Failure Is An Option

I have decided to let everyone in on a little secret.  I am really not that brilliant.  I remember in the 5th grade overhearing a discussion between two of my three teachers.  I, apparently, was failing spelling.  Part of me shudders even now to admit this.  One teacher adored me and the other had an odd dislike for me.  The one wanted to pad my grade to make it passing, since she was sure I would improve.  The other very clearly made it known that I should get the grade I had earned.  Needless to say, come report card time, I had a passing grade.  I am almost ashamed to admit this, as it is a fault, even if it was in the past.  For some reason or another, spelling has never been a strong point of mine.  Thanks to spell check, most of the time, I can pass myself off as nearly flawless in an area that I was at one time deemed a failure. 

In fact, I think I try very hard to create 'spell checks' in many areas of my life.  Little buffers to hide my flaws from others.  The strange thing is that occasionally, just like when spell check doesn't correct a word because, in fact, it is really a word just not the one I wanted, I end up exposing my lack of brilliance.  Honestly, these are humbling times and quite hard to look at.  Especially, when I can't remember which rug I've brushed them under.  It seems lately imperfections and idiosyncrasies are coming out more often, and I have a theory as to why.  I think I am trying to free myself.  Brilliance is a lonely prison at times, but fake brilliance is a long term stay in an insane asylum. 

So, let it be known I am nothing more than an average person with a dependency on a spell check or two.  Feel free to pad my failing grade, just don't let me overhear the conversation, it might give me a complex.

Screaming Babies and Wives

Well, I have decided to push on for the time being with or without the Russians. 

I am exhausted.  Most people in my state would be either sleeping or mindlessly watching television, however as I have stated before, I am not most people.  So, a blog entry it is.  I have always empathized with tired grumpy children and exhausted screaming babies.  This is mostly because I tend to react in a very similar fashion when I am tired.  This has always been.  So, why doesn't my husband leave me alone when he knows I am tired?  Even after 16 years of me snapping at him, he still provokes me to become an evil version of myself, with awful antagonising questions like,  "What is the cost of shipping on the chair you want to order?" or "Do you want to watch a movie?"  How is one supposed to respond to such bait. 

Now at this point, you may be wondering if I am assuming that my husband knows I am tired.  Or more to the point, have I told him that I am tired.  The answer is no to the first and yes to the second.  He was informed before he even entered the house this evening and in case his processing disorder was in full effect, I was wearing my pajamas and robe during dinner as a visual aid. 

Okay, so I know that he hasn't done anything wrong, not really.  But, everything feels wrong.  Every person that wants something from me provokes a wrath very similar to that of an overtired child throwing a tantrum in the middle of a store because their mother had to 'hit' one more sale.  Even if that something is just a simple question.  So, there it is all laid out nice for all to read, I am mean when I am tired.  I just don't have people staring at me in sympathy saying, "She's just tired, someone needs to put her to bed."  Perhaps, I should consider getting one of those medical warning bracelets or something, that says just that.  It may just save a life and possibly my marriage.

Death of a Blog

I am beginning to question the validity of my having a blog.  I truly find myself in a catch 22.  It goes against every fiber of my being to 'brag' about my blog and invite people to read utter nonsense about me.  However, if I continue on in the vein in which things are going, there will soon be no reason to continue, at least in such a public manner.  I actually heard crickets chirping the last few times I clicked  publish.  Things have hit such a low that the Russians are no longer visiting.  I once had some grand illusion that my writing was something that someone other than myself would want to read.  I must say this blog attempt has placed me back in reality and I am now considering developing new talents in the areas of homemade cleaning products and basket weaving.  I can see my booth at the farmer's market now, perhaps it may even be blog worthy, but alas not by me.

I am not saddened by these thoughts, but just questioning the use of my time and 'talents'.  I grew up with a great love for creative gifts and a deep respect for people that had them.  Anyone with an overbearing Asian or in my case Western mother can memorize facts and get a degree from an Ivy League school, but only those with a true creative gift can live a life of passion.  At least this is how I have always felt.  I spent most of my adolescence and a great deal of my adult life believing that I had a 'gift' and that it was only because of fear that I had never reached my potential. 

I no longer believe this to be true.  I do feel that I am a creative person and this will never change, but gifted I am not.  At least not by the world's standards.  Every day, I choose to approach things in a unique way and I know that this perspective, which I graciously share with my family each day, is a gift they receive with gratitude.  I wasn't meant to shine for the world, but for those that I treasure most.  So, there is no sadness for a dream brought to its end, but a joy for a reality that I can live with.

We Only Get One Blip

I should be off starting dinner.  But, I have found myself drawn to write down something . . . anything. So, I will discuss my latest thoughts.  I'll spare everyone my latest rantings on the poisoning of our food supply and move on to something more meditative:  Time. 

Years ago, at the age of twelve, I was diagnosed by one Dr. Salcedo as a Neurotic.  He explained to my mother that this simply meant that I couldn't live in the present that my thoughts were constantly moving to the future.  What's wrong with being future oriented?  I mean, we all need goals to reach for right?  Well, nothing unless your thoughts revolve around worry, which mine often do.  So, consequently I have always been drawn to anything related to time.  Lately, my thoughts have drifted to finding ways to live in the moment or in essence how to slow time.  This is the exact opposite of my nature and yet I am fascinated at the possibility of being able live in such a manner.  Each person's life is simply a blip on the universe's scale.  Why would anyone in their right mind want to speed up the only blip they get? 

I am not fool enough to believe that life equals happiness, but it can be a joy to live.  How does one live with joy?  Well, I don't think I have yet read enough articles on the subject to convince my brain that there is an answer.  But, I am beginning to slowly grasp the need to breathe in each moment.  Even the unpleasant ones.  Only by being awake to each thing that happens to us do we feel time.  If we walk around numb to all that is happening, a day and a lifetime seem like one.  I want my lifetime to be something that I not only lived but felt.