A duck by any other name...

Has it really been this long? This long since I sat down to find my voice? I guess it has. Ferris was right, life does move pretty fast. I guess it's time to stop and take a look around, regroup, reassess, reflect, and check my ducks.

Things have been busy, that's how I cope. Stay busy. Keeping a versatile and entertaining social calendar is easy to do when one has an amazing group of friends old and new. A new hobby perhaps? This will keep the mind engaged and obsessed as well. Vacation with the husband? Weekend getaways? These are all part of the master plan to achieve the cookie cutter lifestyle, the ultimate level of suburban happiness.

Then why isn't it enough? WHEN is it enough? Does the satiated, content feeling ever come? Or is this the hedonic treadmill? Always wanting more. More work, more promotions, more responsibility, more love, more time off, more, more, more...

Motivation isn't a bad thing, it generally equals a result of some sort and results well, they earn rewards. It's downright Pavlovian. We might as well start stimulating my saliva glands right now...yep, I can already hear the bell.

Playing in the waves last weekend reminded me of what is important, and I miss him. All these "things" are trivial, but they become necessities. These wants, these "ducks" of every shape and color are how we cope with the empty space that something important leaves behind. We pump up the incline on that treadmill and hit "Go!", move forward with driven velocity. Set goals, achieve them...and do it again, and again, and again.

So, I envision myself standing on one end of a football field and as I look to the goal post at the other end I can't see it, instead before me is an infinite sea of ducks. I stand there in my warm-ups and sports visor holding the megaphone to my lips eternally yelling "GET IN LINE DUCKS!!!". Then I see him smile his knowing smile, because he knows that eventually I'll reach the other goal post and that's all he ever wanted for me...even if it is one duck at a time.

Perspective is a funny thing...

I just turned 35 a couple of weeks ago and I know by all means that 35 is not "old", but to a teenager it seems ancient. Lately, I have been involved in many conversations regarding the immaturity and behavior or our younger population. Words like "entitlement, disrespect, spoiled, and rude" are thrown about, is this younger population really that different than we were? Isn't it by nature that teenagers and young adults are self-centered? I honestly think I was 25 before I realized that the world did not revolve around me! Is it only that now our perspective has changed?

Are we now the ones complaining about loud music, crazy wardrobe choices, and purple hair? I find myself muttering about kids running through our yard, speeding down our street, not holding doors open in public places, forgetting to say, "please, thank you, and you're welcome" and only one word comes to mind...curmudgeon. I have become curmudgeonly! When the hell did this happen?





Regardless, it needs to stop. I don't want to find myself down the road waving my cane at the youngsters, preaching about respect, the "good ole days" and eventually becoming that grouchy old lady that never gives out candy at Halloween and has 10 cats...ugh, I shudder to think of it (well, maybe just 3 cats...). So, even though I know my feathers will become ruffled and I will find it hard to stifle my frustration, I vow to give them a break, refrain from gawking at a face full of piercings, or a tattoo across the forehead, because we were all teenage rebels in our own way. We all had our trends, our "hip" new styles, slang, and attitudes. We were cool. We were unique, and hell, we still are!

Fall Leaves

Fall has finally come to Florida and with it comes the smell of fireplaces, the feel of cool dry air on our skin and an evocation of autumn memories.

I feel a stirring of excitement for the holidays, family, warmth and closeness. I have been lucky enough to have lived in many places in this country and in each place I have experienced this season in a unique way...

The bite and sweetness of hot apple cider, the warmth of a soft blanket encircling my body when curled up with a family member on the couch, slippers on my feet, marshmallows by the bonfire, and the leaves...the wind in the leaves, the color of the leaves, the leaves falling so gracefully in the cool dry breeze. 

Riding my bike in the wind, going so fast that my ears would ache for hours even after I stopped, a steaming cup of cocoa to warm them up. Cats curled up next to me seeking warmth, and walks, lots of walks with those leaves; leaves of gold, red, and yellow. The feel of their delicate structure cracking and disintegrating into my palms and fingers as I'm scooping them into bags of shiny black plastic and the wind keeps blowing them out; blisters on my hands from the rake; giving up and jumping into a pile of those leaves not yet collected. 

