Time For Spring Cleaning…my brain is cluttered

There is a lot of junk in the closet...maybe it would be better to lay here.

There is a lot of junk in the closet…maybe it would be better to lay here.

Rather than work on my work work, I found myself poking around on WP today….how did that happen?

I should be finishing up my current project. Nothing has the capacity of dashing my spirits mo’ bettah than a tail-between-my-legs late submission. It just makes me feel like a heal.

Yes, I meant to make a rhyme.

But nooo; heal or no heal, I can’t seem to refocus myself to the things I am supposed to be doing. Instead, I am tripping over all of the clutter on my dashboard.

Where did all of these drafts come from? I have no recollection of writing any of them. Nor did I ever take the time to actually edit and publish them. No wonder I haven’t posted anything in close to a year. Why bother having a blog if I can’t commit to it? 

[pause….5 minute break]

So I thought about it and have decided not to be so hard on myself. In taking stock of the year since my last post, I have been pretty busy. In fact, busy to the degree that I feel it important enough to compile a list of some of the things. A list for my own personal reckoning.

Okay, forget the list, I’m going to detail everything in one kick-a@@ run-on sentence. Bring it.

I….completed a master’s degree in less than 12 months – with a 4.0 no less, started writing for money (yeah, I know, real dollars for scribing my half-baked ideas about law enforcement testing, shwong), had things surgically removed from my body, lost the innocence of thinking that no one would ever hurt my children, struggled (and continue to do so) to stand by and stand tall for the injured child all the while trying to not crumple up on the floor in overwhelming mommy-pain, attempted to come to terms with the fact that I can’t go home to visit my peeps until I can accept that home is where an excuse for a human being robbed my daughter’s innocence close to a decade ago, metaphorically lost my other child via the enlistment process into the US Air Force, adopted the most amazing socially-disordered animal and then fell head over heels in love with his stinky butt, decided to pack up and relocate across country again, lost an amazing family member after her wonderfully full and long life (RIP Cake Granny), reaffirmed that my man really is my soul-mate and I love him more as each day passes, have determinedly begun the journey to start another educational pursuit…and I didn’t even lose any hair…or the weight from having my thyroid surgically abscond from my innards. Busy.

For those that know me, I totally would have tried to say all that on one breath; and probably would have succeeded. Lucky for me my fingers don’t need to breathe.

In closing, I have taken it upon myself to schedule a number of sessions to reacquaint myself with the lackluster things in my blogger past. I shall reconnoiter the impedimenta of notations  left laying about. With due diligence I promise to pursue and complete the dashboard spring cleaning.

Peace out.


No More Potty Mouth

I have decided to make a commitment towards dropping my one habit. The one that gets me into more trouble than anything else.

Hmm, F-that.

I don’t know if I can give up the kick I get. I dig feeling ‘the power’ surging through my veins when I unleash a profane word bomb. Maybe I should reconsider this commitment?

Well,  if I analyze it, I would likely come up with some sort of Freudian determination about myself. Yeah, this habit might really be a veiled short-old-redheaded-gal-goes-potty-mouth version of a Napoleon Complex.

Well, damn, I suck.  It would definitely be cooler if I shamelessly did something more along the lines of old-potty-mouth-girls-gone-wild. The hormonal charge from youthful exuberance would certainly counteract my dismay every time I gaze down upon my sagged away breastage.  An area that once was glorious.

Cursing like a sailor boy isn’t really all that exciting. It’s fun though. And sometimes cathartic (I am just putting that there because I feel I should be responsible to the therapeutic community.)

In retrospect, you know, I really loved having a career that didn’t look down upon me and my brethren gals because we would loudly say things that included ‘that as@@@@e was such a perverted co@@su@@ing fa# mo-fo…and he tried to run away when I was cuffing him, really dude?!’ And then, after stowing our gear, we would go home and kiss our children with that same mouth.

See? I an glowing with prideful esteem. I did very well. I didn’t actually TYPE out one single naughty word. That shit works!

Salt Lick Anyone?

So, it perplexes me a little, this thought process that is sitting like a warm pancake on my mind. I am not sure why, but I have an overwhelming urge to lick sea salt right out of the palm of my hand.  I do. Badly. Now. Post haste. And I am sitting at my desk. This is really odd.

Of course, if I actually did go for a little ole’ lickey loo…hmm. Let me think about it a little.  Starting with the reach into my desk drawer, then comes the clutching of the Sea Salt cannister…shake shake…the clever little idea of my own salt lick begins to pique after I dump a few grains on to my hand.  I gaze lovingly at it and think, ‘what a pretty little clump of white.”  Leaning over I slowly start sticking out my tongue, leaning, whistfully swiping away each, mmm,  and every, mmm, little pungent, mmmmmm, crystal….mmmm. The anticipation of that sting of pre-tequilla sodium starts to intoxicate my brain.

Mm..[SLAP] the milisecond of  joy is abruptly spanked away by a gagging hold on my throat. Gaaaghhkk….fear and anger is triggered by the smear of a chemical gloss across the surface of my mouth. It pungently tortures…confusion sets in…there is this intermingling and simultaneous warring sensation of the taste of oil, salt, metal and the smell of sicky sweet flower nectared purfume that doesn’t match the message my brain had previously begun to process.

Agghhhgk, gag, the lotion, ‘Tahini Sweetie’…all over my hands. F*$# ME! I hate being so forgetful!

Maybe I better return to the task that initially bored me into this salty fantasy. Its gotta be safer planning a yardsale.


Yardsale anyone?