They Say the Third Time is the Charm

And we all need a little Charm in our lives, am I right? Happy Monday!

Me, reflecting on my activities for the past week:

  • Finished a writing assignment on giving presentations.

Check.

  • Started the Podcast, “Terri goes to Doctoral School”.

Riveting, I promise.

  • Began to write my third novel (for the third time).

WTF?  No really.

Yes, it has been a busy week for most people, but just another dizzy day in paradise for me.

Better in Time (the working title) is in progress. I am a firm believer in outlines, for books, articles, letters, email, text messages, and Tik Tok. Type-A personality meets excessive compulsive disorder meets senior citizen angst. That’s some scary shit when you think about it. I thought about writing about cats, as I love them so much, but I get so attached to my characters.

Don’t judge. And stay clear of my yard. I throw things at people…cantaloupes and such. My therapist is in hiding. I wonder if I finally broke her.

So, you are asking (if you’re still awake), what is this new novel about? I’m so glad you asked! Better in Time is of the Historical Fiction genre, and is set in the province of Quebec, Canada at the turn of the century. Most of Canada’s French-speaking citizens live in Quebec, and studying its history and culture has been a hobby of mine for some time.

In case you are unfamiliar with the historical fiction genre, writing such a novel can be quite challenging. I became obsessed with historical fiction after becoming obsessed with a modern American author named Kristin Hannah, and her amazing ability to transform the reader to war-torn Europe during World War II. If you have not experienced one of Kristin Hannah’s novels, please give her a read. You will not regret it. I recommend beginning with The Nightingale. After that, please try my favorite of all her novels, The Four Winds. I have read it three times. Make sure you have a box of tissues for each book, however. You are going to need them.

Well, what do you know? I went off-topic yet again!

I’m nothing if not unapologetically chaotic.

Thank you for visiting my bloggy space/dining room/office/writer’s retreat and confessional. Sorry for the mess. It was such a monumental step moving from the outline to the first chapter of my new novel, I’m going to need a moment to collect my thoughts and find my joy. Peace. Love. Joy to you all!

All Online Universities are Not the Same

Deciding to go back to college (or attending for the first time) is exciting. There are many important decisions to make. The first and the best advice I would give is not to sign up for the first online college you come across. They are vastly different, and I am well-equipped to say so, as I have first-hand experience with jumping into things without thinking. I’m a jumper. In schools. In relationships. In life.

It’s a struggle, people.

So, I recently transferred from Grand Canyon University to Northcentral University.

Why, for crying out loud? That danged little voice in my head is taking over. My apologies. She’s clingy.

Truthfully, I enjoyed my half year at GCU, but there were a few things that just were not a good fit for me. Grand Canyon is a faith-based school, and I confess I did know that going in. However, I was so compelled by their approach to the dissertation, I jumped in with both feet. I was assured there would be no obligation to the religious aspects, and there were not many. However, there were a few.

I am a very private person when it comes to my faith, as I have elaborated enough in my blog. I am not a proponent of religion in higher learning unless, of course, that is one’s concentration of study. Long story, even longer…..I was doing fine until my third class. The instructor was extremely “faithful” and let us all know it every day. I dealt with it, and it didn’t really bother me because she didn’t force anything on me. Things changed when there was a required religion question on a major assignment which would have forced me toward a full answer on my religious beliefs. This was unacceptable to me. I ended up answering something like, “I am more spiritual than would fit in normal religion categories, so I feel I am not equipped to answer this question”. The instructor was lenient and did not mark my grade lower because of my answer, and I did appreciate that.  

It made me think that I should look elsewhere for a school that could provide a better fit. Working toward a doctorate is a grueling, arduous, all-consuming journey that could last several years, and anyone signing up for it needs to find a doctoral program that is welcoming and provides an environment (even when online) conducive to their core beliefs and comfort level.

Bottom line. Don’t settle. In higher education. In relationships. In life. You matter, as do I.

And yes, I am happy at my new school. They are all-inclusive and welcoming. I feel it already. I’m going to do okay at Northcentral University.

See y’all at graduation!

Okay, that’s a tad premature. Don’t judge. I’m nothing if not embarrassingly optimistic. And scholarly. Don’t forget scholarly…

Thank you for visiting my blog. Everyone is welcome, no matter your beliefs. As long as you are peace-loving. Be kind and find your joy!

Mature Women and Hot Weather

Upon further reflection of this post’s title, I fear readership may decline for lack of interest. Maybe I should have titled it, “Hot, Mature Women,” or “Mature Women get Hot.” One wonders how far one might go for readership. All that being said, the title remains as is, and this hot, mature woman shall press on. And what the hell, you have gotten this far; you may as well accompany me.

Pretty please.

Hell is alive and well in Georgia. Temps are in the high 90s and humidity is hovering around two or three hundred percent, give or take.

It sure as hell feels like hell.

We women of a certain age are not only mature, but we are also wise. We will not be doing any porch sitting in this heat unless, of course, the power bill was not paid. I certainly hope we are way too wise for that, ladies! Of course, if you still have a husband, he obviously forgot to pay the bill. He owes you! May I offer you some advice? Make his cheap ass take you to a hotel during this Georgia Hell and turn the air-conditioning to the ‘polar bear’ setting. He does not have to stay if he misses that porch…make sure he knows that. When he leaves, rejoice and order room service.

You are welcome.

I think it is highly unfair that men can go shirtless, but women must cover-up. It really should be the other way around. After all, we women have a lot more to show off. Just imagine going out to mow the lawn, wearing a t-shirt and a freaking bra (because god-forbid your boobs might jiggle), instantly dripping in sweat, and cursing at global warming. Taking one’s shirt off would not only cool one down but would beautify the neighborhood. Remember, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Fuck your neighbors if they don’t see the beauty. Their boobs probably sag, too, and I’m not just talking about the female neighbors. Have you seen saggy men-boobs? On the upside, the entertainment value of your property would probably rise exponentially. But may I offer you some advice? Maybe just chuck the whole lawn-mowing plan and have ice cream instead. If that drips on your boobs, instant coolness!  Win-win situation.

Once again, you are welcome. I am nothing if not a woman with a plethora of unsolicited ideas.

In my never-ending quest to find the good in growing older, it only occurred to me the other day that we mature women have the ability to turn uncomfortable situations in our favor. Next time you are sitting on that porch (and this only works when you are not alone), start fanning yourself, up and down, all over. Complain in no uncertain terms that, “It is hotter than deep-fried hell.” Repeat as necessary, until you have gained sympathy from anyone within earshot. Then, revel in your success as someone offers you a cold beverage. Ladies, we no longer have to be the ones who serve. Make sure to order exactly what pleases you. You want to make good on this getting older crap.

After all, Matriarchs Matter. Am I right??

Thank you for visiting my special bloggy place. I may get a little cranky when those damned kids are on my lawn, but I am delighted to see you here! Please comment below if you are so inclined. Have a fabulous day, be kind, and find your joy. And kiss your favorite matriarch. I heard that doing so brings good luck.

TIK TOK. There is no stop.

I have a new addiction. Sans the intellect and any delicate sensibilities I may have nurtured over the years, I managed to have fallen under the spell of tiny fast-talking dogs, fluffy felines with attitude, teaching teachers, dancing dancers, singing singers, ranting republicans, and a partridge in a pear tree.

TIC TOK. For crying out loud, I have landed right smack in the middle of Crazytown. Stop the train, I want off!

If only.

