You've Got to Be Kidding Me

Well, although I’m not often moved to write blog posts while I’m at work, I am so moved today to do so, more for the soothing-I need to vent or else effect. (Notice the “I am so moved” type of tone in my voice – Work mode)

I am the office manager at a large health care facility. My responsibilities are many, as I am the senior practice administrator here, although we have a Clinical Services Manger, (off on FMLA) and a medical director (boss of the doctors in a medical management sort of way) and a pharmacy manager (who is a pharmacist manager basically) I manage every thing else. Very Broad Spectrum.

We have all sorts of staff, doctor’s, nurses, medical assistants, business office receptionists (who are sometimes medical assistants) and lab and radiology technicians.

Staff come in all sorts and sizes! Some can think on their feet, some cannot, some can differentiate between what is an emergent situation and what is not. Some have technical difficulties even though their work ethic is strong and true. Like today for instance, I have a staff person who avoids speaking directly to you. She likes to leave voice mail messages or to send emails to me. Although I pass her several times during the morning, and even interact with her, an action that is initiated by me of course, and the door to my office is across from the business office area, she sends emails- almost as if by sending them, she is seeking affirmation or reminding herself of something. She sent me an email to tell me that said simply "the framed certificate in our lobby is hanging crooked." One line, one sentence, one verb. LIKE WTF, did you just straighten it? No? Well, then GO DO THAT, ok? Bonk! I ask her, “Did you straighten it? She responds – “No, I thought by telling you, it would remind me to do that”. No, by telling me, it glaringly reports to me that you can not do even the simplest of tasks on your own, without being directed and you want someone other than yourself to assume all the responsibilities. DUH. Like I don't receive a ton of other emails of some importance, and have time to read one-liners sent by this one.

I’m a little bit worn today, by the inability of others to step outside of themself and look down the road just a minute. Just a minute mind you. Turn off a light, put back your own dirty dishes, and load to the copier with paper. Oh, and don’t Tell me each time that you do!

K, enough said. UNTIL..
I got one of those email forwards from her (same lady, uh, huh, the ONE)
It was one of those types of emails that listed fun facts that perhaps you didn’t know. Such as, the King of Hearts in a deck of cards is the only King without a mustache
(OH, really now!)
Or the first product to have a bar code was Wrigley’s gum. (ohhhhh, I get asked that one all the time!)
And for the piece de resistance, Turtles can breathe through their butts.
(Silence)

This is wrong in so many ways! I was once a turtle owner! I never once caught him with a snorkel to his ass while he was lurking around the murky water of his pond! I want the job of the guy who had so much time on his hands as to study turtle asses. I want the job of the lady who sent this informational tidbit to me! What gives! And just what other species can breathe through their butt? Is this a reason for malicious halitosis in regards to an unusually pleasant acquaintance whose breathe smells like that of a turdy diaper? (Like a blind date, who is otherwise appealing, but knocks you over when you try to engage in charming conversation) Or that of your precious pooch, whose slurp filled licks are dangerously close to knocking you off your chair the stench is so rank. (Oh wait, there is a good reason for THAT breath, and it does come from the same source) .

Who knew. Turtles can breathe through their butts. And your work day is going how?

Move outta da way guys, I can't catch a breath! Get off me! Keep moving will ya?

2050

The old lady sat with a folded paper across her lap, a small child’s fingers curling around the wisps of white hair that surrounded the nape of the ladies neck.

SC: “Grandma, why is your hair so white?”
OL: “Because when you reach your 90th year, all the color in your hair disappears.”
SC: “Because you are old?”
OL: “Yes, because I’m older than YOU”. She reaches out to tickle the small child.
SC: (thoughtfully) “Grandma, my Grandma is your DAUGHTER?”
OL: “Yes, she is, your Grandma was once my little girl, you know that” she smiled at her retelling of it.
SC: “When there were still cars, right Grandma”? Her voice squeaked, her pitch high.
OL: “Yep, we had cars and we had telephones and DVD players to watch our movies on our T.V’s”.
SC: “How come you had telephones?”
OL: “That was before we had tele-communicators to take our pictures, and to show our movies and let us talk to each other through our HD-TV’s”

The old lady thought back to the old days - my, it was such a big deal that we had a woman and a black man running for president back in 2008, why I can’t believe we still differentiated between the black race and the Asian race and the whiter race back in my younger years. The races were so mingled anyway, with the first black president being half white and half black; we only concentrated on the black part. Silly. The white race, the total minority of races, my hair is whiter than the so called “white race”. All the browns and beiges and taupe’s of race, who would have thought that it would once have mattered, all those years ago. Who still calls out the color of ones skin, ones genes? It’s not those who were proud to be all mixed up. No, it’s the ones seeking superiority, that’s for sure. I’m proud to have lived past that era. Proud that we have all lived past the age of looking down on our inherited gene pools that defined who we are but rather we have made our ancestors proud by judging each other on the basic principles of character, and not that of race, or sex, or religion.

