I wish I had a nickle for every time I wished for something.
No- wait! I wish I had a dollar for every time I wished for something.
(Because, WOW- I would have just made two dollars- and I'm still in my pajamas drinking coffee).
It's really amazing how often we all use "I wish" in our vocabulary. I realize that I say it more than I thought.
But, hey- wishes aren't just for birthdays anymore! Let's use them!
They don't cost a thing, don't take up any room in the closet and don't make your butt look big.
What's not to love?
I'm totally into taking advantage of my powers of positive thinking. Wishing is kinda like dreaming-
but out loud-
(without the nightmares).
Just good stuff- stuff I wish...
Here are my top ten wishes of the day:
1. I wish blogs had a LIKE button so that I wouldn't have to use both hands to type because I'm lazy like that- and the writer would know I approve without having to read a paragraph that says, "awesome" "great post" "LOL" or something generically similar to other commentors- and also, I wouldn't have to go bonkers trying to figure out the blurry word verification.
2. I wish they made a "Nair" for dirt. Just slather in on, wipe it off- and not have to worry about it coming back for 30 days or more.
3. I wish I knew THEN what I know NOW
4. I wish cheesecake was healthy and calorie free.
5. Instead of mowing and gardening and cleaning the yard, I wish I could just go into a program like Windows Paint and erase everything I don't want and paint in all that I do. That would sure cut down on the raking, sawing, digging and weeding.
6. I wish I could win the lottery. I would settle for a few hundred dollars ,but I'd rather have six figures. And why not? It's just a wish!
7. I wish I could go back and spend a day with my mom.
8. I wish I had a paintball gun I could keep in my car to use on all those greedy selfish people who cut in, don't use their turn signal, steal parking spots, park in the fire lane, and cut you off in traffic. I bet there would be some cars totally covered with paint ball residue. I'd watch out for them if I was you.
9. I wish my husband and I were only thirty years old and have what we have now. Mainly, a long future.
10. I wish wishes came true.
Honestly, I have a million more....
What are your wishes today?
(And just because I'm nice, you can just comment with a LIKE if you wish...:)
Monday, February 27, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Hard To Swallow
National Sword Swallower's Day is coming up.
Kinda makes me gag just thinking about it.
(Although, I am rather skilled at inserting my foot into my mouth...)
The art of sword swallowing has been around prior to 2000 BC. Originating in India, it became a symbol of power and a demonstration of divine union. Later, the Japanese and Europeans incorporated it into their theatrics and acrobatics. This feat was added to tightrope walking, fire eating and juggling as a means of entertainment and delight for large crowds.
However, during the Middle Ages, these sword swallowers became the targets of religious persecution, being taunted as witches and heretics because of their practice.
My research claims that:
" As recorded in the 2006 study by Brian Whitcombe, radiologist, and Dan Meyer, Chief Executive Director of Sword Swallowers Association International (SSAI), this is accomplished through practice with putting fingers and other objects down the throat, such as spoons, knitting needles, and plastic tubes, before eventually graduating to a wire coat-hanger. Performers must prepare mentally as well as physically, steeling themselves against unpleasant sensations, relaxing the mind and body, and focusing carefully on proper technique. According to swordswallow.com, a site run by SSAI, the art takes "about three to seven years to learn and approximately five [more] to master." Most swallowers surveyed for the Whitcombe-Meyer study were self-taught. "
Kinda makes me gag just thinking about it.
(Although, I am rather skilled at inserting my foot into my mouth...)
The art of sword swallowing has been around prior to 2000 BC. Originating in India, it became a symbol of power and a demonstration of divine union. Later, the Japanese and Europeans incorporated it into their theatrics and acrobatics. This feat was added to tightrope walking, fire eating and juggling as a means of entertainment and delight for large crowds.
However, during the Middle Ages, these sword swallowers became the targets of religious persecution, being taunted as witches and heretics because of their practice.
My research claims that:
" As recorded in the 2006 study by Brian Whitcombe, radiologist, and Dan Meyer, Chief Executive Director of Sword Swallowers Association International (SSAI), this is accomplished through practice with putting fingers and other objects down the throat, such as spoons, knitting needles, and plastic tubes, before eventually graduating to a wire coat-hanger. Performers must prepare mentally as well as physically, steeling themselves against unpleasant sensations, relaxing the mind and body, and focusing carefully on proper technique. According to swordswallow.com, a site run by SSAI, the art takes "about three to seven years to learn and approximately five [more] to master." Most swallowers surveyed for the Whitcombe-Meyer study were self-taught. "
I suppose there's nothing quite like wasting seven years of your life in front of the mirror with a barf bag, wondering if the beef stew you just ate will come up to haunt you.