If you have not heretofore, experienced the magical ridiculousness of the Tik Tok, you need to run the other way, fast as you can. However, if you choose to continue toward the light, be afraid. Be very afraid. There are sights you have never witnessed. Sights you never wanted to witness. Sights that make you wish you didn’t have sight.

But you can’t stop watching, can you?

Let’s assume you completely disregarded the above advice, and ventured into the TIK TOK app, promising yourself you would just take a little peek. The first thing you see is a grown man in a tutu, wielding a wand (which you assume is for granting wishes?). You feel somewhat excited and are quite convinced that there are good people floating around somewhere in the universe. TIK TOK must be a good thing! A place you want to be…

UmmmHmmm…

Let’s talk about earworms. The next TIK TOK pops up, and a little chihuahua is trying to convince his human that they must go to MacDonald’s. He is successful in his quest and off they go. Suddenly “Macarena” is blasting on their car radio and the tiny dog is bobbing his head to the music. It’s riveting, I tell you. This is good stuff.

Except that it will be days before that song leaves your brain.

Next appears a lovely lesbian couple getting married. Ah, so beautiful! At this point, you are convinced that you are in the right place and TIK TOK was meant just for you.

Ummm…not exactly. I hate to burst your “love is love” bubble, but the TIK TOK app works like the others. By using algorithms, rendering words into figures, exploiting mathematical similarities, using meditation and reflection, waving the talking stick, ignoring all reasoning, chanting and performing tribal dances, and the regular infusion of medicinal gummi bears, TIK TOK is able to entertain everyone from toddlers to the most highly educated and enlightened without hesitation or remorse. It’s really quite fascinating. I am hopelessly hooked.

Once you have been using TIK TOK for a certain length of time, you are put into a category, whether you like it or not. This is not specified, so you will not realize it right away, but for example, at least every other TIK TOK I watch has something to do with lesbians. I am not complaining, mind you. That’s totally my jam. That being said, they took away some of my little talking dogs and cute kitty cats. I miss them. They are my emotional-support animals, and now I am at risk of a nervous breakdown. I am also missing the TIK TOKs of all the different groups dancing to the exact same toon. If you don’t understand from whence I speak, think back to the old days and those Halloween dances, and everyone getting out on the floor to offer their own renditions of the “Thriller” dance. Remember that? Do you also remember that not everyone had mastered the dance? Some were not, shall we say, dancing machines, but rather just drunk. Well, TIK TOK has lots of dancing videos, and some are quite addictive. Some, however, awaken your scrolling finger, as you try to find something better with which to waste your time.

Ah, but it is entirely too late for you. Just scroll on to the next TIK TOK. Lean into your obsessions. Feed your hunger for third-grade humor, giggling babies, and that dude who twirls a towel while dancing with a line of other men to “Here Comes the Hotstepper.”

You cannot move mountains. TIK TOK will now be part of your daily existence. For how long, you ask? Well, my guess is until someone comes up with a 12-step program. ‘Accept the things you cannot change’ and all that sort of thing. Good luck. You might need to rearrange your schedule and maybe even delete some activities to make room for your TIK TOK time.

I may have to drop out of Doctoral School…

Thank you for visiting my little bloggy universe. So happy to see you all. I think my membership may have grown to five by now. Progress! Please Comment below if you are so inclined. And check out the rest of my blog, where you will witness my mission to change the world, one mind-numbing post at a time. Have a beautiful day, people, be kind, and find your joy.

I Lied to the Preacher

Reverend Mike came to my door today. I do not remember Mike’s last name; in fact, Mike may not even be his first name, but for purposes of my confession, we will go with Mike. Also, for purposes of my confession, here is a little back-story on Mike. I was engulfed in my school work, minding my own damned business, writing one of my endless doctoral masterpieces, when a knock at the door brought me back to reality. I was mildly annoyed at this intrusion of my time, but being the kind and patient person I am, I meandered to the door and swung it open. Before me stood a big dude, and he looked a bit like a cop, but not a sexy cop. An overweight, balding, sweating, impatient cop. I did not recognize the uniform, but to be perfectly honest, I am new here. My idea of a Georgia police officer is pretty much the image I witnessed on my porch, so I assumed he was a cop. Immediate thoughts ran through my head:

What did I do? Who is dead? Do I have any illegal substances in my house? If I slam the door in his face, will he go away? Should I call 9-1-1 because the dude is really sweating? And, will I get one phone call if he takes me to jail, because I really need two phone calls, one to call my sister who lives nearby, and the other to call her daughter because my sister won’t answer her phone during nap time.

He stood there staring at me while I was doing all that thinking, which made me wonder if I had been saying all my thoughts out loud.

So I smiled until I was done thinking. Mike waited patiently, but he was still sweating.

Turns out, Mike was not a cop, and was indeed, a preacher. After further reflection for an awkward length of time, I found my voice, and said, “Hello, may I help you?”

Reverend Mike was here to invite me to the yearly Memorial Day Weekend Tent Revival at the local baptist church. It is happening tonight through Thursday, June 2nd. For those of you who have been shopping for a tent revival, now is your chance to get on over there and get your share of salvation. It is free, but they pass the plate, so don’t even think about showing up without money.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the good Reverend…

After extending said invitation, Reverend Mike offered a big smile, and handed me a brochure and a flyer, complete with schedule, driving directions, phone numbers, and a popup “A” to pin to my chest while attending the revival. Okay, that last item was made up, but my imagination was going wild, thinking what the crowd would do if they knew I was a bonified, card-carrying lesbian…..not a concealed weapon carrier like they were used to.

Spine shuddering stuff to ponder, indeed.

So, I smiled back to Reverend Mike, accepted the brochure and flyer, and said, “That sounds lovely. I will try to make it if I can find the time”.

I LIED TO A PREACHER!!!

I haven’t a clue as to why I would lie, because I have no intention of attending such a gathering of which I have no business, interest, or inclination.

But he was smiling. And sweating.

My apologies, Reverend Mike. I confessed to my readers, all two of them. Sometimes I only open my mouth long enough to change feet.

It’s a struggle, people. Try to stay true to yourself, be kind, find your joy.

And confess when you lie to a preacher. That’s just wrong…

Thank you for visiting my blog. I love it when you stop by! If you see Reverend Mike, please don’t tell him you know me. He might not be happy with your being associated with a liar. (Sorry Reverend Mike).

Hola Friends!

Doctoral Dreaming. It’s a thing…

I thought it was about time I made a blog entry! I have been knee-deep into this doctoral school stuff, and on most of my days, my brain is pretty fried. I had not realized it would be similar to a full-time job, with overtime. Non-paid overtime. In fact, non-paid anything. Oh, wait! They get paid, not me. I just get the loss of sleep (from assignment deadlines), droopy eyeballs (from all the reading! So much reading), arthritis (in my fingers from all the writing. So much writing!) But someday, I will get that Doctorate Degree, and it will have been worth all the effort, to be quite honest. I love it, even if I do tend to whine, drool, curse, pull my hair, gripe, flip other drivers off, talk to myself, scare kids off my lawn, and eat my feelings. Worth it all!!

But I digress…

So, what have you been doing? I miss the blog. I really need to visit more often. I began writing my third book, also, but that ended badly. I had a nice outline, but trying to switch between creative writing on the book, and academic writing for school was near impossible. The two styles are so unique to their respective genres and require completely different structures, I just could not manage the time or patience it would require juggling both consecutively.