OL: “Honey, will you go get Grandma a non-carbonated beverage?”
SC: “The kind you used to drink called WATER?”
OL: “Yes baby, that one”.

Oh, the world has changed in so many ways, most for the good, but water, what has become of simple unpolluted, unfiltered water?

Near Death Experience OR I Shat On Your Head

Runs With Scissors scores another eventful mishap-this time with flare.
My day starting off as usual with a quick shower, palm full of hair gel and the quick blow- dry and style.
Leaning from the waist I bend, (so that all my follicles are standing on end, giving my bob body) starting at the roots of my hair, I blow. Suddenly, *&!^*^, sparks shoot from my hand held dryer, the smell of singed hair strong in the room. Hmmmm, could be a short in the cord. So I TURN IT ON AGAIN. (See where the dangerous in me comes out, I ignore the inevitable warnings, such as sparks that produce fire! I really should wear a helmet – ALWAYS) Again, it shoots fire – then dies. The sparks burnt my arm just a little. My hair resembles a cross between Don King and Amy Winehouse on crack. (did I say that out loud? Sorry Amy, I would want to accuse you of anything, it’s not like me to JUDGE.)

My granddaughter and her mother, my stepdaughter came by for lunch and to swim. We had a great time. When they were ready to leave, I walked them to the car in my driveway. Blowing kisses to the Little Miss, already strapped in her car seat in the back, I feigned receiving her blown smooches, by tossing my head back to catch the blow. We giggled and heard three loud smacks, like loud spatters that HUGE droplets of water would make if dropped from above my head. Large bird turds is what they were! One on the part of my hair on the top of my head, one on my arm and a large one on my temple and glasses. EWWWW! They left quickly, the party is over! I washed my hair for the second time that day, but, and here’s the silver lining, the lemon aide made from the ripe old lemons of life, wait for it… I got to use my new hair dryer! Hope you’re having a good hair day too!

6 Random Thoughts or Fun Facts Friday - YOU CHOOSE

I gotta face it. I’m in a slump. And as far as slumpiness goes, I’m reading on other blogs that I am not alone. Almost everyone is stretching for things to write about in the blog world, and some do it with really great panache. I don’t, in comparison, but I will try as I might to SNAP OUTTA IT!. Could be that this “Summer” season of open air fun is encroaching on computer time. Unless you are a late-nighter. Late Night is the PERFECT computer time, but alas, I sleep.

So, while blog hopping the other day, I found this on Manager Mom’s blog a contest and a meme in one. 6 random thoughts! Ok, I’ll take that – and combine it with a Fun Fact Friday kind of deal.

1. I’m an addictive personality. Some are harmless, some not so much. (that nicotine nastiness that bites me in the ass, even though I've condensed it to a few a day) One thing I cannot resist, and that is shopping. I shop to make myself feel better, to feel that there is hope – and hope is in the items I buy. Like clothes. Like books. Like shoes, and stuff for my granddaughters and yes, I’m one of those, I buy Christmas presents year round. ACH! Don't look under my bed. Buying gifts is a twofold purpose, it feeds my need to shop, to touch all the new and shiny things, ooooohhhh, and to keep Santa alive and well. You should see our Christmas’s! Glutttony!

2. I once collected owls. I can't even believe I am admitting this. Once thought to bring good fortune if you had an owl in your home, I thought they symbolized wisdom, beauty, nature, and mystery. Oh, and good fortune. Come on, who among you has spotted an owl in your every day life, other than in the zoo? See, a mystery. I sold them all in a garage sale a few years later, keeping only one or two that were special gifts. The whole good fortune, wisdom, mystery thing didn’t work for me. But hey, it was the 70’s, and I was moving on to that “country” style of decorating that the 80’s suburbia was so popular for. I KNOW. I know, I contributed to both decades tasteless trends.
3. Halloween is my favorite time of year. Besides all the CANDY a sugar addicted kid/mom could hope for, dressing up in costumes that range from gory to glamorous, well, SIGN me UP! I love autumn too. I’m a sucker for anything with leaves. The fall color pallatte… Perhaps I was a tree in another life. Who knows.
4. I was once a stripper at a club named Razzle Dazzles (after the candy/gum of the same name) and my stripper name was Green Velvet (it was the 70’s). I bumped & grinded it on that stage for about two years, until a zealous truck driver we’ll call Ted, lunged at my super hot silicone boobies from the tables below the stage, crushing one of the terrific tits until it hung sideways below my left arm. I was never the same, as my tepid tips didn’t afford me the extra cash to reconstruct the depleted sack-o-silicone. I’ve moved on. 5. #4 was a lie to see if you were paying attention.

