Pet Peeve Reprieve of Bored Bored Boring Droning

I would like to think that I am a fairly tolerant person. And perhaps that is not entirely true, but I would like to think that it is true. I could probably make a list of things that drive me insane. Things that stir thoughts of sticking a fork in an unsuspecting eye. But that would be a bit on the negative side and I have recently chastised a good friend to holy hell for such negativity.

But at the risk of sounding somewhat hypocritical I must must must say something about people who feel the need to articulate to the nth degree all about their own incredible state of boredom.

Perhaps I am overly skilled at self entertainment, because I am never bored. I cannot recall the last time that I actually felt bored. Maybe I am unique in this respect and I will be bombarded with hate mail from those of you chronically bored individuals. And if that is the case then please explain to me why you do not have the ability to entertain yourself in any situation. Perhaps you don't really like yourself that much so the thought of spending any time with yourself without outside entertainment is dreadful.

But I make no apologies. I just don't understand. And I cannot help but feel that you must be an incredibly boring person if you are bored. Perhaps I might be able to comprehend a moment of boredom. Or a glimmer of boredom. But boredom for more than a blink or two perplexes me.

Maybe some individuals need constant entertainment. And they are so damned self centered that they expect others to provide them with said entertainment. Perhaps they are unable to take responsibility for their own lives. And maybe they merely want everyone to be as miserable as they are in that moment. Perhaps that is the only way they can climb out of their hole of misery.

Maybe I am being a bit to harsh on the chronically bored. Perhaps it is more of a disease requiring some sort of therapeutic intervention.

I have witnessed individuals droning on and on about their boredom for what seemed like hours. And I have observed various sorts of postings about said boredom. And I can only wonder why anyone would think that another individual is interested in hearing about their boredom.

I mean seriously. Don't tell me if your bored.

Now if you want to go play on the swings with me or finger paint with me or skinny dip or sing a song or bake bread or take a walk with me or play Uno or watch a movie or if you want me to read a passage of a book to you or give you a hug or listen to you talk about your shitty day or fly a kite or explore a secret beach or stand outside in my backyard naked or go camping or drink vanilla soy chai or chop wood or do yoga or write a poem or play hide and go seek or just sit around and chill I am all for it. But do not tell me that you are freakin' bored because I do not under any circumstances want to hear it.

I am fortunate that I rarely have to listen to anyone speaking with me directly about their own boredom. Most of the experiences I have had with respect to the boredom of others involves my observations and not direct participation. But you boredom droners should know that when you continue to drone on about your own boredom it is simply insulting to the dronee. It implies that you do not value your time with me and I like myself enough to know that my time is truly valuable.

So if anyone can explain to me this sorry state that some individuals tend to not only find themselves immersed in, but feel the need to bring others into their misery as well, please let me know.

Sister Sledge Stuck in my Head

I must have done something amazing in a past life. Seriously. I bet I discovered the cure to some horrible disease. Or saved an entire country from an evil dictator. I must have done something so spectacular that it had to be kept a secret for my own protection.

And I say this because I can only wonder how I got so lucky to have some of the most wonderful people in my life. And I often wonder if these wonderful beans truly have any idea how much I love them and how grateful I am for every moment with each and every one.

Because let us be honest. I am not always an easy person to befriend. Sometimes I am overly sarcastic. I can be confrontational. My expectations are high. I am not always very good at intimacy. And every once in a while I can truly be a fucking cun...er...you get the idea.

Yet these fantastic people in my life seem to love me anyway. Perhaps they are insane. Some of the most fantastic human beans have come from near and far and have loved and supported me fully and completely. They have walked through fire with me and nursed my charred skin.

Never did a single bean ever question my sanity or grow tired of my latest diatribe. In a world that is often tremendously apathetic I feel as though I have been given a tremendous gift of these wonderful people. People that I consider family.

And I should say that I didn't have much of a family growing up. Despite having a rather large network of blood relatives my family was disfunctional enough to belong on Jerry Springer at times and I never felt home with them. But I have discovered that real family has nothing to do with blood type and genetic material and everything to do with love and kindness and support and kicking me in the ass when need be.