But the book will get written. The storyline is compelling. The characters are fun. It will happen when I am once again, fun, and compelling. Well, fun. I do not know about the compelling part. Tired is probably a better adjective for me at this time. I need to color my hair. I need to buy some clothes other than sweatpants, pajamas, and T-shirts. I need to leave my house occasionally. I need to get some sun. In fact, my Vitamin D is low, and the doctor put me on supplements. I think she wonders if I live in a gopher hole. Back to the things I need. I need a lady friend. Not a lady who is a friend, but a lady friend. If that does not make sense to you, then you probably do not want to know. Trust me.

Wow, 373 words ago I started this post, and I have virtually said nothing. My apologies. Next time, I promise to deliver something that will either make you laugh, make you think, or make you move on to the next blog. It is all good…

Have a great Mother’s Day, all you moms. If either of my sons read this, I love you. And I need a coffee maker (preferably a Keurig), a vacuum, and/or gas money, chocolate, or a good historical fiction novel. Or a lady friend, if you happen to see one. Just ship her on over.

Thank you for visiting my blog. I hope you return again and again, as I need the company and I love attention. Please feel free to leave a comment if you are so inclined. Kindness, please. We do not do hate on this blog. We are lovers. Of kindness.

February. Not my best look.

February. I am not a fan. February has it out for me. Every year, I wait to see the hammer drop, or however that old saying goes, and something always happens. This year, I want a boring, uneventful February, please and thank you! Less is more. We need to focus on less and sleep more. Or at least climb into our beds and hide from the mean, cruel, unforgiving universe. Who’s with me?

Damn, I sound like I am on some serious downers.

But I do not partake in downers; I am not even sure what they are. I just wanted to sound cool. Failed again. Eating one’s feelings can have that effect. I had pork chops tonight for dinner, with a hamburger chaser. I just couldn’t decide. I seriously only wanted something on which to apply a splat of ketchup. I had a craving. Don’t judge. You could be a dork, too, and just have not realized it yet.

I married both my husbands in the month of February. Not at the same time; however, that might have been more interesting, and maybe more fun. Middle age was banging on my door by the time I fully realized I belonged with women. I did procure two fabulous sons from the marriages, though. And thank god, neither were in February.

I was in a bad rollover when I was 38, on February 13th. Yes it was a Friday. I was in a van with seven other workmates, headed to Vegas for the long weekend. We were about four hours away and the woman driving at the time overcorrected on some black ice. It was an ugly day, and nothing to joke about. I did lose a shoe in the wreckage, though. I went into shock after we crashed, and was told later that I wandered around the crash site, hobbling on one shoe, until the ambulance arrived. The paramedics cut my favorite jean jacket off me. I would have taken it off for them. I guess they assumed I couldn’t move, but I was just tired from all that shoe searching. And my foot was frozen. And I was in mourning for not being able to go to Vegas. I had a coffee can full of quarters with me, just waiting to be fed into those glorious video poker machines! I felt robbed. Now I would have to roll those damned quarters and take them to the bank.

I had two takeaways from that accident: 1) I saved money, because I was a gambling addict and would have hit the ATM 30 minutes after arriving, and, 2) My paramedic was a hottie.

Turned out I had three compression fractures from the ordeal and ended up in the hospital, and then home from work for months. There was nothing funny about that either, but our two dogs loved having me as their couch mate. After a few weeks, however, they just considered me their snack bitch, and ignored me the rest of the time.

The struggle is real, people.

A few years later, I was in intensive care with a blood pressure spike. Also February 13th. Also a Friday. I had only been seeing my new partner for a few weeks when it happened, and I was told she was really frightened for me. I didn’t notice because I was serving up my guts to the gods, via the floor, the bed, the bathroom, and my partner. She must have really felt sorry for me because she stuck around for 21 years. Happy Valentine’s Day in heaven, Joan. This crazy post is for you. I’m being careful, so don’t worry. After all, it is February and, even though shit happens in February, I know you’re looking out for me.

Oh yeah, one more thing. I just started my second doctoral class, and they gave me a different professor. It just about broke my heart. But that was actually in January, so I guess it doesn’t count. But I miss him. He had more patience with me than anyone should have with an old lady. I already feel sorry for my new professor.

Three Things I Stole

Today’s post is brought to you by the Number Three.

Three is a significant number for me, obviously, in that three, or a sum thereof, was the number of things I stole from relatives while they were providing me with a much needed place to stay until I got my shit together. It’s time to come clean. I am nothing if not blatantly late at confession.

To those family members involved, I have no remorse, but I do have three fabulous items in my home that now belong to me. Don’t judge me. I had an excuse. I always do. And you love me anyway. Don’t forget that.

Three Things I Stole from my Relatives over the Past Six Months:

I never knew this about myself, but I attach inanimate objects with people I love. It’s a thing. Last June, as I was packing up and preparing to leave Boise and my son and his family behind, I stole a Tablespoon of theirs right out of the drawer. I stole it like a boss. I didn’t feel sleazy. I didn’t feel guilty. I just felt for the spoon, grabbed it, and hid it in my Broncos bag in my room. That spoon is now in my drawer, in my little apartment, and every morning, I eat my oatmeal using my spoon. I would apologize to my son and his family, but I am not sorry. That spoon represents them. I hold that spoon and feel closer to them. It probably makes zero sense to anyone but me, but so be it.

My spoon now!

The second thing I stole was in September at my Dad and his wife Donna’s house in Georgia. I am sure you know the story if you are a regular reader of my blog, and if you’re not, you should be. It’s the third most popular blog around. Okay, I made that up because I am stuck on threes. I can’t help it, just like I couldn’t help stealing an old towel from Dad’s house. I had been using it to dry my hair, and got really attached to it. I stole it like a boss, throwing it in my dirty clothes basket, and stashing it in my van while Dad and Donna went to town. That old towel is now in my linen closet, holding a very special place in my heart….displayed in the center of the shelf, and perfectly folded in (wait for it) thirds. I love that towel. I love Dad and Donna. They won’t mind. I swear I didn’t steal anything else.

My towel now!

That brings us to my sister. My sweet, short, sassy and fabulous little sister. She has more patience with me than should be allowed, and does not deserve a thief in her home. I lived there for two months while waiting for my apartment to come available. She made me coffee at least ten days in a row until I finally learned how to work the coffee pot. She gave me countless directions on how to get to town, and I am still not sure how to get there. She took instant naps right in the middle of my stories about the old days. It was during one of those naps, I stole a cereal bowl right out of the dish drainer. I stole it like a boss, walked right past her while she was snoozing in her chair, and hid it in an old bag I used for my toiletries. I love that bowl. I am not sure if it is a cereal bowl because it might be a small mixing bowl. It is one of a kind, and so is my sister. That bowl now resides in MY dish drainer, and hasn’t been used since I moved in to my little place. Sorry not sorry, LIL Sis. You snooze, you lose.

My bowl now!

Thanks for visiting my blog. I hope you return again and again. I promise more craziness, but I can’t promise I won’t steal your heart. GOSH, that was sappy. Forgive me. Everyone knows I will do anything for more readers.

Worldviews

With the holiday break almost over, I resume my doctoral studies later this week. I am actually pretty excited to get back to it, as I have thus far thoroughly enjoyed my return to academia. That being said, there is an upcoming assignment that has me thinking.

And I still have four days left before I am required to do this thinking stuff. But here goes…

The subject of a person’s worldview has me intrigued, and I am indeed….thinking. My original idea about worldviews only encompassed the raw definition residing in my head, which was, “how one sees the world through one’s own eyes.” Okay, I also realized that a person’s upbringing, beliefs (religion, spirituality, or lack thereof), geographical location, philosophy of life, family, and academic knowledge also aid in shaping their worldview. After doing quite a bit of reading and research, I realized I did not know there are a vast amount of defined and an endless amount of undefined worldviews in our, um, world.