6. I once dreamed of being a rock star. I can’t sing or play an instrument with any great talent, but I can be LOUD, and Sassy, and I had great Hair that I could swish about from side to side in time to a tune. Ba, da, dump. (cymbals crash)

7. Bonus Randumness!!!!! Since #4 was a lie, I’ll write a random EXTRA. Um, I have a longing to create stuff. I used to draw portraits and sketch away countless hours. Art and it's many mediums were a way of life to me, the expression of art a need, like needing oxygen or food. As my life developed and time was always an issue, the practical Jackee used her creative gifts to decorate and to sew. I sewed quite a bit of my children’s clothes and my own, back when it was cheaper to do so. Adjusting patterns to make new fashions that didn’t all look exactly alike. I collected fabric and made quilts. I had a real knack for hand quilting, making my neat tiny little stitches so even and straight, almost like that of my Sears sewing machine. I made quilt tops for all of my children, hoping that I would have time to finish them in the years after all the kids were flown from the coop, I’d have time to enjoy that. Time has a cruel joke for those who wait…arthritis and eyesight hinders the quilt tops from being completed. I will persevere; however, I think my kids will not be as thrilled to use them as I will to make them.Maybe I’ll do this from time to time; it’s a slump buster for sure. If you are so moved, you too are tagged – for 6 random thoughts.

Putzing Around

What a great blog! And a cool contest, with a coveted prize, a blog re-design from Be Design! I covet thee!
Mel has a good design and a fun and interesting blog, so I called her out for it. Also, the deadline for her contest is Friday, June 20th. Hurry, the competition is fierce. Visit her here, Mel, A Dramatic Mommy.

So, today, I took one of those “mental health” days we call PTO. I slept in a little, did a load of laundry, got my oil changed, and shopped.
I bought Tresor. I love Tresor.
It’s my signature “single girl” scent. I used to use Tresor as my scent on all date nights when I was a single girl. It brings back the part of me that is tantalizing, RIGHT HONEY? By the way, did you know that Lancome had a free gift for ME?
And then I bought this. To feed my hunger for fun, summer reading. Little did I know that my daughter bought it last night, and my other daughter a few states away, bought it too. All the girls are doing it. Where have I heard that one before?

Then, I wandered into dangerous territory. Misses separates. OOOOOOhhhhhh. I bought three cute summer tops. And shorts. Evil bane of existence, shorts. Not these,

Or these.And, unless you try them on, which I hate to do, shorts can be tricky. We'll see, I'm not convinced I'll keep the two pairs I bought, I'll keep the tags on just in case.

Now, I’m searching for a blog post, but alas, Blogger is down. Giving me trouble. This staying home, putzing around is the big CHEESE! Cheese brings me to dinner, something I’d better get cracking on. Adieu til tomorrow!

Peek A BOO - I SEE YOU

Not now, I’m playing with my inner child!

Years ago, I knew a woman who was seeking a degree in Self Help. She devoured books on all types of behavioral studies, self-help books filled with probable causes for every type of psychological affliction. She experienced many of them, searching for an answer to all of life’s problems that appeared to be so unfair to her, so beyond her ability to handle. She was in therapy (shocker there huh?) and spent a year or so delving into “inner child work”. Now that intrigued me.

Inner child, is that what it’s called when I don’t eat my veggies, and skip right to the desert? Or when I stomp my foot and angrily accuse my husband of not helping in the kitchen, how I ALWAYS have to do it myself. It’s my inner child coming out. Yeah, that’s what they call that. Or when I lie on a raft in my pool figuring out what the clouds look like? (I sometimes see really pornographic cumulous clouds, that my inner child shouldn’t be seeing!) Ewwwww.