Fire, fireplaces, the intoxicating smell of woodsmoke. Brushing my hair dry at night sitting next to the fireplace after a hot shower. The rough texture of the logs as we placed them on the fire, the crumpling of newspapers to fuel that fire, and the quick strike of a long match to ignite its energy. Halloween and fall decorating, the smell of cinnamon everywhere, pumpkins and turkeys and those traditions that are so nostalgic to our souls.

And did I mention those leaves? And the sound of the wind in those leaves?

Fall leaves...but it will return.

Ain't Love Grand!

It's Saturday night and things were going good...right up until they went completely downhill. Let's back up a bit shall we?

Rewind to this morning...perfectly relaxing breakfast together, lovely afternoon shopping, decadent Saturday afternoon nap, then primp and ready for a lovely evening out, what could go wrong? We chose a great restaurant for dinner, a place we've been to a handful of times, feeling good, looking fine, lively convo...then the appetizer arrived. Holy jalapenos! My mouth was on fire, but yet I managed to laugh and swathe my mouth in sweet tea to calm the burn and keep on smiling. Entree time, I ordered a salad with grilled chicken, simple right? Nowhere on the menu did it mention that said salad would contain a cup of chopped red onion, I despise onion. I would have noticed this detail had it been mentioned in the salad description, ok fine. No problem. I will just pick the pieces of chopped onion out of the salad, this only takes 15 minutes which is long enough for the husband to finish his meal and begin to peer at me curiously, this frustrated me, I was then officially annoyed. I salvaged what I could out of the salad and pushed it aside, I did not cause a scene, I did not tell the waiter, I was just peeved. Meanwhile, the husband's gaze on me had changed from that of "curious" to that of "I'm looking at a crazy person", this annoyed me further. I then managed to spill tea on myself, which fueled a smile and giggle from the husband which only absolutely infuriated me...and I said, "You can go to the bathroom now and laugh at me in there instead of in my face!", yes...I know, harsh, I blew it, I was irritated, hungry, and was now sporting a red onion scent about my person.

He goes to the bathroom, he comes back, I could tell things had changed. We pay the bill in silence, we get in the car, I say, "Where are we going now?", he says, "Home". Great, my onion breath and I have ruined the evening...I suggest instead of going home that we check out a new venue that just opened, still desperately trying to save the evening. We park, we enter said venue, 80's metal is loud, we find the bar, we order a drink, he's still not smiling, looks mad, I'm starting to think they might hire him as a bouncer...I ask the inevitable "What's wrong?", and things get worse. We cash out our tab after the first drinks and go home. Now we are both sulking in our separate corners and I have now blogged it out...sigh. Time to do what all married people do when they really love each other...grab the listerine, banish the red onion taste still residing in my mouth, then go kiss and makeup! Wish me luck...

Tomorrow is your birthday...

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day which to me is synonymous with your birthday, Dad's birthday. Every year I would try to find that perfect dual Happy Birthday/St. Patrick's Day birthday card, maybe this year it would be one that you hadn't received before...I still bought you one. I wasn't sure how to treat this day, many people asked me what I was planning to do for it, I didn't really know, I still don't. Tonight I saw a pretty green and white bouquet while I was at the store picking out your card, I bought it. Now, I don't think I have ever given you flowers for your birthday, so there's a new one on you. But those flowers are for me I think, I brought them home and carefully cut their stems and took my time arranging them "just so" into two tiny vases, I think they are beautiful. I definitely inherited Mom's flower arranging gene, because it sure didn't come from you! Imagine, you, flower arranging hah! I plan on taking one of the vases with me to work tomorrow, I'll keep it on my desk and think of you more than usual and I'll take the other to the Gulf to be with you . I'll have you know I'm expecting a spectacular sunset, so please contact the appropriate ranking officials up there to make this happen. I love you Daddy and I miss you every moment of every day.

I'll have them pour you a Guinness tomorrow and I'll be toasting you with mine...Happy Birthday.

I Love You,

Peeshell

Writing for the sake of writing...