Or if you'll accidentally cough while a stainless steel sword is sliding into your esophagus. That would be my luck- or even worse- have a sneezing fit.
As dangerous as it sounds, there have been no deaths reported due to sword swallowing. And there are a hundred practicing sword swallowers internationally.
You know what?
I think I'll just stick with donuts.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
A Place Of Refuge
Everyone needs a place of refuge.
A space for breathing deeply, thinking quietly and seeing the world with focused eyes.
Everyone needs a spot on this Earth where they can see the stars, gaze at the moon, and watch fireflies twinkle over fields of dew.
Everyone needs a place to let go, unwind, detach...and dream without boundaries.
Everyone needs a place where their heart feels at home...where smiles are abundant, laughter is sincere, and nothing matters except moments...Where the past falls away and the future is bridge you'll build later...
...A place where life swells up inside you so big- that you can't help but drink it, embrace it, and thank God for it.
My place of refuge is the cabin.
At the cabin, I don't just see birds, I see their wings...each brilliant feather soft with the magic of flight...their tiny eyes searching for stray seeds...their wire-like feet grasping branches that sway in the cool breeze.
At the cabin, I don't just see stars , I see bouquets of them...like diamonds spilled out into the sky...like flakes of glitter placed individually by heaven's hand...
...I see millions and millions of wishes waiting to be wished upon.
I don't just see the woods, I see the trees...each one with its unique pattern of bark, its own outline of leaves against blue sky...their blooms and buds and arms that shelter nests.
I don't just see fields, I see blades of grass... tufts of wild blackberries, lacy white flowers, sweet honeysuckle, purple thistle and baby violets.I see feisty flies and shiny spotted lady bugs...and butterflies with tissue paper wings the color of sapphires.
I see life there.
I feel life there.
I smell, breathe, touch- love all that surrounds me there... at my place of refuge.
My body aches to go there.
My mind imagines the feel of my feet on the grass...my fingers on the doorknob...my key in the lock...the tug of home...the overpowering feeling of being where I belong.
Everyone needs a place.
This is mine.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Writer/Snacker: That's Me!
I like to think of myself as a writer.
Not because I can actually write, but because it's the only thing I do besides housework, Facebook, Pinterest and napping.
Oh, and snacking.
I'm a snacker, too.
But the writer in me has fine-tuned my observation skills.
I see things with a sharper eye- I survey things more critically than the average writer/snacker.
For example:
Yesterday I was behind a young lady as we both entered WalMart.
She had hair from a Hairstyles magazine, leather knee boots (that probably set her back a paycheck), jeans that cost more than $75 dollars, and she wore an expensive scarf around her neck (that looked as though a gentle puff of wind had lovingly placed it there as an afterthought.) (Gag me. Please.)
Topped off with a classy jacket and some sweet dang-ly jewelry, she was nearly perfect -(if you can even accurately measure those sort of things).
But she didn't have me fooled one bit. No sir-ree.
The writer in me saw through her obvious disguise.
Something was definitely up.
Big time.
Why did I think that, you say?
Well, first off- because this woman was holding onto a two-year old and pushing a baby stroller.
My second clue was that no real mother has flat abs, a single chin, and the patience of a saint when she has a five month old who barfs up curdled milk like a cottage cheese river bursting through a toothless dam and whose other kid walks as slow as a zombie and whines like a day-old puppy.
Who did she think she was fooling? It was laughable, really. But why she hadn't done sufficient research on being a mother admittedly had me puzzled.
So, being the writer/observer/aging super hero that I am, I decided to confront her.
I nudged the heel of her Victoria Beckham boots with my rusty shopping cart, and she quickly spun around- ready to pump a few rounds of curse words into my suspicious little brain.
She had Daddy-Long-Leg lashes, silky peach colored skin, and lips that her plastic surgeon must have injected with the fluff from a king-sized down pillow.
And she was getting ready to flap them my way.
"Hey, Lady- better watch what you say- I'm up to your tricks. " I told her, pulling down the wire cage of my too-small bra and wiping the remnants of a chocolate donut off of my face, "You and I both know that there's no way on this planet that you are a mother. Why the disguise?"