News Flash and chronic understatement follows:

We are not all the same!

I know, Lucy! It boggles the mind!

If only that were the end of my thinking on this. I told myself, “Self, just accept it and move on.” And I did, for the most part. And then that little irritating part of my brain that won’t let me “move on,” so to speak, just kept slapping me with questions and emotions and heartburn (that last thing was actually from the BBQ I ate for supper).

But the questions and emotions kept coming….

So, since we are not all alike, why are there so many freaking people in this country opposed to others not exactly like them? If it is a well-known fact (and it is) that we are not the same, that means we are not supposed to be the same, doesn’t it? And, if your religious beliefs are that we are made in God’s image, then that makes ALL of us the same, even though we are not the same. Seems clear enough.

Ah, but if only that really explained everything.

What about all those people who are not religious? Are they all going to hell? Do you have any idea how many people in this world are not religious? I don’t know exactly, but there is a shitload. And what about those people who are spiritual but not in the Christianity way, such as Buddhism, and Native American tribal beliefs. Are those people all going to hell?

Hard to send them to hell when they don’t believe in it in the first place. And the fact that sending people to hell is totally out of our paygrade. It is just too ridiculous to fathom.

All the research I’ve done so far has been fascinating. I am a person with an open mind, and I accept that our world is not mine alone, and I am but one very lucky human to still remain above ground, enjoying this wondrous miracle called life. My religious beliefs are private, and you will not hear or read me shouting them to the world. However, I firmly believe in the shouters, the worshipers, and yes, the non-worshipers, as well as those enlightened by science and our ecosystem.

We are the same, in that we are all not the same. It’s quite beautiful, when you think about it. Can’t we celebrate that, instead of…..well, you know as well as I do that we need to do some work in this area. I just ask that we all do some thinking. Couldn’t hurt. Oh! And did you know you can actually have more than one worldview? In fact, you can have lots! Boggles my brain, I tell ya. I love this stuff.

Thank you for visiting my blog. Sometimes I am funny. Sometimes I’m informative. Sometimes I’m just reflective, as we all are. I hope you will return again and again, as you are ALL welcome here, whatever your worldview! (Unless, of course, you choose to spread hate. If that’s the case, please move on.)

Jingle Balls

Have you ever been to Walmart two days before Christmas? If your answer is no, then honey, you ain’t lived a full life!! Oh!…The people, the cheer, the smells, the music, the lights!

But not quite as you might envision…

Let’s begin with the lights, shall we? Oh, there are lights, but the only ones left are either on the trees nobody wants, or in a package of 25 teeny tiny lights. Just one package. That’s all that is left. So good luck stretching that around your 9 foot tree for which you spent all day yesterday searching in the woods.

As for the music, everyone is aware of the piped in elevator-type Christmasy stuff they provide. But sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you’ll be in there to do some lengthy grocery shopping, and the music will be caught in a loop, and “Grandma Got Ran Over by a Reindeer” will become your earworm for life. Such fun!

Let’s talk about the SMELLS! Oh Mylanta! When you first walk in, you might be lucky enough to catch the aroma of MacDonald’s fries. But, let’s face it, you’re no luckier than I am, so you will probably smell some serious body odor as half the population of anywhere USA tries to cram through the door to get that last coveted pair of reindeer boxers. As you proceed through the store, you are infused with people from all walks of life. There are soiled baby diaper smells. There are bad breath and farts aplenty. There are soiled grandparent diaper smells. And let’s not forget Junior’s stinky feet! By the time you get through all of that, everyone is staring at you, wondering why you stink!

It’s a journey, people.

Ah, but there must be good cheer, right? After all, it is almost Christmas! Not to worry, because Uncle Max will be stumbling through the aisles, wreaking of beer, and other good cheer, and mumbling something inaudible, but strangely familiar. You forgive him because you’ve probably done something similar, or your best friend has. He knows not what he smokes. Somebody call him a cab, please.

Last but not least. The people. Because that’s what it’s all about, anyway. We are social creatures. We gather. We gather for holidays. We gather for celebration. We gather outside the smelly restrooms, waiting for Aunt Agnes to pee. We are hoping she made it to a stall, but we don’t dare to enter the restroom for fear of the dreaded poop smells.

I can’t seem to get away from those smells.

Ah, but the pièce de résistance is what actually made Walmart famous! You will witness men’s butt cracks shining out from those britches, and women’s bosoms loaded into undersized t-shirts. Kinda makes my eyes bleed. I’m pretty sure it is a Walmart thing. It’s part of the customer’s uniform. If you don’t show what you got, you’re just un-American!

So if you’re out and about today, this Christmas Eve Eve, and you’re looking for a little entertainment, head on over to Wally World and get yourself some holiday spirit. But, might I suggest popping a quick gummi bear edible about 30 minutes prior to your arrival. Just call it your contribution to the culture.

So, Here is my Why

Several of my friends and a couple of my relatives have asked me why I have decided to pursue a Doctor of Education Degree, which is quite an undertaking and will require three or four years of my time. Below is a personal, somewhat lengthy, and at times, confusing explanation as to my “Why.” I hope it clears some things up and gives a bit of insight into the enigma that is me.

The last fourteen months have been a wild ride for me. And by “wild” I mean akin to one of a giant rollercoaster. As you may or may not know, my life-partner of 21 years passed away in 2019, and the following year (October 2020, 14 months ago) I had to move from the condo I had been renting from my son because they wanted to sell it. I have always been on my own, never dependent on anyone else. When I was married or with a partner, we cohabitated, but I very well could have handled things on my own if needed. However, there were no available apartments in Boise at that time, so I agreed to move in with my son temporarily.

I was not happy about it, as I knew from listening to others and being observant, that families moving extra family into their homes could cause a multitude of annoyances and issues. Turned out, I was correct with my assumptions. Without going into private details, things were not working out. I am independent and I’m not accustomed to being under anyone’s thumb. I need to govern my own life and do so under my own roof. After nine months, it was a mutual agreement that I would move on.

But where was I to go?

In previous weeks before leaving Boise, I had been watching YouTube videos about nomads, and people living in their vans and RVs on purpose. Nomads are a whole sub-culture in and of themselves, and, quite frankly, the lifestyle appealed to the romanticist and dreamer in me. I thought it would be the perfect solution. I could travel like a snowbird, south in winter and north in summer. I could write to my heart’s content and visit places still on my bucket list.

I made lists of everything I would need by watching the videos, and began my search for a late model used van. The idea morphed into a dream that further fueled my vision of being on my own without a care in the world.

Two obstacles stood in my way:

  1. I have a disability in that I cannot walk very fast due to a spinal injury. I currently use a cane, but was using a walker for a long time. That did not deter me, as I’d heard that a lot of disabled people live as nomads.
  2. I was completely unprepared. I had saved money, but used it to buy the van outright so I wouldn’t owe anything on it. That left me with very little expendable cash. The list of items I would need and the alterations I would need for my van in order to make it livable for me, especially with my mobility issues, were expensive. However, that did not stop me from leaving Boise on July 2nd, headed for points east, specifically Yellowstone National Park. I was excited…

Although my excursion through Yellowstone was breathtaking, my new life soon brought me to my knees. My first night upon exiting Yellowstone was spent in a KOA Campground, one that was over-crowded and definitely not as advertised. I tried to climb in the back of my van when it was time to sleep, but I was so exhausted, I could not climb in. Due to my spinal injury, I was also unable to climb from the driver’s seat to the back of the van. As a result, I spent the entire night sitting up in the driver’s seat of the van. It was cold and I was pretty miserable, to put it mildly. Two more nights went by during my travels, and although I was able to climb in the back and get in my bed, everything else I did became increasingly difficult.