Family is not born, but made over time. Like ol' fashioned country gravy. Indeed.

And I have found as of late that it is not merely my close circle of beans that express such wonderful traits. But my extended network of individuals who have also surprised and amazed me. Some of whom I would have never imagined even noticed or cared for a moment. And in the smallest of moments I realized that I could not have been more mistaken.

In these moments I believe that collectively we can in fact change the world. Perhaps this makes me overly idealistic. Maybe a bit insane. But maybe we need an occasional sprinkle of idealism every so often like powdered sugar on a Belgian waffle.

So thank you to each and every one of you wonderful people who continue to amaze me with your love and generosity. Thank you for accepting me for who I am with each and every flaw I possess. Thank you for every special moment you bring to my life and your constant inspiration which makes me want to be a better person.

I love you more than words can say.

And no...I'm not intoxicated. Fuckers.

Five -- Twenty Two -- Eighteen -- Fifty Nine

In less than twenty four hours I will have been breathing oxygen on this planet for thirty three years. That seems like quite a bit of breathing. I suppose I could make some sort of attempt to calculate the amount of breathing that has occurred during this time. But even with my seemingly ingenious mathematical calculations it would be necessary to adjust for the amount of time in which breathing did not occur during the whooping cough incident of 2005-2006.

And I realize that I have not actually posted a summary of the whooping cough incident of 2005-2006. However you may rest assured that such a post is forthcoming. And if such a post is not forthcoming then I am most certain that Soy's whooping cough incident of 2005-2006 post is forthcoming and I will provide a link to his post upon completion. I imagine that anything he might post would be quite similar if not identical to my own experiences.

But this post is not about whooping cough. This post is about other aspects of me that do not involve coughing or whooping. And given that I have successfully survived yet another year on this planet I thought that perhaps I should post my year in review. And then I realized that I don't want to look back. I want only to look forward.

So I have decided some things. I have decided to make a list. Those of you who know many of my dirty secrets -- and there aren't many of you who know such secrets about me -- know that I am and perhaps always will be a list maker. Fine. This isn't exactly a dirty secret. So called dirty secrets will be reveled in the proper time and the proper place with the proper company. But I digress. So. I am a list maker. Unfortunately I am also a bit absent minded and eccentric at times so I tend to lose or otherwise misplace completed and partially completed lists.

Neverthless I have decided that I am going to make a list of all of the things that I want thirty three to be for me. And the things that I want to accomplish in my thirty third year of life. It seems appropriate. And in case you were wondering I am not going to post my list here as it is a work in progress. But perhaps I will post a few bits and pieces of said list.

But rather than toss out random thoughts I want first to say something else. Let me tell you why I am happy about turning thirty three. Because I wasn't always happy about it. I think that we (read: women) are taught that we are less than we once were as we age. This is sad and unfortunate and I want to assure all of the younger women that this is simply not the case. The more time I spend on this planet the happier I am with who I am and the less I am concerned with what others think about who I am. I have no desire to be twenty or twenty six or twenty eight ever again. I feel that I am finally reaching a point in my life in which I am content with myself and my path.

I am not the person I once was. Most certainly not the person I was at twenty four. Definitely not the person I was at twenty nine. Hell. I am not even the person that I was last month. Instead I am someone who is more at peace with her self and her life. I am more clear about what I want and what I do not want. And I am less willing to compromise myself than I once was not so very long ago. I am willing to admit my flaws. And most certainly there are many.

However I am also willing to admit the ways in which I am not flawed. And sometimes this is surprisingly more difficult. So things are changing. I am no longer willing to censor myself for anyone. I cannot bring more than those who supposedly care about me are willing to bring to me. I can no longer give enormous amounts of my energy to individuals in my life who are not open and honest. Loving and courageous. Interested in who I am. Supportive and encouraging. Willing to tell me that I am wonderful and willing to call me on my bullshit. I am willing to work through everything that I am afraid of and you must be too.

