I have been in a bit of a writing slump lately–a real “funk,” in fact. I have had too many responsibilities and too little time, too many headaches and too little sleep, and these factors have combined their negative forces to rob me of my focus and my drive. I have tried to write–honestly, I have–but unfortunately, I have not been up to the challenge of stringing more than a few thoughts into a cohesive paragraph and then tying one paragraph to another and another.
And so, in an attempt to end this frustrating dry spell once and for all (or at least until the next dry spell hits), I have decided to stop trying so hard and to simply let flow some of the random observations and revelations that have been cluttering my brain of late and wasting valuable storage space in my temporal lobe. Perhaps once I have tossed out this jumbled weirdness, focus and order will return, and inspiration and creativity will follow. I can only hope.
And so, away we go …
Why do we kiss others on the lips? I mean, if you think about it, kissing really is just swapping slobber with another person (thanks, Dad, for implanting that thought 40 years ago), which should be disgusting (and is, after all, quite unsanitary!)–so how did it become such a popular and incredibly pleasurable way to express one’s feelings? Was it just one of those fads that “caught on”? (And who do I have to thank for that?)
My three sons did not suffer permanent side effects from being spanked at home. (Or, at least, I don’t think they did.) I believe they are all well adjusted, happy, successful young men–and I will continue to believe this until their tell-all autobiographies tell me otherwise.
Insomnia for weeks on end makes me cranky and weepy and weird–and sometimes just downright angry. At everyone … and everything.
When will I learn to quit ironing my clothes while I’m wearing them? Oh, I start off with an ironing board, but frequently when I slip on my dress or my sweater, I spot a wrinkle that I missed–and I despise wrinkles. Rather than taking my clothes back off again, I will attempt to do a little “touch up” while wearing them–and invariably burn my belly, my chest or my neck. And no matter how many times I try to explain that the hickey-looking spot on my neck is really a burn from ironing my collar, no one seems to believe me.
And, by the way, “wrinkle-free” clothing is a bold-faced lie.
Why do guys make fun of all the “stuff” women carry in their purses? When they need insect repellent, a Band-Aid, safety pins, a napkin, a fork, a flashlight, a screwdriver, a piece of gum, a toothpick, a pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers, or countless other necessary instruments, I don’t see them asking another guy to look in his wallet.
And speaking of guys, why is it so hard for them to understand the value of small gifts? It’s not about the gift; it’s about the fact that you were thinking about us and wanted us to know. (And this observation is not implying that we don’t want the big gifts, too–we just appreciate occasional, smaller gifts sprinkled in between.)
Falling off of a bike at my current age hurts a whole lot more (and for a whole lot longer) than it did at age 10. And getting up from that fall is not as easy as it used to be, either.
Wearing leather boots makes me happy and–just once in a while, paired with the right dress and a full moon–makes me feel (dare I say it?) almost … nah, I can’t say it.
When someone says, “It’s really none of my business,” that phrase is almost always followed by the word “but”–which is then followed by an intrusive question or an unsolicited piece of advice.
When I’m singing without an audience in my car, I’m pretty sure I sound like a cross between Adele, Stevie Nicks, and Carol King. When an audience is present, though, I sound more like a cat-screeching cross between Joe Cocker, Cyndi Lauper and Roseanne Barr. I wonder why that is.
The older I get, the older “old” becomes.
I have also been most disappointed to learn (the hard way) that “older” and “wiser” don’t always go hand-in-hand.
One McDonald’s french fry–just one–that has fallen, forgotten, between the car seats will soon produce enough nauseating stench to require a massive cleaning of the entire car in search of the offensive odor.
My daily life (and mood) would be greatly enhanced if I could live somewhere with an unobstructed view of the eastern sky so that I could–if I so chose–see the sunrise every morning.
The money that countless companies spend sending me catalogs I will never order from and credit card offers I will never accept could feed a small, starving nation. And the amount of time I spend shredding these unsolicited documents should be a reimbursable expense.
I waste a tremendous amount of time, energy and effort worrying about things that never happen–but knowing I am wasting my time, energy and effort will not make me stop.
Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News fame should wear a purple tie every day. And, considering the frequency with which he wears a purple tie, I’m pretty sure a group of female marketing executives has already informed him of this.
The greater the intensity of my headache, the louder the volume on the television in the next room.
I listen to every word and the meaning behind every word and all the words that aren’t said. This scares some people and irritates the heck out of others.
I don’t understand “hoarders.” I mean, I know I keep things that I should throw away (because you never know when you might someday need another rubber band or plastic bag or empty box), but I don’t cover every available surface with ceiling-high piles of unsorted junk. Seriously, how do people live like that?
How is it possible that I can look at my watch and 20 seconds later have to look at it again because I didn’t comprehend what I saw the first time?
To all you guys who use your pocket knife to clean squirrels and clean your fingernails, please don’t offer to peel my apple for me. Thanks, but I hear all the nutrients are in the peel anyway.
When there are “Road Work Ahead” and “Merge Right” signs well in advance of the actual road work area and some jerk refuses to merge, flying by as many cars as possible until the last possible minute, there is always some forgiving soul who will let him squeeze in line. I say we should all refuse and allow him to sit in that passing lane indefinitely–who’s with me on this?
Nothing is more deflating than that moment in the middle of an argument when I suddenly realize I am wrong. Do I swallow my pride and admit that I am wrong, or do I continue to staunchly support my position, knowing that I am being foolish (and knowing that the other person is well aware of my foolishness)? I have experimented with both tactics, and both have proven to be most unsatisfactory.
I try very hard to make others think I am confident and strong and tough–and I am sometimes so convincing that I come across as arrogrant and harsh and unfeeling. (I am not.)
One kind word has the power to change the dreariest day into something beautiful.
I know I’m going to get slammed for this, but I just don’t understand the whole Twilight thing, especially the fascination so many grown women seem to have with teenage vampires and werewolves and the ensuing drama when the two cross paths. I thought vampires and werewolves were the bad guys–am I missing something here?
Sometimes I forget how short I am–until I am walking behind someone, thinking, “Gosh, now she’s really short,” and then when I get up next to her realizing that she is actually taller than I am.
There is an old saying that, “Everybody is somebody else’s weirdo.” Now, after exposing you to some of the nonsense that has recently been clogging my creative juices and wasting my precious brain power, I have to know … am I your weirdo? C’mon, you can tell me the truth (especially if you follow it up with one kind word).