She was speechless.
I imagine she wasn't expecting to run into a writer/snacker in WalMart at 6 am on a Tuesday. My powers of observation had her completely frozen in disbelief.
"Girlie," I told her, trying to remain calm and somewhat polite,"the clothes were a dead giveaway. And the jewelry... and hair ...and all the other La-Dee-Daah stuff you pranced in here with today. Mothers wear comfortable clothing, never get their hair combed before noon, and constantly live with baby vomit on their shoulders. They look like a two ton truck just hit them, smell like strained peas and peaches, and are perfect candidates for a innovative program of weight-loss magic. They wear sneakers with grass stains, sweats with the drawstring missing, and a face that hasn't seen cosmetics in 18 months!"
Her eyes got as big as as the head on her preppy little boy -and she pushed her way off into the aisles of Great Value and Nabisco... and disappeared.
I suppose I'll never really know what ulterior motives she had for that day. Perhaps my keen and subtle confrontation stopped her from following through with her evil plan.
So, I did what I originally came to WalMart for (before the distraction)- and grabbed a basket of snacks and hurried back home to my computer.
Then wrote about my observations.
Because I'm a writer/snacker.
And that's what I do.
Not because I can actually write, but because it's the only thing I do besides housework, Facebook, Pinterest and napping.
Oh, and snacking.
I'm a snacker, too.
But the writer in me has fine-tuned my observation skills.
I see things with a sharper eye- I survey things more critically than the average writer/snacker.
For example:
Yesterday I was behind a young lady as we both entered WalMart.
She had hair from a Hairstyles magazine, leather knee boots (that probably set her back a paycheck), jeans that cost more than $75 dollars, and she wore an expensive scarf around her neck (that looked as though a gentle puff of wind had lovingly placed it there as an afterthought.) (Gag me. Please.)
Topped off with a classy jacket and some sweet dang-ly jewelry, she was nearly perfect -(if you can even accurately measure those sort of things).
But she didn't have me fooled one bit. No sir-ree.
The writer in me saw through her obvious disguise.
Something was definitely up.
Big time.
Why did I think that, you say?
Well, first off- because this woman was holding onto a two-year old and pushing a baby stroller.
My second clue was that no real mother has flat abs, a single chin, and the patience of a saint when she has a five month old who barfs up curdled milk like a cottage cheese river bursting through a toothless dam and whose other kid walks as slow as a zombie and whines like a day-old puppy.
Who did she think she was fooling? It was laughable, really. But why she hadn't done sufficient research on being a mother admittedly had me puzzled.
So, being the writer/observer/aging super hero that I am, I decided to confront her.
I nudged the heel of her Victoria Beckham boots with my rusty shopping cart, and she quickly spun around- ready to pump a few rounds of curse words into my suspicious little brain.
She had Daddy-Long-Leg lashes, silky peach colored skin, and lips that her plastic surgeon must have injected with the fluff from a king-sized down pillow.
And she was getting ready to flap them my way.
"Hey, Lady- better watch what you say- I'm up to your tricks. " I told her, pulling down the wire cage of my too-small bra and wiping the remnants of a chocolate donut off of my face, "You and I both know that there's no way on this planet that you are a mother. Why the disguise?"
She was speechless.
I imagine she wasn't expecting to run into a writer/snacker in WalMart at 6 am on a Tuesday. My powers of observation had her completely frozen in disbelief.
"Girlie," I told her, trying to remain calm and somewhat polite,"the clothes were a dead giveaway. And the jewelry... and hair ...and all the other La-Dee-Daah stuff you pranced in here with today. Mothers wear comfortable clothing, never get their hair combed before noon, and constantly live with baby vomit on their shoulders. They look like a two ton truck just hit them, smell like strained peas and peaches, and are perfect candidates for a innovative program of weight-loss magic. They wear sneakers with grass stains, sweats with the drawstring missing, and a face that hasn't seen cosmetics in 18 months!"
Her eyes got as big as as the head on her preppy little boy -and she pushed her way off into the aisles of Great Value and Nabisco... and disappeared.
I suppose I'll never really know what ulterior motives she had for that day. Perhaps my keen and subtle confrontation stopped her from following through with her evil plan.
So, I did what I originally came to WalMart for (before the distraction)- and grabbed a basket of snacks and hurried back home to my computer.
Then wrote about my observations.
Because I'm a writer/snacker.