I have been told that I am too loud. Overly affectionate. Too opinionated. Way too sarcastic. Overly talkative. Vague. Too much of a bitch. Once I was told that I was a facist dictator. Too flirtatious. Fickle. Trite and cliche. Overly emotional. Not emotional enough. Too distant. Too clingy. Condescending. Confusing. Not good enough. Insensitive. Too sensitive. Not attractive enough. Vain. Just too damn much.

I say that I may very well be or have been all of these things. I am also intelligent. Funny. Beautiful. Talented. Kindhearted. Compassionate. Generous and giving. Friendly. Loving. Affectionate. Sexy. Articulate. Silly. Strong. Passionate. Honest. Helpful. Magically delicious. I smell good. Delightful. And I dig a mean hole.

It amazes me how we find it so easy to either say unkind words to each other (or to ourselves) or to just remain silent about how we really feel about one another. Sometimes I think that the silence is worse. I know that time is short and life is precious. And I cannot be certain how much time I have left on this planet. I can be certain that I have a choice in what to do with that time. And so do you.

I wish to live my life balanced in a way that is appropriate for me. I will keep you posted on my successes as well as my failures. In the meantime I can only hope that those of you who have personal relationships with me in one form or another choose to make every interaction with me full and complete as if it could be our last. Please don't hold back. For better or worse. Let us not go out with a whimper.

My goal is to do the same with you.

Living Room Tent Action Infraction

So I'm putting up a tent in my living room. And the phone rings. It is my very wise friend. And I knew it was my very wise friend before I walked over to the phone and saw his name on the caller ID.

I tell him that it's about time. And of course he has no idea what I'm talking about. I knew that I would talk to him today. And given that fact that he is either working or working or working. Occasionally sleeping or working. I never really know when it is good to call or when it is not good to call. So sometimes I just guess and I usually guess wrong and wake him up. That is an experience in and of itself and the subject for an entirely separate post.

You see. I had this feeling all day that we would speak. And so we did.

I tell him that I am putting up a tent in my living room. And I explain that I am having a difficult time with the putting up of said tent due to the fact that I am not very tall. So he starts to explain to me in great detail how to assemble a tent and discusses the finer points of tent rod bending technique.

Well. I know how to assemble a tent. But I'm having difficulties because I cannot get enough bend on the rods that form the frame of the tent because they are fucking longer than the river Styx and I am in my living room so space is limited and I can't pull them up at the top because I can't reach them.

I try to explain this but I am not making much sense because I am putting up a tent in my living room while talking to my very wise friend. And as you are most likely already aware. This is perfectly normal. So. Uh. You get the idea.

It probably didn't help that I was trying to set up a tent in my living room while holding the phone with the other hand. Of course I didn't realize this until I finished my conversation and with both hands and shoulders and brain cells free I was able to finish the assembly process.

Then I stepped back from the scene for a moment. I imagine my new roommate laughing his ass off at the visual of this enormous tent in our living room. And when I say enormous I mean to say that this is a big ass fucking tent.

I purchased this tent for the bargain price of $14.99 at UNNAMED NEARBY PRO-UNION STORE. Sprinkel and I wandered into the camping gear section of the store while we were purchasing beer and fake grillable meat and tiki torch wicks for a recent vegan cook out. And no one could pass up a tent for $14.99.

But it's fucking big. And I am rather surprised at the size of said tent for one simple reason. The tent indicates that it is a two to three person tent. After assessing my past tenting experiences I know that to mean that two people can fit in a three person tent if and only if they sleep in some sort of puzzle pieced manner. In other words...they had better like each other and someone should most definitely be on some form of birth control. IWhen I purchased this tent I figured this would be the perfect size to own as I am a rather small person.

I thought perhaps the fact that the tent was in the living room might be causing some sort of deception as to its actual size. So I crawled in. Four people could sleep comfortably in this tent. I bet we could squish in six. And no. I'm not kidding.

So I must wonder now. Have tent sizes increased because we as a population have increased in size. Or because we seem to always want more of everything.