Many years ago, and to some it may seem like bazillions of years ago, there was a Disney movie called Pollyanna, anyone as old as me out there? Hello? Can you remember it? It starred Haley Mills when she was about 10 or 13, or hey, it’s Hollywood, she was probably 34 and they made her look like 13, but anyway, Pollyanna. She was an orphan who had to go live with her maiden rich aunt who was strict and kinda mean. But she was eternally adventurous, curious and optimistic. I prefer that to be my inner child work, to be a Pollyanna, without the braids and bloomers. Although my chronic logical age is nearing 50 (3 months away for those of you who are eager to send birthday cards to me) I still like to believe that there is a Santa, that there is simple fun in playing games with other kids, some that are age 5 and some are more like my age (my husband, who is really only about 10) It works for me. I never dare not to be silly, to make fun of myself, to try to find the fun and excitement in every day things.

A few weeks ago, I played with my granddaughter in our yard. We have matching brooms, mine is adult size and hers is just the right size for her, she’s five. (I am a self proclaimed seven year old) We swept the garage, which she found ever so fun, me, not so much. Then I straddled the broom, and hopped ever so ungracefully around the front lawn proclaiming the magical powers of my witch’s broomstick. She followed, giggling and laughing and hopping along. I don’t know who the better witch was! I heard the neighbor exclaim shockingly as he laughed at me, “Grandma!”, but do I care? NOT! In fact, I would rather pretend to ride a broomstick than say, balance my checkbook, go to stuffy Biz-ness meetings, wrangle with the staff at work or just BE in the adult world of not-so-fun.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, I’m rattling on, but I desperately need to find my inner kid tonight. After the evening dishes are done, I think I’ll entice my husband into playing some hide and seek.

I'll take cream and sugar with that Challenge, Thank You very much!

Friday the 13th. Sigh. I’m usually not very superstitious, but I’ve had a draining week, filled with bad news, bad vibes, and nasty in general. I want to take a nap; instead, I sit at work, with piles of work. PILES. And yet I blog.
If ever you’ve read my blog and wondered about the title; well, it describes me. Truly describes me, I often act without caution and jump before looking etc. The result is often hilarious to others, and sometimes even to me. As I sit here typing in my office, I’ve realized that the brown eyeliner I used to line my eyes in the haze of the early morning light, was really lip-liner in a dark shade called Cabernet, my eyes look as though I’ve been sobbing really hard for days. I tried to “fix” it, and it smudged really deep Cabernet circles around my lids, so I put on some black eye liner to tone down the deep maroon. Now my Uncle Fester look is complete. Hope your happy Friday the 13th is not all mucked up with accidental mishaps!

So, before I suck you all down the drain with me, I’ll take a challenge from one of my friends, one of my posse, my peeps, and a truly talented blogger, who we all enjoy. (That sounded like an introduction – let’s give a round of applause for “Petuniafacedgirl – formerly known as Petunia Face-The Original” clap, clap, and clap.)

1. What did I do 10 years ago?
On the brink of a life change, from single mom of 3 teen-aged kids, happily carefree and single, I became enamored with my best male friend, my neighbor, who had 3 kids of his own. I refused to become romantically involved on the outside, but on the inside, I kind of liked him. Ahh, young love. I didn’t want to re-marry, was perfectly content to be single forever, but I wanted to share my life with him. Scared to death, I made the plunge, a few years later, still reluctant. But at the 10 year mark, I was in shape, in control, loved life and at the top of my game.
2. Five items on my to do list today.
One: Finish this post
Two: Finish pile one on my desk
Three: Cheer up my un-employed brother, who needs all our prayer right now.
Four: Swim with husband after dinner or get shoulder massage. Either would be fine.
Five: Father’s Day? I’ve got to herd the gang into their gift.
3. Snacks I enjoy.
Did you ever see that commercial with a little piggy running through this smartly dressed young women’s home, leading her to a bag of chips in the kitchen? Flat Earth Chips in Wild Berry. I can suck down the bag in one sitting. (Who can’t?) My homemade quaccamole with chips is another favorite snack. Of course, for a delicious snack on the run, Good and Plenty! You can see, I’m not only gourmet, organic, but with this sophisticated snack I’m also into Retro-snacking. Very shabby chic at the club, baby.
4. What would I do if I were a billionaire?
First I would hire a personal trainer, and get in shape and loose weight. This may take a few months, with the Good and Plenty and all.
With decreasing value of the dollar, I don’t think that this next gesture would have as much impact today, as when it was written, say on Monday. I would in fact fill my gas tank, and those of my friends and loved ones. Billion gone.