And that's what I do.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Valentines
Last night when my husband and I curled up beneath the warm blankets, he asked me if he had any money in his wallet.
Like- I'm supposed to know this?
Does he know how many rolls of toilet paper are in the closet?
If I have enough laundry detergent for the rest of the week?
If I even have any money myself?
I knew what he was getting at, though.
Valentine's Day.
He was actually laying there dreading an extra stop after work today to push through crowds of procrastinating men whose testosterone levels are weakened significantly by the fear that they may incur their wives wrath if chocolate and a card aren't purchased before the ten o'clock news.
I smiled to myself in the dark.
I also knew what he was going to say next.
After all, it's been a Valentine/Birthday/Christmas/Anniversary tradition that we've practiced for over thirty-five years.
"Do you need money for a Valentine?" I asked him outright, "Because if that's the case- don't worry about it. I don't need a card. Forget it- it's no big deal."
"You mean you don't want a card and chocolates?" he said, feeling suddenly liberated from the "man chore".
"Chocolates? Well, that's different!" I said, jokingly. "Please get those truffles I like, plus an assortment of caramels, a big box of chocolate covered cherries and one of those giant Hershey Kisses!"
We laughed and hugged ...and I thought to myself...
Don't you know I just want your hand? Your heart? Your sweet, graying head on the pillow beside mine for the rest of my life?
Don't you know I want to be the one who watches every sunrise and sunset with you?
...The one who is beside you when the first bird sings in the spring and the winter snows fall gently outside our window...
...That I want to watch Gunsmoke and The Godfather another 250 times just because you do...
...That I just want you to pick me a wildflower, a honeysuckle bloom...
fix the faucet, let me borrow your hammer, and tell me I look okay in those yoga pants...
...that you share your dreams and fears and hopes with me, no matter what...
...that you still smile at me and kiss me and love me and laugh at my jokes...
...that you continue to look forward to adventures and plans and our future together...
...that you never lose your kindness and compassion, never forsake your strengths and morals, and that you never forget what is really important in life...
Don't you know I love you even if you don't buy me a five-dollar card and an assortment of chocolates?
Don't you know that Valentines come from the heart and not from Hallmark?
Please be mine forever and ever.
And, just in case, I put a twenty in your wallet....:)
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
The Climb
Just thought I'd sit for a moment this morning and say hello to whoever might still be out there. And to bore you with the details of my cleaning spree.
Well, I really wouldn't call it a spree. It was more like a puff of warm air after I had expected to create a hurricane of organizing frenzy.
It started out great. Day One I actually filled a thirty gallon trash bag with old mail, papers, ancient bills and receipts that were curled into unreadable little balls full of purse lint.
I just sat on the couch and listened to music and tossed everything into a big laundry basket- to make it easier- and then transferred it to a trash bag when I was finished.
It felt really good. I filed papers that needed to be kept for awhile, such as bank statements, medical bills and legal stuff.
And current bills were given a home in a cute wire basket that looks identical to one I saw at Ballard Design, but which I thriftily acquired at Goodwill.
Just throwing that out there.
I believe that having a aesthetically pleasing place in your home for not-so-emotionally-pleasing papers makes the hurt seem less invasive.
Sorta.
Then on Day Two, I decided to bring sexy back to my bedroom, even though the golden oak bedroom suite screams the early '80's and the three deer antlers sitting on my dresser were only the first of many art projects that somehow made their resting place in my boudoir.
I emptied the night stands and tossed out old cough drops, forgotten novels and stray bullets.
I cleared off every surface so that my white-gloved hand could magically turn a disgusting shade of dust-bunny gray ...and all stray clothing, socks, and dog toys were placed in the bathroom until a suitable home was found for them.
I bought some Meyer's cleaning solution, although it was a bit pricey. I recently read a friend's blog that mentioned she adored the Meyer's Geranium scented spray. I had to opt out for the Lavender scent when Walmart didn't seem to know what geranium was.
I'm still trying to decide if it smells like a Victorian flower garden or Miss Daisy's perfume.
But it did the job.
I even hoisted the heavy bed to a caddy-cornered position and hung new curtains- (not really new, but simply revived from the plastic tote in the back of the messy closet that never quite made it to the Day Three: Things To Do Today.)
Day Three: Rested.
Day Four: Rested.
Day Five:Rested.
Day Six: Ran errands.
And then after that, the days just kind of blurred into a giant FacebookPinterestNaptimeSnackingBlogReadingSlobfest.
