Somethin' about nothin'

How many times can one person move in a life time? As I sit here and think about it, I can’t help but wonder if it’s my constant desire to grow, or did being raised in a military family unknowingly make me part nomad? Perhaps it’s simply the desire to find a place that better fits who I’ve become?  Whoa…too deep…let’s move on…

Wikipedia defines moving as: the process of leaving one dwelling and settling in another

Well that’s breaking it down to almost nothing, but how can almost nothing result in so much stress and frustration when the original idea is filled with excitement? There’s an emotional component to moving that cannot be defined by an encyclopedia or dictionary. It’s far more than “the process of leaving one dwelling and settling in another”, and it’s that emotional component that makes our families and friends cringe when they hear the words “will you help me move”. The mere mention or even suspicion of the process has people showing how well they mastered the oh-so-famous disappearing act as a child.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not criticizing here. I’m just thinking that we need to rethink how we define things. Maybe we need some sort of a reference guide on “what the facts don’t tell you” (more on that later). Either way, I’m determined to get some excitement back into this emotional process we call moving.

Just a quick shout out to those of you who called, emailed, yelled, or snail-mailed well wishes while I’ve been sick. I’d like my New Year’s resolution to be that I will no longer be a patient to the nearest hospital…but since I do not have absolute control over what’s around me I can only call that a hope and not a resolution. What I can resolve is to be hopeful that the New Year will bring health and happiness to us all. Thank you…

When did we all learn how to start a zipper? Preschool? Kindergarten? I have been able to start and zip since I can remember. So why is it that over the last year my ability to start a simple zipper resembles that of a 3yr old? I don’t get it.

I’m home alone, the dog is begging, it’s cold out, and every single casual jacket or sweater that I own has a zipper. I’m screwed! I spent 15 minutes trying to get my zipper started, gave up, and held my sweater closed for the next 20 minutes while I walked the dog in the cold wind. Is it any wonder why I can’t seem to shake this nasty cold?

After we finished our walk, I went through my closet on a mission to test every single zipper I own…and I could not get a single one started. Have I digressed that much? I’m not even 40 and I’m already having trouble. What will happen when I’m 50? Will I be forced to wear cushioned mittens as a safe-guard from accidental self-inflicted wounds?

Okay, so that may be a bit of an exaggeration…I hope. What I do know is that I feel silly asking my 17yr old daughter or my love to zip my sweater or jacket for me. Does anyone know where I can get “How to Start a Zipper, for Dummies”? I can’t seem to find it on Amazon.

For now I guess I’ll swallow my pride, ask for help, and start to convert my wardrobe to buttons. Yes, you heard me…I’m moving to buttons.

Life has been a bit crazy and I have neglected all of my fans (okay, so there’s only 4 of you)…but hey, I’ve almost moved to needing a second hand to do the counting!  :)

It seems like there’s never enough time in the day. It’s 10pm before I realize that only a percentage of my to-do list is done, there’s still laundry and dishes begging to be washed, and the dog is doing whatever she can to get me to walk her. I try to will the dishes and laundry to wash themselves but I have yet to learn how to manipulate inanimate objects with my mind. (sigh)  As for the dog, well, she hasn’t quite learned how to open the front door. Unfortunately, the to-do list will spill in to tomorrow and will continue to grow. So for those of you who have asked where I’ve been, (thank you, mom, sis), I’ve been caught up in life.

Whoa…did I just say that? I sound like my mom (sorry mom).

Ugh!

Okay…but is Mom rocking out to Rachid Taha, Mc Solar, Nadiya, and a little Nacho Vega?  I think not. iTunes is blaring…okay, not quite blaring. The volume is closer to a 4…but if necessary, it can go up to 11. Why not 10? Ummm, because it goes up to 11. Oh yeah!

Whew! I think I just talked myself out of feeling old, even after the “Spinal Tap” reference. Stay tuned for more…the long pause is over.

My baby brother is over six feet tall with a shaved head, tattoos, monster truck, and loves a good party…the big teddy bear. Every time I see him I can’t help but picture the little 4yr. old running through the tall grass fields in Washougal, WA. He was the toe-head of the group, so it was always easy to find him.

We lived at the top of a large hill, with our cousins house on one side and us on the other. At the bottom of this hill, and through many pine trees, was our bus stop.

We always feared this bus stop because of the abandoned bear cave on the other side of the dirt road. It was dark, damp, and the most terrifying sounds would escape through the blackness. Granted, it was only  when the wind whipped through it…but for any young child to hear a dark cave moan and howl is nightmare producing material at best.

We were scared to death of that cave and would often times stay at the top of our favorite tree for hours until we were sure it was safe to run home.