I was quickly becoming disheartened about my choice to live in a van. I called my stepmom in Georgia, who I was supposed to be visiting the next month, and asked if I could come early, and she said of course. On the way to Georgia, I contracted a fungus on my feet (no idea why or how) and also became depressed and lethargic. By the time I arrived, I was getting sick. I ended up a few days later in the ER, had a toenail removed, and antibiotics for an infection. I was sick for awhile. I threw up a lot, and even wondered if I had COVID, even though I had been vaccinated.

I did improve, however, and spent three months with my Dad (who is suffering from dementia) and his wife Donna. They were wonderful to me, and it was three of the most peaceful months of my life. Spending that quality time with my Dad was priceless, and I will always hold those moments in my heart. But, it was again time to move on. I had been trying to procure an apartment in the area, having given up on my nomad dreams. I was unsuccessful in finding anything.

In the middle of September, my sister in northwest Georgia invited me to come and look at apartments in her town. I was excited to think I might finally have a place to call home again. I went to see her and we went to several places and collected applications. That week, I put in a very involved application for an apartment in her town, but the apartments were based on income, and the waiting list was long.

During the wait, I have been staying at my sister’s apartment. She gave up her bedroom for me, and she has been staying in the guest bedroom. Due to my spinal injury, I would not have been able to get up from the low bed in the guest bedroom, so she selflessly gave up her comfort for me. I moved in with her in October, and she has been absolutely lovely and welcoming, and made me feel like I’m not alone in this world, and there are people out there who really want me around. My Dad and Donna treated me the same way. Yes, I want to live on my own, but knowing these people love me for who I am has meant the world to me. They do not judge me. They do not decide how I should live my life. They just love me and have helped me out of a tremendously difficult situation. I am a very prideful individual, and I am humbled in their presence. My apartment will be available around Christmas, and I have put my deposit down and now busily trying to collect furnishings and dishes, etc., to make it my own. Again excited!!!

So, back to the reason for this post. Why have I committed to an arduous (my son described it with this word, and he was correct!) journey of working toward my Doctorate?

  1. I earned my Master’s Degree nine years ago, and have since felt the desire to continue the journey, culminating in my completing something I never could have dreamed of when I was younger. At 68, I finally know myself, and I know my worth. I am intelligent, brave, a bit too bold at times, and ever curious about this wonderful thing called life.
  2. I am doing this to show myself that I can, not to show anyone else. I do brag a lot, but quite frankly, I have a lot for which to brag!
  3. Bottom line. My “Why” is purely Because I can.

I sincerely hope you will wish me well in my endeavors, and maybe take away something from my sharing this long explanation with you. Everyone has their dreams, and none are more or less significant than any others. I’m so happy to wake up each day and have the blessed opportunity to follow my dreams…

Write Like a Scholar? What?

My recent nose-dive into the depths of scholarly learning has given me anxiety. Turns out, the doctoral journey begins with learning how to write. What? One would think one would have learned to write in first grade, and sure enough, some of us did! Heck, I even have a couple of books out there in the Amazon universe.

Ah, but that’s not writing. That’s “creative writing.” To write like a scholar, one has to first enter the gates of hell. In this scholarly “hell” one also has to read countless articles in which one has to look up every other word. After reading each article several times, then a few more times, one then has to compare and contrast said articles with one another. It is called synthesis. And yes, I also had to look that up.

And, as if the devil himself was looking over one’s shoulder and just waiting to pass judgment, one has to accept critical feedback without crying, begging, bribing, or eating one’s feelings. One must take it like a woman. One must persevere. One must never let them see one flipping the finger. One must overcome, smile, and write the whole damned thing over. Again. And again.

One is sure you are out there in the bloggy universe, laughing while holding back the urge to remind one that one signed up for this. One remembers. One is not quite sure, however, whether that makes one a sadist or a masochist?

Oh crap. One needs to look that up, too. One will get back to you on that.

One needs more coffee now.

Thanks for visiting my bloggy place. I hope to see you often as I attempt to navigate my life choices and manage my insecurities and unruly hair days. And I’m not sure what’s going on with all the “one’s.”

Please feel free to leave a comment and peruse the rest of whatsinterrishead.com.

Kindness Misunderstood

I am writing this because of a situation I encountered last evening when I was leaving the laundromat here in town. Most of you know I have mobility issues, and I use a cane. Last night, I had finished my laundry and was wheeling it out to the car with one of those rolling baskets provided at the laundromat. I was using my cane with the right hand and trying to maneuver the basket with the left hand. A gentlemen saw my struggle and walked up to me and asked if he could help.

Many of you may not know how stubborn I am, and I try to do everything I can on my own. That being said, I surveyed the situation, and noticed a truck parked very close to my van on the driver’s side. So, I asked the man who had walked up to me if he knew who owned the truck, as I would appreciate him moving it so I would be able to enter my vehicle.

He said, “No, but he’s sitting in the truck.” At that time, the man in the truck got out and approached us. The man who had been talking with me turned and addressed the man who owned the truck. He said, very gruffly and unpleasantly, almost sounding like he was demanding, “You will need to move your truck so this lady can enter her van.”

The man from the truck took the first man’s demand offensively and began yelling back, using loud profanity and, quite frankly, scaring tears out of me. The guy who had originally approached me got really mad at the other guy and screamed profanity back at him. They both began yelling they would kick one another’s ass. I was getting nervous, as I was standing on a curb, holding a cane and balancing on a rolling basket.

I was only a car length away from my own vehicle, but I could not get past either man. I was pleading with them not to fight, but my pleas were falling on deaf ears. Both men were so angry, their only focus was with each other.

Finally, the man from the truck started to get into his truck to move it, but the other guy screamed more profanity at him, calling him names that would make anyone mad. At that time, the man from the truck again exited his vehicle and said, “Fuck it. I’m not moving my truck.” Then he walked around the truck and started toward the laundromat entrance. The guy helping me moved toward him and began yelling even louder. I mentioned earlier in this blog post that I was getting nervous, but scratch that. I was scared shitless. It passed through my mind at that moment, “This is how people get killed. This is how shootings happen.” I was mortified.

Yelling continued, and I was was crying, but managed to maneuver myself, my cane, and the basket to the passenger side of my van. Shortly thereafter, the man who had originally tried to help me appeared suddenly at my side and said he would load the laundry in my van and help me enter from the passenger side. I let him load my van, but informed him, “Unfortunately, with my back issue, I cannot easily enter from the passenger side, and I definitely can’t climb over to the driver’s side.”

About that time, the guy from the truck came back out the laundromat door and the shouting match resumed. That pissed off the guy helping me, and he said he would call the police. Screaming continued. During this part of the altercation, I managed to go around the back of the van and reach the driver’s side door. There was not much room for me to enter, but enough to get the door opened part way. The method I use to climb into my van is a bit involved and takes a little time, and while I was trying very hard to climb in, the guy who had been helping me said, “Wait, I’m calling the cops.”

I informed him at that time that I believed I could make it into my van, and needed to go because I did not like to drive after dark. While I was saying that, he got the cops on the phone. He actually calmed down long enough to speak respectfully to the police dispatcher and describe the situation in terms that didn’t make him sound like an idiot. While he was speaking to them, I made it into the van. I told him that I was fine but I really had to get home. (Seriously, I just wanted to vacate the situation.)