However, I decided that after the next few cups of coffee, an e-mail check, and a chocolate granola bar- I'm going to start cleaning the hall closet which consists of a water heater, twenty five board games, jigsaw puzzles, extra dishtowels, cotton balls and shampoo that nobody liked.
There's also a plunger, a hand vac and an old keyboard in there somewhere.
(crickets*...)
Well- there was going to be a picture posted here, but my internet sucks.
I'll check back sometime next week.
I better get started or my day will be half over before I get motivated.
So, I'll just leave you with my theme song for the day:
Thanks, Miley!
I can almost see it.
That dream I'm dreaming, but
There's a voice inside my head saying
You'll never reach it
Every step I'm takin'
Every move I make
Feels lost with no direction,
My faith is shakin'
But I gotta keep tryin'
Gotta keep my head held high
There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waitin' on the other side
It's the climb
The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down, but
No I'm not breaking
I may not know it, but
These are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most
I've just gotta keep goin', and
I gotta be strong
Just keep pushing on...
Keep on movin'
Keep climbin'
Keep faith baby
It's all about, it's all about
The climb
Keep the faith, keep your faith,
woah.
Well, I really wouldn't call it a spree. It was more like a puff of warm air after I had expected to create a hurricane of organizing frenzy.
It started out great. Day One I actually filled a thirty gallon trash bag with old mail, papers, ancient bills and receipts that were curled into unreadable little balls full of purse lint.
I just sat on the couch and listened to music and tossed everything into a big laundry basket- to make it easier- and then transferred it to a trash bag when I was finished.
It felt really good. I filed papers that needed to be kept for awhile, such as bank statements, medical bills and legal stuff.
And current bills were given a home in a cute wire basket that looks identical to one I saw at Ballard Design, but which I thriftily acquired at Goodwill.
Just throwing that out there.
I believe that having a aesthetically pleasing place in your home for not-so-emotionally-pleasing papers makes the hurt seem less invasive.
Sorta.
Then on Day Two, I decided to bring sexy back to my bedroom, even though the golden oak bedroom suite screams the early '80's and the three deer antlers sitting on my dresser were only the first of many art projects that somehow made their resting place in my boudoir.
I emptied the night stands and tossed out old cough drops, forgotten novels and stray bullets.
I cleared off every surface so that my white-gloved hand could magically turn a disgusting shade of dust-bunny gray ...and all stray clothing, socks, and dog toys were placed in the bathroom until a suitable home was found for them.
I bought some Meyer's cleaning solution, although it was a bit pricey. I recently read a friend's blog that mentioned she adored the Meyer's Geranium scented spray. I had to opt out for the Lavender scent when Walmart didn't seem to know what geranium was.
I'm still trying to decide if it smells like a Victorian flower garden or Miss Daisy's perfume.
But it did the job.
I even hoisted the heavy bed to a caddy-cornered position and hung new curtains- (not really new, but simply revived from the plastic tote in the back of the messy closet that never quite made it to the Day Three: Things To Do Today.)
Day Three: Rested.
Day Four: Rested.
Day Five:Rested.
Day Six: Ran errands.
And then after that, the days just kind of blurred into a giant FacebookPinterestNaptimeSnackingBlogReadingSlobfest.
However, I decided that after the next few cups of coffee, an e-mail check, and a chocolate granola bar- I'm going to start cleaning the hall closet which consists of a water heater, twenty five board games, jigsaw puzzles, extra dishtowels, cotton balls and shampoo that nobody liked.
There's also a plunger, a hand vac and an old keyboard in there somewhere.
(crickets*...)
Well- there was going to be a picture posted here, but my internet sucks.
I'll check back sometime next week.
I better get started or my day will be half over before I get motivated.
So, I'll just leave you with my theme song for the day:
Thanks, Miley!
I can almost see it.
That dream I'm dreaming, but
There's a voice inside my head saying
You'll never reach it
Every step I'm takin'
Every move I make
Feels lost with no direction,
My faith is shakin'
But I gotta keep tryin'
Gotta keep my head held high
There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waitin' on the other side
It's the climb
The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down, but
No I'm not breaking
I may not know it, but
These are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most
I've just gotta keep goin', and
I gotta be strong
Just keep pushing on...
Keep on movin'
Keep climbin'
Keep faith baby
It's all about, it's all about
The climb
Keep the faith, keep your faith,
woah.
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