5. Places I would live.
Ohhhh, I would love to live in the south of France, if I were thin. Cheese and wine and sun. I would love to live in Oregon, and in the “shires” of New Zealand in Hobbitland, because it’s so pretty in both of these places, almost magical. Colorado is lovely, and I would end up there I am sure.
Bloggers I am passing this challenge to:
SpoonfullofSarah, because she LOVES a challenge and because her answers will be fun. www.thenewgirl.typepad.com whose wit and humor I am enjoying, and because she is the new girl, she should have to expose herself to the blog world through these tags sooner rather than later.
Robin was just blessed with a brand new baby boy! Congratulations! She may need a non-Johnson & Johnson scented task to bring her from new baby- momma -land back down to earth. Take your time. We’ll wait. Have fun first.
And any others of you that would love to skip out on seriousness for a minute or two? Consider yourself Tagged!

If I don't capture your interest, read my blog roll

I love the written word. No, let me rephrase that so you get the point, I LOVE the written word. I *heart* it, I adore it, I long to read what those have written.
I have been known to read aloud a sentence that has grabbed my attention and sparked something inside of me to those who are unsuspecting, and sometimes even go “? (like WHY are you reading that to me aloud, as if)

I do, I just love to read. And, although I’m not quite sure that what I have to say or how I write it might interest most, I like to write anyways.
So, when my daughter started her blog, and I read it, I decided to write one for myself, and perhaps we’d find some fun in it. And boy, have we.
New to reading blogs, I really had no idea what was going on, right here, inside my computer, written for all to see, if you know where to look that is. And reading one interesting blog post , and hopping through their blog roll has allowed me to read how other’s live, and laugh and express themselves, and has provided countless hours of reading pleasure.
I love to read my daughter’s blog for instance, even when I’ve just spoken to her. I get a glimpse of a daughter that I have known and loved, enjoyed for many years, one that is now shared with more people than I care to even comprehend. And I’ve made friends. I’ve met some really good writers, and some writers who express themselves succinctly enough that you feel like you know them, that you’ve connected with them. AND they’re Not Even Talking To YOU. Or you alone, is what I mean. This weekend, one of my favorite writers, was gone from her usual URL. My daughter called me, asking if I knew that she was missing, if I knew what had happened. I was terribly busy at the time, my 5 year old granddaughter was visiting this weekend, I was too busy to log on, and view, but low and behold I did. I found myself fraught with despair, searching for my “friend”, seemingly lost - without closure, without knowing what happened to her. I imagine the worst, or the 2nd worst, and the “what if’s”, and the “maybe so’s” Which one of us offended her, which one of us had used the wrong language, or had she become bored with providing us such entertainment? The next morning, I logged on again, did a Google search using some catch words, OH MY GOD, my husband said with a certain amount of, well, almost disgust, because he simply couldn’t understand, “Isn’t this a little like stalking now?” “Yep”, I said, taking another stab at a search. I gave up.
The point is, I love your words, I love reading your thoughts, I love the exchange that once was long handwritten letters on cute stationary or journal entries in each other’s diaries, or in some cases, short stories by professionally trained word gurus, whose sentence structure swallows me whole. I’m hooked. My laundry isn’t folded, dust has gathered on my dresser. I’ve no clue what I’m wearing to work tomorrow, but I’m blogging anyway.

So, if I’m missing from my blog and I’ve not posted for a week or so, it’s because I’m off enjoying YOURS!

Kick The Crap Outta Me, Would You?

Skip the Fun Fact Friday - a dilemma has occurred in the obscure windshield of my mind. Full of bugs and streaks, I’m replaying a scene from yesterday that made me piping hot mad, disturbed or to coin a lovely phrase from a friend, Wicked Pissed.

It was a hot one, a 90 degree day in humid, windy, Northwest Indiana, and the traffic of cars that had stopped at Aldi (discount food store-for those out of the area) was jammed into available spaces, the occupants dusty and moist from the air surrounding them.
Not one of my favorite hot spots (no pun intended) to shop, I was a tidge bit annoyed at the crowd. I just needed a few items, stopping by after work, I grabbed a cart and started to pick out said needed items, walking slowly down the boxes stacked on the floor in the overcrowded aisles.