He informed the dispatch that I was able to enter my vehicle, but the man who had not moved his truck was still being threatening. I remember how strange that was to me that he would say that when he was actually the first one who did the threatening, and continued to do so throughout the whole fiasco.

I’m not sure what happened to those two men because I got the hell out of there.

My point in writing about this was to say that the first man’s whole approach to the situation was wrong. While initially intending to do an act of kindness for me, he rudely approached an individual who might have otherwise, been amenable to helping by moving his truck. There could have been multiple acts of kindness happening, but if one component of that kindness is missing, no one gets help. The other man was also completely wrong by losing his temper immediately and fueling the fire with yelling, profanity and threats.

Seriously, that’s how people get hurt and even killed. It happens somewhere every day. There were numerous people at that laundromat, to include little children.

Kindness. Do it. But remember to respect one another. A short explanation from the first man to the man in the truck, along with a “Please” and “Thank you” may have gone a long way.

Have a great weekend. Be careful out there.

Down the rabbit hole

Today, I started looking through professional articles in my school’s library (online). My original search was the word “mindset.” I was searching for articles explaining a researching mindset and how it correlates with critical thinking. And blah blah blahYou get the gist.

Well, I came up with 3,245 articles and immediately realized I needed to refine my search.

Uh, big mistake. If you don’t know where you are, you shouldn’t necessarily start out for new horizons.

I typed in, “researching mindset”.  I got 2,344 articles. The first one was titled “If You Have Your Mind Set on College, Do Your Research First.” 

Things went downhill from there. Why? Because I’m new to Doctoral school. I get confused on an hourly basis. Don’t give me words out of order. My head will explode. Better yet, don’t give me words. Just take my little hand and lead me to the damned article I need.

It’s like surfing the net. But on steroids.

I’m sure you’ve typed in a topic of interest in Google, and planned on perusing them all, until you realized there were pages upon pages of information/pictures/video on your topic.

What the hell?

Don’t they know we have all evolved into internet surfers with the attention span of a gnat? Okay, go ahead and look up “gnat”. I would wait, but you won’t be back for hours. There’s “How to Get Rid of Gnats,” “Gnats vs Fruit Flies,” “What are Gnats Attracted To?” I cannot compete with that level of entertainment. Even when I post pictures of my pen collection.

So I will press on.

There is really no central message to glean from the above mumbles and grumbles. I write my feelings. I eat my feelings. I just try really hard not to feel my feelings.

Now I’m hungry. I definitely feel that.

Thanks for visiting and reading my craziness. Comment below if you are so inclined. I could use the company while trying to navigate this freaking rabbit hole. Have a fabulous day, and I hope you find everything for which you are searching.

Warning! Credit Card Usage Probable!

So, you’ve decided to take the plunge and do all your Christmas shopping online this year? I’ve been shopping online since way before the COVID made its debut, so I feel I am amply qualified to deliver a few pros and cons to you before you embark on this new and nerve-wracking journey.

1) First of all, let’s talk about your alcohol consumption.

Pros: You can drink wine and you won’t get carded, stared at, asked to leave, or arrested for public intoxication and/or indecency.

Cons: Your purchasing decisions may be altered somewhat. (See picture above).

Life is a balance, am I right?

2) Let’s talk about People.

Pros: When you shop online, you don’t have to worry about running into your judgy Mother-in-Law, your ex-lover, a friend to whom you still owe money, or your smelly neighbor.

Cons: In my opinion, there are no cons here. Avoiding people is an art. Be proud.

Sometimes life gives you lemons. Throw them at your neighbor. Aim with a purpose.

3) Let’s talk about spending money.

Pros: If no one sees you shopping online at 2 AM, are you really spending too much money on a new iPhone, ear pods, a lightning charger, 4 pairs of shoes, a case of fresh pineapples from Hawaii, and a book on how to get rich data-mining? I think not.

Cons: Sure, I understand your purchasing a must-have item for a $1000, but you should shut that shit down when you have to pay a $7.99 Shipping Charge! Freaking highway robbery! Just sayin…

Online shopping is better than traditional shopping because it gives you

a reason to live for the next 7-10 business days. 

I think I need more pens and another coffee mug.

***************

Judgy Fudgy

Judge much? I try not to, but of course I judge. I judge people who judge. I judge narrow-minded people. I judge people with zero social skills. I judge my invisible friend when she does stupid stuff. Yes, I judge.

However.

It’s the time of year when we are supposed to be good to one another. We should be experiencing frolicking, merriment, eggnog, and mistletoe kisses. We are supposed to be kind to our fellow man, etc. We are supposed to be patient with those who are less fortunate and/or disabled. We are supposed to be happy for our friends and loved ones who embark on a new challenge.

We are NOT supposed to judge.

This Thanksgiving, I judged, and I feel badly, so I am coming clean right here on my blog that has at least two readers. I judged one very over-bearing, hard to get along with person…for being just that. It almost ruined my Thanksgiving, until I took a deep breath and checked myself.

You see, it wasn’t just MY Thanksgiving. It wasn’t all about me. Yes, I do like things to be all about me, but don’t we all? However, when one finds oneself in a small space with a dozen or more people, and loses one’s shit because of a loud, rude person monopolizing every conversation, one needs to examine one’s options. One could try one or more of the following:

  1. Vacate said premises immediately, quietly and politely, of course.
  2. Get another plate of food and eat until one falls asleep in the corner with the dog.
  3. Find the key to the liquor cabinet…open it and climb in. (Make sure to close the door)
  4. When said person goes outside for a cigarette, lock the door.
  5. Smile and try not to look at the clock so often. The clock still works.
  6. Talk to a kid. Any kid in the room. Kids don’t care who is rude, drunk, loud, etc. Kids just want someone to turn the TV to cartoons. Watch cartoons with the kid.
  7. Play on your phone. So many people do it now, it’s not considered rude. Play a game. Text anyone/everyone, “HELP ME.” Write your feelings. You can do that on a phone. There’s a ‘Notes’ app. Use it. F-words are completely acceptable.
  8. Lastly, if the first seven options are unacceptable to you, take the most painful option and just wait. Said person has to go home sometime. One can only hope.

I’m not quite sure how I managed to include the word ‘one’ at least 9 times in this post. I digress and even imagine I’m a writer from the olden days. You know, those days when there were a lot fewer people and using the word ‘one’ instead of ‘I’, ‘we’, or ‘they’ seemed appropriate.

One wonders if there were annoying people at those Thanksgivings?

Wishing you all a Happy Holiday Season. Be kind. Be patient. Be Fabulous. You know you are!!

Doctors and Scholars and School Bells, Oh My!

Go on. Go ahead and ask me. I can wait. Okay, I can’t wait, so here goes. I’m back in college! But this time, I’m going for the BIG FISH. Yeppers, I will be studying for my Doctorate of Education in Organizational Leadership at Grand Canyon University in Phoenix. Most of my studies will be online, but I will also attend a week-long residency once a year on campus.

Am I excited? Oh yes. Enough to pee.

Am I mortified? Hell yes. Enough to pee.

Am I smart enough to earn a Doctorate? Oh gosh, I sure hope so, as I’m still in shock over the cost of the Student Loan for which I’m responsible. And I’m quite sure “Buyer’s Remorse” is not an option for withdrawal.

