I'm cooking an artichoke for the first time right now. I'm so confused. I'm trying hard to add some veggies to my diet since I hardly eat any and I thought this would be a good one. Whatever. What a silly vegetable. It poked me twice and I have no idea how to tell when it is done. I'm hoping it will call out "I'm finished!" when it's ready but I doubt it.
Oprah is on right now and she's talking about women who have let themselves go. I'm sitting here in my workout pants, my husband's zip-up sweat jacket and a multi-colored knit scarf. I also have a pimple on my forehead so big I've been working in a shadow all day. Wonder who she's talking about.
I don't know what we'll hand out for Halloween this year. Seems to me like trick-or-treaters are getting bigger and more aggressive every year. There was a group of older kids last year that showed up dressed in normal clothes - at least what they consider normal. They did have big pillowcases and held them open when I came to the door. I wasn't sure if they were trick-or-treating or I was getting mugged. We turned off the porch light after that and hovered at the dark window.
I'm half tempted to toss the 'choke at someone this year.
I'm having trouble getting/staying motivated. This is especially embarrassing since I'm working on - among other things - a self-motivation class.
My office is in our home. Upstairs, green room, really nice. I have a large desk built in one corner. I have a total of 4 windows on 3 sides of the room. I have a radio. I have a tv. I have lots of books and paper and the new ink cartridges just came the other day from dell. I really should have no problem.
I am, however, at my very core a Dilly Dally Sally. I just, for example, spent about 10 minutes counting the freckles on my left forearm. I only stopped because I couldn't really figure out where my forearm ended and my um ... aft arm began. I mean, really, what's with that?
"It is not primarily the sex/booze/drugs that surround this event, as problematic as they might be; it is rather the flaunting of affluence, assuming exaggerated expenses, a pursuit of vanity for vanity's sake -- in a word, financial decadence," Hoagland said, fed up with what he called the "bacchanalian aspects."
I completely agreed with this pricipal and thought he the most down-to-earth guy in the world until his use of the word "bacchanalian".
I then saw him as uppity and a show-off.
Of course that could be because I didn't know what the word meant.
I mean, they are nice knees, not too knobby and not fat but they ache. They hurt. They grind when I walk up the stairs. They grind so much, in fact, that lately I have taken to singing Will Smith's Switch every time I climb the stairs to JenneInk Global Headquarters just so I won't have to hear them. I don't have to sing Switch in particular, but if you have to sing something why wouldn't you sing that song?
First one in, last one out, my patella.
I've been asked a number of times by those closest to me to visit the doctor about my knees. I refuse. Simple really, I just don't think there will be anything that anyone can do. I know it's sort of a dumb position what with all that medical science can do these days but ... that's my position.
Also, I don't want to have surgery.
I told my doctor this when I went to see her last month. You're limping, she said. I know, I said. Why? she said. My knees, I said. Next thing I knew she was shoving a business card for a great orthopedist into my hand. Call them, she said. They're just old knees, I said. Call them, she said. They won't find anything, I said. Call them, she said.
I called yesterday. I went today. Turns out they DID find something. Two somethings as a matter of fact.
One of the somethings they can't do anything about.
I was lead to it through Steakbellie's blog. (sidebar: When I woke up this morning I never thought I'd be using the word steakbellie today.) I like his blog because he doesn't think too much or write too much or debate too much. He feels safe to me. I'll read. I may comment even. I don't feel like he's trying too hard. He just is. And just "ising" is a good thing in my book.
Anyway, he directed me to nothing's going to change my world. I read it - start to finish - and found myself in an internal debate. I later realized that others I know are debating as well. The debate is this: Is this blog real or is it fake?
Does Iris really exist, live this way, make these decisions and drink these drinks or is Iris (if that is her real name) simply a very smart girl (or boy) that is experimenting with fiction and just might get herself (himself) published.
You can, of course, decide for yourself.
By the way, isn't the iris that part of your eye that expands and contracts - letting in light or keeping it out - as needed? No, wait, that's the pupil. Shoot, I was going to make a really astounding parallel there.
Anyway, my view point is this:
I don't care.
I know, Birdy, call me naive. But truthfully I don't really think it matters. Because whether or not Iris's story is true, it is, in fact, truth.
There is truth in her words, her thoughts, feelings, defeats. I may not know if it is fact but I know it is real. And THAT is what draws me in to her story. We (by we, I mean the partially sane among us) recognize ourselves in her writing and in her story. THAT's what make it appealing.
So true or not, does it really matter? There is a difference, sure, between true stories and Truth stories. A true story is well, factual, I suppose. And a Truth story is one you read and say: I've felt that way, had that victory, said those words, had that hangover, regretting that decision, etc.
So now I'm asking myself if there is a difference between true life and a Truth life.
I'm sure I'll have some sort of graph or diagram by the end of the day.