy” sign in our yard just in case.

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Living Blurry

I swear that if my head was not firmly attached to my shoulders with ligaments, tendons, and bones, I dancing skeleton, organized livingwould lose it or leave it behind somewhere.

It’s not that I am not capable of organizing.  For fifteen years, I was involved in organizing events for other people. But my own life…..well, not so organized.

I’ve tried calendars and planners and online time management systems.  I’ve tried notebooks and file systems and reminder apps.  I’ve tried lists and post-its and memory association tricks.  But my brain always ends up a bit more scattered than aligned.

Somehow no matter what system I use, I end up with piles of paperwork that end up in boxes when I get overwhelmed by the sight of them.  I end up with unfinished lists and uncompleted reminders and unused calendars.  I lose things, misplace things, and forget things on an almost daily basis.

organized living in disorganized disarrayToday, I ran out of saline solution for my contacts.  And yes, it was on a list somewhere that I needed to buy more.  So I battled the people of Walmart just to grab one bottle of saline solution on the way to pick up Dr. Smooth.  I actually found a short checkout line and was out in record time.  But then I got almost all the way to the high school and realized I didn’t grab the bag before leaving the store.

I went into Walmart for one freakin’ item and left it behind.

Over the holidays, we went out to a movie and then to dinner.  When I reached in my purse to pay for dinner, no wallet was found.  The last place I had seen it was the movie theater. Luckily, someone had turned it in, and after a detour back to the theater to retrieve it, we made our way home.

And yes, that could happen to anyone.  But that is the THIRD time I  have left a wallet or purse at that same theater.  One time it happened at a midnight movie the night before we were to set sail on a cruise….which requires photo ID.  Imagine getting security to open a theater at 4am to search for a  purse under a seat.  Fun, fun.

I have lost my keys so many times that I have threatened for years to have a bolt installed into my hip bone with a retractable key ring attached to it.  That way as soon as I let go of my keys, they pop right back to my hip and stay there until I need them again.  (I haven’t gone through with that procedure because I am a little nervous about the pain involved and I’m not sure what kind of fashion statement I’d be making with a bolt protruding through whatever I’m wearing.)

Then there was the time we drove to Georgia to see our friends get married.  We went up a day ahead of time and got a hotel room so we wouldn’t risk getting caught in traffic and being late.  We slept in, had brunch, shopped a bit, and napped.  Then we leisurely got dressed and showed up for the 5:30 ceremony.   Only to find that everyone was standing around taking pictures because the ceremony was over….it had started at 5:00pm. Which was clearly stated on the invitation I brought with me on the trip.

I don’t get it.  I’m not stupid.  I’m not a complete ditz.  I’m not careless.  I’m actually fairly intelligent and very analytical.  But on any given day, I juggle quite a bit of information, issues, duties, and thoughts.  I think that my brain just gets so full and so crowded that it ceases to focus.  So I’m going through life a bit blurry, I suppose.

I wish I knew how to slow down.  To breathe more and stress less.  To remain calm and focused and in control of my day.  I’ve tried yoga and meditation, but I usually spend the entire time I’m doing that thinking about what I have to get done next.

A dear friend that I love and respect told me once that I would be more organized if I had a purse.  Well, organized living with disorganized pursesI’ve bought big purses and little purses and purses with pockets and all sorts of wallets.  Didn’t do the trick.

I don’t think it’s the purse.  Or the calendar.  Or the app.  Or the filing system.  I think it may be just be my brain.  And the amount of life I cram into each day.

I know I’m not the only one that struggles with this.  I’m not the only one that washes the same load of clothes more than once because I forgot to put it in the dryer.  I’m not the only one that throws away fresh produce because I didn’t get around to making the recipe I bought it for.  I’m not the only one that has to dig through piles of papers to find the form that has to be signed for school today or the doctor bill that was supposed to be paid last week.

So to those of you who have it all together and always know where you left it, I applaud you.  I admire you.  I respect you.  I’m not like you.

To those of you who are like me, cramming it in, swimming in a sea of papers and lists, and occasionally forgetting your own name, I’m sending you a big shout-out.  I hear you my sisters.  I feel you.  I know where you’re coming from.  (And I know that somewhere at home there’s a list of what you were supposed to bring and where you’re supposed to be.)

Here’s to living blurry.  Here’s to firmly attached heads.  And here’s to a life brimming over.  Maybe this is the year that we will simplify and declutter and have it all run smoothly.

Yeah.  Probably not.  Happy New Year anyway.  (Oh wait…New Year’s was two weeks ago.  Oh well.)

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