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. 

A New Normal

The consumer is a very powerful person.  As the main shopper for a family of four, I haven't always felt this way.  But recently, as a result of health issues in our little nucleus, I have become quite empowered.  No longer will the evil conglomerates and self seeking government regulators control the fate of my family. 

Over the last few weeks, I have had to come to terms with saying good-bye to the normal side of myself.  The side that likes to believe that she is well thought of by her peer base.  Or at the very least, not talked about in exaggerated whispers along with looks of horror.  Now that all partings have been complete, I am free to be as eccentric as my genetics will allow.  Which, unfortunately, is quite high on the spectrum.

The strange girl in the goodwill hat and her facial haired boyfriend, the pseudo intellectual still single over 40 women, & the 'home school' family with a love for mismatched clothes and unkempt hair have all become my regular shopping companions at the farmer's markets and co-ops.  I don't mind really.  They after all have become my new normal and honestly I wasn't all that thrilled with the Cocoa Pebble & Mountain Dew crowd that I was hanging with before. 

At the risk of sounding trite, life is a journey.  Sometimes it is a straight path to the end, but most of the time it is full of twists and turns, much like a game of Chutes & Ladders.  In the end, we all die.  So, we shouldn't focus on the end so much and welcome the twists and turns that shape us.  And, if for some awful reason you are on the straight path, add some of your own twists.  Because after all it's the journey we are here for.

A Most Selfish Creature

I think if I had been left to my own devices, I could have been a most selfish creature.  My days drift in a pattern of serving others.  It begins often before I am even awake.  Somewhere between 1 and 3 a.m., when my 6 year old crawls into the bed and I slide over to make room.  Even my smile seems selfless at times.  I often bestow it wearily in my attempt to hide my worry for one of my children.  Daily, I practice giving of myself.  Despite being decades into this practice, I still, at times, find it unnatural.  Which leads me to my current mode of thought:  I could have been a most selfish creature.

I imagine I could spend hours lying in bed each morning, too exhausted from thinking of myself the previous day to get up.  I believe that I could spend an additional few hours powdering my nose and meticulously hiding my flaws.  I suppose I could prepare a meal with only me and my desires in mind and then leave the mess to clean up itself.  Indeed I have no doubt that I could talk endlessly about myself with such flourish that those around me have no choice but to be silenced.  I know that this could all be pulled off with amazingly little effort on my part.

Thankfully, I was not left to my own devices.  And, although at times I resent my responsibilities and find my mind in a state of unrest, I know that these same responsibilities and 'stressful' thoughts are what keep me from being the anti-heroine in my own novel.  They are the catalysts moving my story somewhere, in my humanness, I was never meant to go. A place of wholeness that can only be found in losing myself.  At the end of this exhausting day, I am grateful to my family for helping me become what I should never have been.

Beautiful Poetry

I long to write something beautiful and poetic.  To share the depths of my inner being.  Yet, I can never seem to find the right words.  I always have plenty to help find the humor or irritations of life, but never the deep.  I am afraid that the truth is I have closed off that part of me.  The raw vulnerable part that is full of too much.  Too much fear.  Too much pain.  Too much of the unsightly.  I can't even stand to look at it myself.  I have spent years practicing strength.  And, I am strong, too strong.  My strength comes with a hardness that is like an impermeable shell.  I'm not sure I could even shatter it if I wanted to.  And, I don't.  I shudder at weakness of any kind.  I hear my voice now saying, " Exposing weakness only makes you weaker."  Showing the unlovely parts, makes you unlovable." 

I long to write something beautiful and poetic....