There are 21 of us hopeful scholars at this time, and we have to interact online by posting discussion questions, etc, and giving feedback (and accepting feedback…UGH). So far I’ve posted 8 times, and my grade is currently an A. No big whoop, as it’s just the first week and I probably won’t be flunking out until at least next week. Introductions are easy. After introductions week comes the SEVEN LAYERS OF HELL. Or so I’m told.

The diversity of my classmates blows me away. There are athletes, teachers, stay-at-home Moms, a stay-at-home Dad, a firefighter, several school administrators, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Sorry, dang Christmas songs are everywhere…already.

Well, folks, now that I have something ongoing about which I can passionately write, I’m looking forward to venting here. Join me. We will put our heads together and come up with something clever. We are, after all, scholarly and doctoral-minded.

Well, one of us is. The other one is probably just here for the pizza and beer. Or cannibus.

That’s college-worthy, right? My overly-exercised brain thinks so, anyway.

Cannibus. Definitely the cannibus.

Depression. Grief. Anxiety. All Dangerously Real.

I probably should have started my recently rejuvenated blog in a lighter manner, but I wanted to write about issues that were on my mind right away, so my thoughts were fresh and true. That being said, I’m going to jump right in.

About two years ago, my world began crumbling and the downward spiral was practically debilitating. My partner of 21 years fell ill and, for seven months before she passed, she was shuffled back and forth between hospitals and nursing homes. I followed the ambulances, and did my best to be by her side as much as possible. Without going into a lot of detail about her illness, it was a heartbreaking period of time for all concerned.

Days and nights blended into one another, as I tried to deal with my own health issues and finances while advocating for her rights and fighting for her to get decent care. I am not detailing Joan’s (my partner) illness in this post because she was an extremely private person and would not have wanted her suffering shared on the internet. My message here is to relay the toll depression, grief, and anxiety play on an already taxed individual.

At the ripe old age of 67, I grew up “old school” where you didn’t run to the therapist or pop a Xanax when you had a loved one get sick, or experienced other difficult issues in your life. So, when Joan fell ill, I ignored some dangerous warning signs of my own as time went by.

My depression either had me forgetting to eat at all or binging. When I was at home, I sat in front of the TV and stared at it, hardly moving, and frequently sleeping the night through while sitting straight up in the chair in my living room. Anxiety seemed to come in the middle of the night, and sleep became nearly impossible. I walked around in a zombie-like state for months.

Joan’s illness progressed quickly, and even though I knew things were most likely not going to improve, I kept praying and kept my vigil by her side as long as I could. She passed away in March of 2019, and to this day, grief and sadness take up a part of my daily life. The grief is ever-changing and becoming more manageable, but what I really want to convey is that it’s not something that can be completely controlled. It may look like everything’s fine on the outside, but the inside is where the truth lies.

I should have reached out for help. I am a strong woman, but it just about broke me. I didn’t listen to anyone who suggested for me to seek a specialist or therapist. People I loved the most, and those who loved me, gave me sound advice, and I didn’t listen. I was stubborn and determined to handle everything, including my mental and physical health issues, myself.

Of course, my plan of action, which was no plan and no action, especially after Joan died, was a fail. I ended up with a serious issue of edema with my legs, which impeded any mobility progress I had previously made. I also had kidney failure and was admitted to the hospital last New Years’ Eve.

That’s when I realized, after the doctor came in and told me I’d better start taking care of my self, that my old-school ways were hurting me. Joan wouldn’t have wanted to see me like that. All who knew her would agree that she would have read me the “riot act.” Indeed!

Shortly thereafter, I began doing good, positive things for my health and reaching out for help from people who have experience with depression, anxiety, and grief. I’m still not seeing a therapist, but my health issues other than that have improved greatly, and I’m finally getting up the courage to seek professional help with my mental health issues as well.

To anyone going through pain from loss, please know that this is not something you can do alone. You need help. We are social beings. We are not meant to solve everything ourselves. It’s too much for the 10% of our brains we actually use. I say this with the utmost sincerity and reverance for your life and well-being.

Thank you for visiting. Please feel free to leave your comments below. I am not a professional of any type. I’m just writing my feelings. And I really appreciate your stopping by to read them.

Old Broad’s Perspective

Hello internet! First day back on What’s in Terri’s Head in a very long time! I’m in the mood to share and it’s time to start writing again. That being said, I have been wrestling with the whole theme, idea, or writing purpose, if you will, that I wish to convey. Sure, I want you to read my blog, but I want to enjoy writing it. That’s why I’m back. I’m hoping this is the beginning of much writing (and reading, on your part) enjoyment!

Since I left you, my partner of 21 years, Joan, passed away (last year) and it’s been a long, painful road through grief and toward recovery. I’m not there yet, and I expect I will be working through my issues for some time to come. However, my outlook toward life has greatly improved and I’m doing okay now, for an old broad.

I will catch you up on the two year lapse in future posts, but for now I want to say hello and welcome back! I even hope to get some new readers, so if you like my ramblings, please recommend me to a friend or two.

What will you have to gain by reading my blog? Well, I sincerely hope you will see an honest, sometimes blunt approach to life at my age. There’s a lot of misconception, misinformation, and down-right misguided assumptions about people of a certain age out there. I’m not just stating opinion; I have real-life experiences and facts with which to share my perspective.

An old broad’s perspective. I like it! I think I’ve found my niche, or at least a place to start! Please check back often, as I’m hoping to share every day I’m able.

Embrace your Lazy

lazysmart

Do you ever wake up and not want to make your bed? Or brush your teeth?

Or remain upright? Yea, me too.

I am lazy.

There are different types of laziness. Some people are just lazy in their dreams, meaning they think about not doing stuff, but they eventually muster up enough chutzpah to get stuff done anyway. Those people are Lazy Wannabees. They work hard for an hour or two all their lives while dreaming of retirement, a beach chair, a good book, and a pina colada containing lots of rum and one of those tiny umbrellas. Whatever gets you through the day, I suppose. My dream would include a mug of hot Bailey’s and Coffee, hold the umbrella, and park my ass in a rocking chair on the porch of a cabin in the mountains.

However, I’m probably lazier than that, so let’s press on.

Other folks might be Selectively Lazy. This type of person has no problem leaving her bed unmade, but will painstakingly brew the perfect cup of coffee, if it takes her all morning. She might leave a sink full of dirty dishes, but vacuum twice a day because it feels good to have control over a naughty, ferocious, roaring beast loud piece of heavy equipment. Actually, she might have some other issues, but we won’t go there in this post. A selectively lazy person might sit in an easy chair for hours, and not get up for food, beverage, or to use the facilities. She has either found the perfect book, is binging the latest Netflix original, or lost in thought, contemplating world domination peace. Selective laziness. It’s a thing.

I’m pretty close to being that lazy.

The next level of laziness moves beyond selective and lands right smack in the “you should be ashamed of yourself” category. This person is lazy beyond reasonable comprehension, yet still manages to somewhat contribute to society. I call this type of lazy Downhill Slide Lazy. If you fall in this category, you never make your bed. Hell, sometimes, you can’t even find your bed for all the clothes, beer bottles and pizza boxes lying around. You manage to show up for work, but you don’t smell very fresh. You wonder about that look everyone is giving you, but soon your thoughts move on to a lunch menu and how many bath room breaks you can get away with before being fired. Your love life is lacking, as well, unless you are so attractive your partner(s) can forgive the smell or your inability to provide them any stimulation other than an occasional grunt of approval.

I’m pretty sure I’m not that lazy. I have a sensitive nose. I think I’d know.