Behind me entered a family of four. Mom and dad wore biker’s leathers (YEP, it’s 90, did I mention 90 degrees), their arms dangling out of the fringed vests and that which wasn’t sunburned was tattoo’d to the Nth. The two children in tow were kinda scruffy looking but relatively happy to be there, shoppin with the folks. They were behind me in the line to browse the staples. I didn’t have to view them to be aware of them, they were LOUD. Dad is the one that bothered me, as the kids would point out the “goodies” that they preferred, he would call out, “No!, idiot”. Or “You can’t have that Amber, moron”.
He talked (shouted) out his words loudly, frequently, and I winced at them every time. Trying to mind my own business was hard, the words slicing through my adult sense of calm, I strained at all times to check out the kids. They were seemingly not phased in the least by their father’s increasing blows to their wellbeing. I winced every time, and wondered how mom fared. She walked behind, sometimes repeating slowly, murmuring, what the man had so rudely called out for all to hear.
I look around. No one else acknowledged this behavior either by a stare or a obvious eye roll, or even an embarrassed “look away”. I felt I must SAY SOMETHING to rescue these kids from a life of low esteem, even if it were just today, just to point out that not all moms/dads yelled out insults, in a disgusting, putrid, tone to small children and toddlers. (Not to mention the food items that were purchased were downright UNHEALTHY-yeah, I peeked) but alas, I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.

I didn’t know what to say. I was only there a total of 15 minutes. He had bellowed "idiot" to his seemingly 7 year old little girl, and maybe 3 or 4 year old toddler so many times I had lost count. Idiot? Moron? It was disgusting. Mom looked as though she may have her own issues, and didn’t even pick out a food item of her own choice for their cart, they were being chosen by the (hater) Man. She seemed somewhat beaten down, as if she had no choice or opinion.

I shudder, I HATE myself for not saying, "Hey! Knock it off, mister, those kids will remember that you called them MORON and IDIOT at Aldi’s" …and I’ll bet a years salary that they get called worse and treated worse in private. I am embarrassed to say, it’s ingrained in me not to butt in and stop incredibly bad behavior in public. It’s none of my business, who am I to judge, and unless I see you breaking the law, or hitting someone or stealing someone, I should MMOB!!...but I can’t stop thinking about the years down the line with those kids. We who witness the “damaged” by life’s bad luck, or bad choices or poor behaviors, we who chat about it on blogs or at neighborhood block parties, yet look the other way when some grubby toddler asks for a pack of .25gum, and the refrain is “I told you NO, you idiot!”. EICH! My skin crawled. My heart hurts. I felt my throat tighten by his tone alone. I, too am scum for being unable to make it stop!

Dismay. Dismal feelings at my own doing or lack of.

Possessions and how they claim me

I’m a strange one. Those of you who know me personally are shaking their heads “yes”, those of you who don’t please consider this a warning. For those of you who have your belongings neatly classified, categorized and who do not have things that don’t BELONG with your décor, strewn about, please look away.
For those of you that know of what I speak, carry on.

My grown “kids” have told me that I have clutter. OMG, no, really? I have their keepsake toys that they wanted me to save, neatly stored away in the attic in large plastic bins, awaiting their joyous re-discovery. But that is not the clutter. I’m talking about my stuff. My junk, my "I can’t get rid of THAT, well, for a lack of a better word, crap." It’s crap that I am personally attached to.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, my home is tastefully decorated, and most crap is hidden from plain view. It’s just I KNOW that it’s there, hanging around my neck, dragging me down. And I am attached to it. Much like I am attached to my ’98 Oldsmobile that is paid for, has 153,876 miles on it and hardly a rust spot on it. It has a working radio, OH COME ON, and yep, a cassette deck. Jealous yet? I’m attached to it. Every knock, every light bulb replacement, wind shield wiper exchange, has me driving through car lots deciding on whether or not I’ll buy a new one and will it be red? Or slick black? Mostly, I like spending the money I was reserving for the new car – instead of having a car payment. So, I stay attached.

I think I’m one of those kinds that places emotional value on my stuff. Weird. I have adopted a motto to aid me in the task of letting go. It is: EVERY DAY THROW AWAY. I have to toss something from my stock of crap, every day. This is relatively easy. But there are some things that instead of tossing, I just move to a different location. Sometimes they make it out to the garage, near to the garbage can and they linger there until the Mr. tosses them. It doesn’t count in my log of letting go, I still have to toss out something. I have a lot of empty plastic food storage containers in my pantry, so I toss one when I’m feeling lackluster.
Clothes, shoes, knick knacks, candles, costume jewelry, more clothes, nope - I have a real problem letting go. Despicable!
I made a pact with one of my dear, dear friends, who I owe a kidney to and she won’t claim, that if something should happen to me, she needs to beat everyone back to my house, and even before my husband has a need to, clean out my underwear drawer. Don’t look, just toss. I’ll go to the great beyond commando.