|Oh, look at all the acorns I've hidden...
||[Aug. 31st, 2010|03:57 pm]
Yes, I know, you thought I disappeared. And I keep promising I’ll be back and then there’s just a freaking wasteland of nothing-posting. Well, no promises today. Last night was the first night home since August 11th where I was not packing/unpacking/planning packing. Of course, since for the last several weeks, I essentially come home, dump out the suitcase on the floor of the bedroom and then re-pack said suitcase with something else...it does mean that I will now spend the next two weeks doing laundry, folding laundry and putting away laundry. And beating myself up for not finishing the laundry yet. But, hey, ya takes ya islands of solace where ya can. |
Kicking myself for not planting more cutting flowers for late summer...ruining my good and supportive run of always having a small vase of blossoms on my desk. Until I came to my senses and cut a small bunch of rosemary and Russian sage and now my cube smells AWESOME. AWESOME. Except now I'm craving lambchops. Good thing I didn't bring in mint as well. Whoops, thought about it. Guess the Captain will be making mojitos tonight.
Today’s lesson from nature: not everything has to have a flower in order to make you happy.
A colleague said to me “Wow, you’re really all emperor-has-no-clothes, aren’t you?” Which, if you know me, is pretty damn accurate. Plus, I adore the phrasing. I would have a total girl-crush on her if she weren’t my mother’s age. Which leads me to wonder if an almost 50 year old woman should be talking about having girl-crushes. To which my head confidently replies “of course you can!” Except that I can clearly remember being a teenager and being grossed out by the very thought that people in their forties would think they were still in the game. (It’s very busy in my head.)
I mean, okay, being a teenager means you ooze contempt for the antics of your elders, by definition. But still, moments of self-consciousness arise from thinking of what I would have thought, as a teenager, of my “antics” as an oldster. And I savagely repress the imaginings of what a teenage boy or even a twenty-something young man would think of me feeling desirable. I’m sure I could still score a thirty-something, so I’ll hang on to that and talk myself into believing it’s confidence and not a life buoy. I don’t know why it matters, it’s not like I even want to troll that far below my age cohort. But to be thought of as ridiculous or pathetic....auugh, auggh, remember, if you're the only naked girl in the room, that's good enough for most men, and some women. And if you brought another girl along, you've increased your odds. I'm all about increasing the odds. Which is why I always keep a healthy stock of booze. In case I forgot the girl.
Maybe I’m just feeling sensitive because on a business trip this week, the waitress carded everyone (and there were 14 of us) at the table – even people in their late thirties and early forties – but not the one guy who was 60+ or ME. Seriously?
Plus I put on five pounds while on vacation and five more pounds while on this business trip (long air flights, I have to distract myself with a constant intake of food, or my restless legs cause me to jump up screaming, which used to be amusing, but in a post 9/11 world is now sort of dangerous) so I’m feeling all self-recriminating about that.
Thank goodness for all of my lovely friends at Faire, who do such a wonderful job of boosting my self-esteem and give “I’m fat, I’m old, nobody wants me, nobody likes me” a right smack upside the head. It needed one.
Self confidence is like an old bicycle tire. If you don’t take a pump to it every once in a while, it just slowly deflates. Sadly, the tire around my hips appears to be some kind of new-fangled non-deflating kind of a thing. Figures. (Note to self: use six packs of beer to hide naked thighs)
And seriously, there are now three late afternoon crunching colleagues in my area of the veal pens. This is brutally unfair to someone who’s trying to convince herself that the salad I had an hour ago is going to get me through until 7pm. I would put my ear buds in so I don’t have to listen to the siren call of potato chips, but I have, in the last two days, twice ripped out an earring, while trying to pull out the buds quickly. No more, until I upgrade to headphones. So that instead of just ripping out the earring, I can get all tangled up and stuck. My lack of fine motor skills, let me show you it.
Yeah, sure okay, X% of Facebook is a waste, but seriously, when it inspires stuff like this, I will wade through posts about someone I barely know needing a cup of coffee so that I can get stuff like this:
A sales rep, in middle of a running commentary about someone’s else’s children, described them as “so cute I could poop”. When you are yourself cute, petite and have a thick southern accent, this is adorable. If I said that very same phrase, I would immediately grind the conversation to a halt and people would make confused or ew-faces. Do not bitch about not being able to reach the top shelf, small one, for you have advantages my kind will never enjoy. Plus, if I punch you hard, it might just kill you. See previous comment about lack of fine motor skills. I may not mean it, but that won't mean it can't happen.