|Pop! Goes the otters....
||[Oct. 3rd, 2012|03:30 pm]
Here’s the problem: The thing that keeps you from going around the bend…is the very thing it’s so hard to get to…when you’re about to go around the bend.|
When the pressure’s high and deadlines are tight and there are ten million things to do, it’s CRUCIAL that you carve out time, ideally before you’re launched into the fray, to plan it out, make a list, prioritize. But WAAAAAAH, you don’t have time because you’re already late with twenty million things and someone’s going to DIE if you don’t throw your body on that task/kerfuffle right NOW.
Probably no one’s going to die. And while the situation could get worse while you’re working on your little plan for the day…you’ll keep a lot of other things from getting worse and definitely accomplish more if you get your expletive together first.
Center yourself. Plan and prepare. Pick your likely accomplishments and then attack. Why is that so bloody hard to remember? You may envy me my ease with words, immense vocabulary and verbal otterplay. But seriously, nearly fifty years (okay, I’ve probably only been working on it for twenty) of trying to make that a habit and I STILL wake up to find myself in a self-destructive loop of stress-overwhelmed-failure-depression-panic-stress. And two days of making myself follow basic time management practices and I’m fine. Oh, still totally behind, overwhelmed, never-going-to-get-it-all-done – but mellow and okay with it. A priority grid = Xanax for me. Just I really suck at remembering to take medicine.
And writing? Keeps me sane. What do I drop first when the X hits the fan? Writing. Moron.
Speaking of which – I follow a lot of secularist/humanist/atheist bloggers. And the advertisements, oddly enough, tend to be for religious organizations. And the Mormons are in the middle of a full on press to reassure the rest of us that they’re JUST LIKE US. Mothers, immigrants, people of color…the only white guys are handsome, longish haired dudes engaging in falconry or some oddball artsy thing. I wouldn’t notice except that the tagline of the campaign is “I’m a Mormon.” Which the side of my eye ALWAYS reads at Moron. Which is not a slam on Mormonism, intentionally, although clearly there’s some part of my brain that’s going there.
And that’s the annoying thing about letting stress and overwork get out of control: I give up the writing because I don’t have time to properly devote to crafting anything, once again forgetting that I don’t NEED an expletive outline. I don’t need a thesis to prove, a concept to deliver. “Moron” and I’m off and running. If you use “trigger” in the modern sense, which I DESPISE because it adds just one more soupcon of victimhood to having a problem, and ponder the words/thoughts that “trigger” my verbal otters to come out and play, it’s all of them, really. ALL of them. All the words.
It’s Torrone season! Turone, turrone, Turron, mandorlata, mandolato, nougat by any other name. I KNOW, it’s made with eggwhites and still I like it. Although I’m getting fussy in my dotage, preferring the soft (possibly because I just like to look at the word morbido on my food) to the hard, the French to the Italian/Spanish/Everyone else in the world, and it must have honey and pistachios or chocolate and hazelnuts. I love it. I shouldn’t. Eggwhites, hard bits mixed into a soft texture, and sweet. But my tastebuds will chase that whiff of honey down the entire freaking bar of it. That was my assignment one year at unnamed gourmet food store – to arrive at a world-class assortment of nougat products. You’d think I’d be sick of them – but here’s the secret: I honor the season. It’s traditionally an end of the year/Christmas product, although you can lay your hands on it all year long, certainly, but I will NOT. I get a bar now, when it first lands and I first see it. Then I will get a special secret stash of Provencal nougat for the holidays and then that’s it until next fall. Eating seasonally: it’s a good idea. While importing nougat from France is maybe not a big treading lightly on the earth win, still, would it be this special and make me this happy if I allowed myself to eat it year round? NO. All this being able to get whatever you want, whenever you want? Leads to unhappiness. You’re just going to have to keep looking harder for the next difficult to attain joy. MY calendar is filled with tiny joys year round. It’s almost time for the feather duvet! Yay!
(Yes, I’ve abandoned segues. I’m not in the mood. Deal.)
Dear Men: If I can smell you coming…you have too much cologne on. Please remember that women tend to have a better sense of smell. So if you can smell yourself, that is not a good sign. I should have to get inside your personal space to smell your cologne, not be able to trace your path around the office a half an hour after you’ve left, like some kind of upright bloodhound. Find a woman who will tell you the truth and then listen to her. And if you didn’t pay what seemed to be an exorbitant amount of money for it, throw it out. If you can get it at CVS, throw it out. If you’ve been wearing this same scent since high school, and you’re older than 25, throw it out. Seriously. ::shudder::
So, Ralph Lauren has contracted with a PLUS Size model. She’s a size 12. Wait, what? That’s still the “Misses” section, you morons. No, it gets better. Oh, yes, she’s 150+ pounds, whoo-hoo! Fatty McFatterson! Wait, what? She’s six expletive feet and two inches tall? To put this in perspective, I am five foot, six inches maybe, it I stretch. And weigh 190. And take a size 14, sometimes 12. She is TEN inches taller than I am. TEN. I’m not a blimp, but I could stand to lose some. This woman is expletive perfect. Perfectly and stunningly beautiful. If she lived near me and I had to look at her too often, I’d probably just expire of inadequacy. Right now I’m hanging on to the possibility that she has a nasal voice, honks when she laughs, and finds reading hard. (Get BACK, Inadequacy, get BACK.)
Some days, remembering that you have a jar of pickled okra stashed away in one of your desk drawers is the thing that keeps you from losing your nut.
Three more weekends to go, my faire friends. Which is about two weekends past the point where the cleanliness of my house reaches “inexorable decay” status and I think that the relentless, rollicking pace of work, faire, other faire, laundry, ZombieGeezerCat, yard maintenance, Scary Perry, inability to make any progress on house projects and general lack of enough sleep is going to kill me. Although the fun and happy is keeping neck and neck, so as long as I don’t die of exhaustion, I’ll be okay. I will give myself this credit: the house has never, ever looked this not-completely-slovenly-only-partially this far into the faire season.