I have been reading my sister's blog faithfully since she began posting and I have watched it become more and more involved. I want mine to be that cool! So, I ask for help, thinking I am just not looking hard enough to find the little button that says, "click here to make your blog original and interesting".
I called and asked Heather for help. What I found was that there is a whole world moving on without me and I feel like crawling into my cave and just hoping to get by by knowing how to drive a car and use a credit card. Alas, even those basic skills are going to be useless soon.
What I found out from Heather was that in order to make the changes I want, I will need to learn to read and understand web-casting. WHAT? I did not sign up for this. I can barely read billboards, how am I supposed to understand this? But the biggest kick was that the "help" menu speaks to you like you should know what they are talking about. How do I catch up? Who is going to turn around and take my hand, lead me through the dark and into the Internet?
Guess it is time to go back to school...
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
My Working World
Atmosphere Studiosis where I spend my days. Listening to forklifts, dropping dock plates, bad butt rock and looking out the window at Mt. Olympus. Hey, it pays the bills...most of the time.
The "Family" PhotoMonday, November 14, 2005
Unconditional...on one condition
I hear people talk about the wonderful, soothing, reassuring and unconditional love of a pet. When did my dog evolve beyond this? When did I start living on his terms instead of mine. Those of you who know my ungrateful beast know exactly what I am talking about. He is a good looking, sporty version of what some would call a Boston Terrier, but that he is not. I don't know what he is. I always hear, "wow, he is really tall". But this very proud specimen refuses to be insulted by such small-minded humans. He knows all he needs to do is glance at me with his dismissive eyes (not bothering to move his head an inch...too inconvenient) and I will be reminded who the real freak of nature is. It is certainly not he.
We call him Mr. Pots. He is proper and sophisticated, focused and unaffected. If he had thumbs he would be a much less congenial version of Prince William. Minus the Polo matches, he does not like to get dirty. He would wake to his specially prepared tea and immerse from his chambers in the late morning wearing a smoking jacket and slippers and only bothering to get dressed if a lady friend was to stop by. He would sit on the porch with his face in the sun sipping his magic liquid ignoring the swarms of adoring humans fighting for his attention.
He remains unaffected until the late afternoon fox hunt. Now, all activities must stop it is time to HUNT! Mr. Pots will hunt one thing only, the $.99 squeaky balls from Petsmart. He takes this very seriously and expects the same from all of those two-legged minions arranged to entertain him. He will hunt and hunt and hunt until there is no light left and then the hunting will commence indoors. Nothing will sway his attention. This is his game and he will conquer the great squeaky ball. When the hunt ends by the banishment of the ball to the Kitchen sink then the evening pout ensues.
This lasts until his humans make their way to his double bed where he allows us to sleep with him. He indicates with his eyes and paws where exactly he would like to burrow under the expensive feather blankets and nestle there for the night. Still unaffected by the humans who long for his attention and approval.
We humans of his, spend a sleepless night arranging our bodies around his to be sure not to disturb him. In the morning it begins again, the vying for attention the hope of acknowledgement.
It has been 835 days since our one-sided love affair started and Mr. Pots still stays aloof and indifferent.
I couldn't ask for a better companion...
We call him Mr. Pots. He is proper and sophisticated, focused and unaffected. If he had thumbs he would be a much less congenial version of Prince William. Minus the Polo matches, he does not like to get dirty. He would wake to his specially prepared tea and immerse from his chambers in the late morning wearing a smoking jacket and slippers and only bothering to get dressed if a lady friend was to stop by. He would sit on the porch with his face in the sun sipping his magic liquid ignoring the swarms of adoring humans fighting for his attention.
He remains unaffected until the late afternoon fox hunt. Now, all activities must stop it is time to HUNT! Mr. Pots will hunt one thing only, the $.99 squeaky balls from Petsmart. He takes this very seriously and expects the same from all of those two-legged minions arranged to entertain him. He will hunt and hunt and hunt until there is no light left and then the hunting will commence indoors. Nothing will sway his attention. This is his game and he will conquer the great squeaky ball. When the hunt ends by the banishment of the ball to the Kitchen sink then the evening pout ensues.
This lasts until his humans make their way to his double bed where he allows us to sleep with him. He indicates with his eyes and paws where exactly he would like to burrow under the expensive feather blankets and nestle there for the night. Still unaffected by the humans who long for his attention and approval.
We humans of his, spend a sleepless night arranging our bodies around his to be sure not to disturb him. In the morning it begins again, the vying for attention the hope of acknowledgement.
It has been 835 days since our one-sided love affair started and Mr. Pots still stays aloof and indifferent.
I couldn't ask for a better companion...
Friday, September 30, 2005
The Origin or Originality
I get my originality from other people. Hmmm. I watch, I read, I listen and I act according to what has glued itself in my head. I am a compilation of so many things I hardly know where I am in all of it. Does that make me an original or am I functioning on borrowed personality?