Well, kids will be kids and I very clearly remember my dear baby brother being especially annoying one day, so we quite eagerly told him that we saw the bear/monster and it was by the entrance of the cave. Our description was of course the most gruesome description two 7yr olds and one 6yr old could conjure up.

…and we may have elaborated on how this imaginary bear was going to swallow him whole because he’s small and blonde. (Hey, we were kids…the rationale worked for us.) He climbed the tree as fast as his little body could manage while screaming in his 4yr old way that no bear was capable of catching Spiderman (this was during the time of the oh so fabulous Underoos).

When we were sure that he was close to the top we turned to run back to the house to play…leaving him alone in the tree. We laughed at how easily our devilish plan came together, and for awhile we basked in our brilliance.

After what seemed like a few hours, our mom noticed that he was missing and started to ask questions. This is the point in time where she mutated into something you’d be more apt to see in a Poltergeist movie (without the vomit). Flames began to shoot out of her ears, nose, and mouth. Her head started to spin and her eyes bugged out of her head as she declared that our own heads were going to roll if we continued to remain silent. Let’s just say that we were no longer basking and had a serving of humble pie instead. Darn Moms always spoil the fun.

After mom wrapped up the lesson in humility, obedience, and brotherly love, I was “nominated” by her to be the one to go back out to get him…

(ugh!)

(drat!)

(I dragged my feet as slowly as possible)

(stupid brother, scared by an imaginary bear)

(I checked to make sure that my path was clear from any bears.)

And then I saw him.

Suddenly, this this wave of guilt moved through me. What is this new feeling? Why do I feel so terrible and why won’t it go away?

Tears were streaming down his small face, leaving a trail through the dirt mask he was wearing. My raccoon looking brother was scared and crushed…and my heart began to break. At that moment I swore I’d never leave him stranded in a tree again. Mind you…I was young, so to me this meant that it was entirely acceptable to still continue to pick on him. Leaving him in a tree however was where my line was firmly drawn.

Okay, so the bear scaring thing was off limits too. Besides, he didn’t need any help in that category. We were all scared, and continued to be until we moved away when my sister and I were in the 4th grade. Our move took us to where bear caves and trees no longer existed…but other monsters, even more terrifying than our bear monster, seemed to scream at us from every building we entered. How would I protect my brother from this new beast when we were surrounded by them at all times? They were called slot machines…and that’s another story.

It’s a sickness, I know…but what’s a girl to do? Every time I walk into an office supply store I get as wide-eyed as a kid in a candy store. Why? Because I somehow created this need to be extremely organized. Not just somewhat organized, like most people on the planet…extremely organized. The challenge being, this is not a natural part of my personality.  Why then am I plagued with this need? No, wait…it’s not a need so much as a desire. I’m almost embarrassed to say that I long for it.

(sigh)

Two weeks ago I found myself wandering through an office supply store and I couldn’t help myself. I purchased file folders, post-it’s, a file holder, pens. As most of you know, I have a home office, so to make such a purchase is completely normal…to the unknowing that is. My home office was already well stocked. You see, these are “special” file folders. They’re re-usable. They even have a special pen where I can re-label the tabs, and they’re clear so that I can easily see them or use a some form of color coding. I’ve found a system where I can be organized and do my part to save the planet! That’s all the justification this girl needs! I was almost giddy with excitement…ok, not quite giddy…but I was anxious to put my new discovery into action. As soon as I returned home I put my first folder into my laptop bag, and it was used the next day. I loved it.

Now, two weeks later, I walk by the rest of the pile, and like that little Geico character, it’s still staring at me...waiting, and waiting. I want to find organizational nirvana, believe me I do, but my spontaneous side has already moved on to something new and what was once exciting has now turned into a chore. You see, I long to be extremely organized, but I simply do not have the attention span to support such an activity…thus, the sickness.

What can I say? I’m in sales, and just like most other sales reps I have the attention span of a flea. Well, maybe not quite a flea. Maybe a teenager.

Is it just me or are the 80’s alive again, for the 10th time this decade? I mean seriously…do we really need to see people running around in 3 ring tube socks, tutu’s, leg warmers, and stretch pants? Didn’t we all get our fill way back when? Is it really necessary to torture our children with it? There must be someone in the fashion world sitting behind his curtain, microphone in hand, booming his altered godlike voice out onto the fashion elite convincing them that the 80’s are alive…all while hitting the mute button every time he starts to laugh. We’re not in Kansas anymore folks.

Sure, I remember being in junior high and high school thinking that things could not get any better than this. Of course I was wrong, and as I matured wisdom did start to creep in. I know better now and cannot help but wonder what happened to the creative genius that grew stronger and stronger as each generation found it’s way into the working world…until lately. Perhaps they were scarred in pre-school? Who knows…but as far as this chick’s concerned. 80’s RIP.