Kalina, upon walking outside to noticing the freshly mowed lawn, called out loudly to her brother, “Whoa. You’ve gotta see this! The gwass is haf naked!”
Yet another reason to enjoy the warm weather: half-naked grass!
We’re headed for dinner and a movie tonight. Totally tweet worthy, right?!
So far I’ve gone in go some detail about my husband’s love for the comic book hero, Wolverine. Dudes, he has a massive tattoo on his leg. That’s nerdy devotion right there.
So in a stroke of madness I’ve decided to take you all along with me. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m totally going because (1) my husband asked me nicely, and (2) Hugh Jackman asked me nicely (in MY nerdy dreams).
The tweets will continue!
I’m creatively constipated, y’all.
I lay awake at night in bed, thinking about what I could start writing about, pondering my life and the events that might be remotely interesting.
I go to bed each night telling myself, “Tomorrow you’ll post. No excuses.”
But then I go to bed the next night, thinking about what I could possibly write about, and it PUTS ME TO SLEEP. It’s my equivalent of counting sheep, I guess. I concentrate on what’s interesting in my life and then before you know it’s Snorefest 2009, or any ol’ regular Tuesday.
This is really my internal struggle and battle because I want to make something of this here blog. I want to make it successful and really take it further than it’s gone before. I want a niche. I keep thinking this will help me. But pardon me because I think the sarcastic fat girl niche pretty much
It’s really actually stupid of me because in my quest for originality and success I am, sadly, generic and failing. Creatively constipated. Blocked. Stifled. Muffled. Finger tied?
Also, thinking about this makes me sound like this blog is all about me.
Wait. It is.
See, right there is the problem.
I only share this little commentary that I have constantly running with you because (1) I needed to post before I exploded from not writing; (2) I can only Twitter for so long before the blog becomes irrelevant; (3) I won’t overcome this creative constipation if I don’t just force myself to write; (4) I do have things to say and share; (5) the prospect of writing makes me have the desire to do more and be more, thus encouraging me to step outside of myself more often, which isn’t a bad thing; (6) the unicorns told me to; (7) my children deserve to read this when I’m old and senile so they can see I wasn’t always gummy, bald and irritable; (8) the gnomes had to be put in timeout for not mowing the lawn; (8) I miss you — yes, you; (9) it’s raining outside and the kids are inside watching TV; (10) I can only handle so much Noggin before I want to bash myself in the noggin with a tire iron; (11) the unicorns bite and froth at the mouth when I don’t listen to them; (12) I need to buy a new mop because my old one died, and if I did explode it would be too much of a pain in the butt to clean up; and (13) you’re pretty.
I’ve also had these dreams of being in some state of pregnancy. I’m having them often. And I wake up, realizing that I have a barren dusty womb that I can start storing my pots and pans in, maybe hang some knickknacks because I’m not using it for much else, and I am BIG on saving space and creating new storage spaces.
I did a search using The Google trying to figure out what it might all mean. The answer I came up with the most from the all-knowing, all-seeing interwebs was that it was about creativity, a new direction or something new coming into my life that I am wishing for or about to take.
Now, since it was on the internet I know that it’s right because the internet, just like the TV, Boy Scouts and the hobo on the corner, never, ever lies.
Because of the whole barren, dusty, storage womb I now have, my inclination is this is not about a child. Instead, it is more about going to bed every night wondering what I wanted to do with this whole writing thing.
So I am taking baby steps back.
Also, my brother recently told me that he thought I was stupid because I was better than half the writers out there being published (hey, what about the OTHER half, hmm?) and I needed to get off my butt and start writing because it’s so easy and nothing should be holding me back. He also reminded me that we are all given gifts and to not share those gifts with the world is actually wrong. Technically sinning. Technically, I am not doing what I should be doing. He also said something about fear of failure.
Well, damn that little runt for throwing all THAT in my face. What does HE know? The Jerkface.
Plus, like he said, it’s so easy.
Really, I guess he’s right. Don’t tell him that though. His ego is already out of this world.
I don’t know that I’m better than other writers actually, but I know that I have something in me that makes me feel compelled to write, fulfilled when I’m writing. Every teacher I’ve had since the ninth grade, even into college, has told me that I needed to be a writer. But, uh, what do they know?
On reflection, I’m realizing that the voice in my head that is in charge of the Fear of Failure (the conjoined twin of Fear of Success) hemisphere has been REALLY loud and maybe, just maybe, I should turn his volume down a little bit.
I’m thinking I’ll get there. Especially with lovelies like you by my side!
Random thoughts floating in my head…
You think people that zealously watch the language they use find it difficult to say words that sound like bad words but aren’t? Like Helsinki. Do you think they feel compelled to say Hecksinki?
Would Middlefart, Denmark become Middletoot, Denmark?
I’m not even sure I should tackle Horneytown, North Carolina or Hookersville, West Virginia, except to say I wonder how close Horneytown is to Funky Town? And honestly, do I want to know?
What do Joan Crawford, Keri Russell and Chaka Khan have in common with me?
While I do have an aversion to wire hangers, a la Joan Crawford, and I definitely am every woman, along with Chaka Khan, really the tie that binds us all together, aside from the obvious stunning good looks, propensity for public adoration and delightfully luscious locks (think pre-short hair Felicity), we were all born on March 23rd.
I turned 32 without the usual pomp and circumstance I’m accustomed to and simply limited the celebration to a big brass band and ticker tape street parade. There is something to be said for understated elegance and modesty, don’t you think?
And since I happen to share a birthday with Jason, we celebrated together. No way around that one really. Of course, he turned 33, so we don’t share everything.
My family is big on birthdays, and we usually do our best to make the birthday person feel extra special, let them feel even more so that we are happy to know them and love them. That makes it nice to turn a year older around these parts.
I wasn’t against turning 32, marking another year older, another year closer to my mid 30s and beyond. Time does certainly go quickly though. Thirty-two means I’m well into my 30s. I can now become part of that cliche of the 29-and-holding crowd.
Thirty-two isn’t all that bad. I had an epiphany about six months ago that I am actually glad I’m no longer in my 20s. Sure I miss what gravity has so cruelly stolen, but I do not miss the insecurities that I had. I don’t miss what worried me, what I spent my time focused on. What was so important then is so silly now.
Now, instead, I have a whole new mess of things I worry about and am insecure about. Isn’t that lovely? That is what I call progress!
I’ve committed to myself to making 32 the year I embraced health and wellness, taking the time out to worry less and live more, to live with less regrets, to not focus on what I don’t have and to instead focus on what I do, the lessons I’ve learned, the possibility that exists if I but simply reach for it.
I’ll let you know next year how that worked out when I look back on what was my 32nd year and what I hope for my 33rd. And y’all better be around then or I’m going to make 33 the year I spend looking for you to kick your butts! And don’t think I won’t do it!