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Backlash Holiday Overdose
In my younger years, I think it was late elementary school and early Jr. High, my parents owned and ran a series of year round Christmas stores. Crazy? Yes! And VERY lucrative. There is a very specific social group that lives for specialty stores like this. And they are "special". But that is all beside the point. The point is that we grew up with an overdose of the holiday spirit.
Much like our dirty house has dictated my current cleaning obsession, this has adversely effected my reaction to the holidays. Not just the big ones either. All the holidays: Thanksgiving, Easter, Lent and most of all birthdays. They have never been a cause for much merriment at our house, as it always seemed to be an inconvenience and exhausting production to acknowledge, much less celebrate each other's birth. I should state, in my parent's defense, that I do not remember much of my childhood so there could have been a celebration every weekend and it goes unnoted in my memory. But I somehow doubt that is the case. I was always sad when a birthday would approach because it just meant that it was a full 24 hours of continual disappointment, and sadly, I was never disappointed.
At some point as an adult this became unacceptable to me and I wanted people, especially my family, to know that I was truly happy they were placed on this earth to be by my side. I had grand plans to reassure them that birthdays were in fact a legitimate and fun holiday to be taken seriously. And in that last statement lies my problem. I am too serious. In the process of trying to make a celebration joyful and successful I force upon others the "fun" that I feel we should be having. I have still never been successful in showing my siblings and parents that birthdays are important and I don't even remember the last time I threw a party or took more than 24 hours thinking about a gift.
Birthdays are a labor of love. Labor, being the operative word. They happen, there are balloons and Tiki torches but it always feels forced. When will the time come when we spontaneously jump to our feet and raise our voices in joyful noise to say, "This life wouldn't be the same without you, the day that you were born should be celebrated across the land!"
Maybe next year?
Much like our dirty house has dictated my current cleaning obsession, this has adversely effected my reaction to the holidays. Not just the big ones either. All the holidays: Thanksgiving, Easter, Lent and most of all birthdays. They have never been a cause for much merriment at our house, as it always seemed to be an inconvenience and exhausting production to acknowledge, much less celebrate each other's birth. I should state, in my parent's defense, that I do not remember much of my childhood so there could have been a celebration every weekend and it goes unnoted in my memory. But I somehow doubt that is the case. I was always sad when a birthday would approach because it just meant that it was a full 24 hours of continual disappointment, and sadly, I was never disappointed.
At some point as an adult this became unacceptable to me and I wanted people, especially my family, to know that I was truly happy they were placed on this earth to be by my side. I had grand plans to reassure them that birthdays were in fact a legitimate and fun holiday to be taken seriously. And in that last statement lies my problem. I am too serious. In the process of trying to make a celebration joyful and successful I force upon others the "fun" that I feel we should be having. I have still never been successful in showing my siblings and parents that birthdays are important and I don't even remember the last time I threw a party or took more than 24 hours thinking about a gift.
Birthdays are a labor of love. Labor, being the operative word. They happen, there are balloons and Tiki torches but it always feels forced. When will the time come when we spontaneously jump to our feet and raise our voices in joyful noise to say, "This life wouldn't be the same without you, the day that you were born should be celebrated across the land!"
Maybe next year?
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Who are Bug and Mr. Pots?
Bug and Pots are two of three members of what I hear called, a "non-traditional family". The third remains nameless because despite our 2 years together, there is no pet name that will stick. I also don't know that he will appreciate being blogged about so for the time being, he is excused from the activities.
What makes us non-traditional? It could be that Pots lacks opposable thumbs or it could be despite this small inconvenience, we still talk to him and expect behavior and feedback from him as if he did. Generally, we are not disappointed.
It could also be that we live in sin and do it with pride. Not pride for sinning but pride for arriving at a point in our lives where are conscience is dictated internally and trusting that instinct.
It could also be that I refer to my "partner's" family as "out-laws". Even if we did choose to get the law involved in our partnership I don't think I would change how I refer to them. They are a refreshingly wild bunch of misfits whose humor and quirks have nested in me. Good thing my physical body is steadily expanding to accommodate.
It could also be, and I feel this to be the most likely cause, that the origin of the non-tradition is deep rooted in us. I am confident that this will continue to carry on many generations to come.
What makes us non-traditional? It could be that Pots lacks opposable thumbs or it could be despite this small inconvenience, we still talk to him and expect behavior and feedback from him as if he did. Generally, we are not disappointed.
It could also be that we live in sin and do it with pride. Not pride for sinning but pride for arriving at a point in our lives where are conscience is dictated internally and trusting that instinct.
It could also be that I refer to my "partner's" family as "out-laws". Even if we did choose to get the law involved in our partnership I don't think I would change how I refer to them. They are a refreshingly wild bunch of misfits whose humor and quirks have nested in me. Good thing my physical body is steadily expanding to accommodate.
It could also be, and I feel this to be the most likely cause, that the origin of the non-tradition is deep rooted in us. I am confident that this will continue to carry on many generations to come.
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