My kind of lazy can’t really be pigeonholed. Some days, I don’t make the bed. Some days, I don’t do dishes or vacuum. That vacuum cleaner holds no power over me or my dominatrix tendencies.

What?

Most of the time, I use the fact that I am retired to excuse my lack of productivity, whether it be housework or reaching my projected writing word-count goal for the day. Also, my mind wanders. I don’t like multitasking, but my brain is still recovering from a life-time of meetings, deadlines, annoying coworkers, and office potlucks. Anyone who has not yet retired will find out about this soon enough. It’s like a train going full-speed for forty years and then trying to come to a complete stop immediately. Your scrambled brain spawns laziness at this point to protect you from possible impact resulting in internal combustion and/or the zombie apocalypse, whichever concept appeals to you. This might be Preventive Laziness. No judgement. No apologies. No regrets. It’s okay.

You do you. I’ll do me.

**DISCLOSURE:  The above is only conjecture. My personal coping mechanism, if you will. Kind of like a child sucking her thumb or grasping her blankie. I need to rationalize my behavior, and then soothe my tendency to over-compensate by eating my feelings. It’s not my fault if I don’t possess the rational facts to back it all up. Not to worry, though. No animals, doctors, or therapists were harmed by this post.

But, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I am still not making my bed today.

messybed

Clap. Laugh. Repeat.

thatwasfunnylady

Recently, on a mission to stave off boredom while calming my anxiety issues, I turned to YouTube for enlightenment. And when I say enlightenment, I mean anything that keeps my brain from atrophy. Turned out, I uncovered a gold mine of frolicking good fun and a level of weirdness I had never quite experienced before.

In video number one, an attempt to answer an age-old question, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” had me falling out of my chair in convulsions of laughter. I’m not so sure I reached enlightenment, but my stomach is still sore from the belly-laughs.  Check it out. I will wait…

YouTube video number one

The apparent Zen boss guy attempted to approach the one-hand clapping question as a kaon, which is a story or question used in Zen practice to test a student’s progress. It is expected to lead to higher enlightenment. I understand the concept, but my brain works in strange and mysterious ways, attempting to find the humor in everything, especially things I don’t understand.  This has landed me in hot water more times than I can convey.

After my chuckle-fest, I collected myself and moved on to other thoughts, but my mind kept reverting to that video. The Zen boss guy slapped the student guy, which I assumed was either the example of a sound of one hand clapping, or a punishment for a non-compliance issue of some sort. I really didn’t care, because in my mind’s eye, I saw air-clapping…someone trying to clap at air with one hand. I even tried it myself. Epic fail. But funny nonetheless.

Not to be dissuaded by Zen boss guy, I perused some other You Tube videos on said subject, and I discovered some people really can make a sound of one hand clapping. It was underwhelming, but for the lack of anything else with which to entertain you, please enjoy this next video. I will wait…

You Tube Video number two

The guy in video number two is kind of creepy, am I right?  I fancy myself as a forward-thinking, liberal, change-accepting, Zen kind of girl, but that guy is the stuff of which nightmares are made. Stephen King could write a horrifying story around this video. I would watch it. But still CREEPY.

And yet, I laugh. Again and again. For some reason, this is funny to me. My partner just stares at me every time a commercial comes on TV mentioning one hand clapping (for which I could not find a video. Sorry). I immediately start chuckling and trying to clap with one hand. It never gets old. It is equally funny. Every. Single. Time.

There must be something wrong with me. A chemical imbalance, perhaps. Hormonal issues. Fucked up chakra. I am not worthy!

But I am not sorry, either! No apologies. No regrets. That shit was funny! Oh my gosh, I’m laughing now. There goes the hand!  I tried to make my own one hand slapping video, but my nails are a mess. And I’m camera shy. And I have an arthritic witch’s bump on my knuckle. Too much sharing? Another thing I do uncontrollably.

One-hand slapping has given me hours of happiness and laughter. It’s a thing. Like an ear worm, only without the ear. Or the worm. Just that one hand, and that lonely, fucking hilarious clapping.

  uncontroldog

Oh gosh, there I go again. 

Thanks for stopping by.  I think I will research meditating. It’s so peaceful in my head right now. Perhaps I can expound on that and reach new heights of self-awareness. Oh wait, never mind. It’s just nap time.

 

 

Pat Winchester Booth

Today, I am tickled pink. Why? Because I am hosting my very first guest blogger on What’s in Terri’s Head?!!

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Pat Winchester Booth has been an online friend of mine for years, and I have been a fan of her unique blog, Mining towns in Canada, Reminiscing about growing up for just as many years. Pat is brilliant, outspoken, articulate, and witty. She has led an amazing life, with all its ups and downs, and relentlessly pursues and cultivates happiness and knowledge on a daily basis. I am quite in awe of this lovely, talented woman, and am very proud she has graced me with her virtual presence and words.

 

Without further ado, I present Pat Winchester Booth!

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My name is Pat.
I started blogging in 2007.
My site is Mining towns in Canada. Reminiscing about growing up. I wrote about all the towns I lived in. They were company towns, many in isolation and it’s a time gone by. I wanted to leave a record of that unique life style.
It was a voyage of discovery. I understood myself better and what makes me tick. It was cathartic and a nostalgic visit to my family and childhood.
I’ve had over 45,000 readers and have reunited many childhood friends who were able to contact each other through the blog. Central Patricia gold mines and snow lake were popular.
In between, I posted other thoughts and irrelevant musings.

What I am, what I think, what I write is all the “product” of  living in mining towns in Canada.

pagesep2(from September 25, 2014 issue of Mining towns in Canada. Reminiscing about growing up)

When I was much younger I saw a movie called “Auntie Mame”(1955), A character named “Gooch” got pregnant and did all the “pregnant lady” moves: The walk, the duck feet position, hand on hip & bend, moan and groan etc. I promised myself that I would NEVER do that, and when I was pregnant, both times, it came to mind and I was careful of my comportment, shall we say?

Fast forward to old age…I watched elderly people walk across parking lots and in stores and promised myself that I would never walk that way: waddle, duck feet pointing outward, stiff, agonizing movement.

PAT! GET OVER YOURSELF! I know there are many reasons for people of our age to struggle to walk. I always sympathized with all of them, I just didn’t want to BE one of them.

I don’t mind being old. There are lots of perks and the most important one is that I am still alive and well.

I do have my moments of Gooch-likeness”, especially when sitting for more than 15 minutes, then trying to make it across the room elegantly. (Doesn’t work).

This week, we tackled some physical work (up & down 13 steps with lots of bending) The Aleve didn’t relieve it much, and I had a couple of days of waddling, swaying etc. and I thought “this is it now, old age has set in”.

I’m happy to report that I’m back to normal today, and I concede that my normal could be pretty ancient looking to a 19 year old. I really don’t care, and this is one of the perks I referred to above: thinking about such nonsense, and the audacity to say it!

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(From  About “Mining Towns in Canada” Site)

An Experienced Pet Lover

My husband says “If it weren’t for…

  • The chewing
  • The piddling
  • The walking
  • The scooping
  • The barking
  • The snarling
  • The training
  • The feeding
  • The Vet bills
  • The grooming
  • The brushing
  • The shedding
  • The drooling
  • The dog sitting
  • The chasing
  • The fleas
  • …he would get another dog”.

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Thank you, Pat! I appreciate you so very much!

Everyone, please visit Pat’s blog when you have some reading time. You won’t be disappointed! Also, please leave your thoughts and comments below, as I’m sure Pat will enjoy hearing from you!