You know it's a really good thing that I don't write on a deadline or maybe writing on a deadline is exactly what I need. When I don't feel like I have to write, I don't. I think of a million things to write about everyday and I think to myself "I need to blog about that.", and then I don't. Then those miraculous, tasty, vividly intriguing creative thoughts are gone,  "poof!" washed away in the sea of electrical impulses coursing through my brain, dissolved into nothingness. What am I trying to say anyway? What is my goal? Do I write as a cathartic activity to purge my thoughts as a form of emotional dumping? Do I write for notoriety? Do I write to entertain? Maybe all of the above.


I find that I generally write when things in my life feel a bit stressful, maybe a little hectic. Maybe I need to find order somewhere, so placing my thoughts in the written form and analyzing them seems like a naturally subconscious way for me to cope. Honestly, I have no idea. All I know is that I need to get back in the regular practice of it.


So far 2011 has not been half bad (despite being sick the first two weekends of the new year). I have been working on improving my health from every angle and the work is paying off (I reiterate, despite the two bouts of sickness mentioned previously, really two isolated incidents, flukes really). My anxiety, which can be fairly debilitating at times, has waned. Occasionally it starts to rear it's ugly head and I will feel tightness in my chest and the speed of my breath quicken, but a few deep breaths and a mantra of "it's all okay, you're just fine", stuns the anxiety snake enough so that it loosens it's constricting force on my mind and body. It is a hell of a lot better than it was only just a year ago.

I am thankful that this is my only affliction and that I'm not one of those people that shows up on TLC's "My Strange Addiction" eating couch cushions or owning 20+ cats (although the latter could possibly happen in the future!) . Yes, I did say eating couch cushions...I know...not sure there is enough therapy for that one.


On that note, I bid thee goodnight!
Here's to another healthy week!


P.S. Check those couch cushions now and then, you just never know about some people!

Seriously...what's next?

OK, so with all the holiday craziness commencing around me the last few weeks I haven't had much down time for vegging out on the couch and indulging in the mindless lull of the boob tube. However, this last Thursday the flu took me down, so I basically slept through the New Year with the aid of cold medicine and sleepytime tea. This morning I awoke with the deliciousness that is an entire house to myself and not nearly enough energy to be truly productive. I did however shower, dosed myself with more hot tea and honey and migrated from my sickbed to the couch with books, magazines, and laptop in tow. I then set forth to alternate between catching up on Oprah's, reading my first Johnathan Franzen work, putting in a load of laundry, flipping through the latest issue of my Psych Today, nibbling on leftover Christmas peanut brittle, and flipping through the channels. It was during this comforting hubbub of my veg-out time that I came across a show on TV that made me question whether or not my cold medicine was having lasting side effects or that my peanut brittle had somehow gone bad and was inducing some sort of Salem-esque hallucinations or that the apocalypse was happening well...now.

Some of you may have heard of the "Do It Yourself" network; a network comprised of home improvement shows, house flippers, and basically just an interior decorater's form of porn. I happened upon a show on this network this morning that was so inherently wrong, so utterly ridiculous, so outrageously farcical, that well I had to blog about it. My good people I introduce you to the Vanilla Ice Project. What on earth do flipping houses and Vanilla Ice have in common? On what alternate, crack-smoking, Keith Richards inhabiting universe did the producer of this show come from? And of course it's a train wreck and I can't stop watching it as my brain tries to make sense of this demi-thug-like 90's heartthrob of many 30-something suburban white girls everywhere conversing about the latest intercom systems and educating "all you green people out there" about LED light bulbs all while he's dressed like he's heading to the club. Vague "Oh's" are heard coming from his mouth as a subcontractor explains how a doorbell works to his vacant nodding eyes and he states " I love this technical stuff", this has to be seriously one of the most amusing and cringe worthy things I have ever seen...painful, yet hilarious. Will I be DVR'ing this theatrical gem? Ummm no, but if you can come to terms with giving up 10 - 15 minutes of your life to listening to absolute mindless drivel that may contain words like "bling" and viewing scenes of the ice man picking out art in Pier 1, and exclaiming phrases like "It's hard for me to pick art, I don't know, its got some purple in it, some red, some green, aghhhh, I don't know...it might be awesome in there.", then you may walk away with having experienced a shred of amusement similar to what I did today.

Here's to a new year! Clearly the dumbing down of the U.S. will continue, but Vanilla Ice may learn a few new things about hardwood flooring and outdoor lighting, well thank God for that, now I can finally get a good night's sleep...