Perhaps next week I can convince my very wise friend to camp out in the tent in my backyard. We will most certainly have enough room if anyone else is up for some back yard camping.


** This post is for my very wise friend because he is expecting to read about my tent adventures here and for once I wanted him to be right about something.

Kitchen Sleeping as an Olympic Event

I do not like sleeping in the kitchen. In case any of you were wondering. I thought I would let you all know. Because someone might like sleeping in the kitchen. And others might confuse me with one of those individuals who enjoy kitchen sleeping. And I would not want there to be any misunderstanding. Because I do not particularly enjoy sleeping in the kitchen.

And perhaps I should be more specific. I am not particularly fond of sleeping in my own kitchen. I do not believe that I have ever slept in any other kitchen. So to be fair I cannot say that I am anti-kitchen sleeping. To make such a sweeping generalization would be unfair.

Perhaps if I had the opportunity to sleep in another kitchen that was not my own I might enjoy it.

But what I mean to say in case these words are at all vague is that I really do not find any particular enjoyment in sleeping in my kitchen.

So. I'm in my kitchen. And I am not yet asleep. But I am working toward sleep. And the phone rings. It is my very wise friend. It is late when he calls because he is always either working or working or working. And our best conversations always occur when it is late. And the world is quiet. So he begins the conversation with the usual pleasantries that most individuals begins their conversations with when they are beginning a conversation.

So we begin this exchange of pleasantries and he asks me what I am doing. Which could most certainly be translated into questioning regarding my current state of anything in particular and a query as to what might be going on in my life that is need of sharing with him.

But I take this question very literally. Because I know that I can do that with him. And because I know that he probably does care to know exactly what I am doing at some random moment because that is the kind of friend that he is so I tell him. I tell him that I am sleeping in my kitchen.

And then of course I have to qualify my own statement because I cannot very well be sleeping in my kitchen and speaking with him. So I explain that while I am not yet sleeping I am about to be sleeping. In my kitchen.

In response to my kitchen sleeping he shares a kitchen sleeping story of his own that involved a refinishing of hardwood floors. And sleeping in the kitchen. I explain that I am not refinishing hardwood floors. If I was I would most certainly not be sleeping in the kitchen as the hardwood is located in the kitchen and that would seem nonsensical.

So I begin to think that perhaps everyone has slept in their kitchen. Maybe everyone has a kitchen sleeping story. Only we do not know this because it just does not seem to arise in the course of regular conversation.

My very wise friend and I never have regular conversation. And I believe this is why I explained the kitchen sleeping.

Now I have become curious about kitchen sleeping stories. Perhaps if we only spoke of such things with one another we would discover that we all have such stories. It would be enlightening. We would discover that we are all more alike than we might otherwise be aware.

So I'm curious.

And in case you were wondering. No longer sleeping in the kitchen.

Momentarily Missing EST

Home sickness has. Overwhelmed me. I want to. Eat a street vendor falafel and. Take the subway to Soho. I miss the sweet honesty of. New York City. I miss the beauty in her people. Tired of the locals in this place. Mispronouncing my. Last name. And looking at me cross eyed. Trying to acertain my ethnicity. I miss the city that. Never sleeps. I miss the place where. Everyone treats me like family.

And perhaps my recollection is. Skewed from years somewhere else. But I have grown weary of the. Weak mentality and. Dimunitive stance. Tired of the. Passive aggressive nature of this. Place and these. People.

Missing the humidity and. Air conditioned necessity. Garbage overflowing in alleys and the stench rising. Enough to make you want to vomit. On an August afternoon. And wind. Chill factor like people huddled together but at least we. Have something to complain about.

I want to purchase paprika from Szeged and. Tokaji (five puttonyos) at the Hungarian store owned by the. Refugee couple who. Immigrated rather escaped in. 1956. I miss cannoli from the bakery around the corner any. Bakery around any. Corner and you can find it. I miss cannoli even. Though I was never a fan of. It because I cannot seem to. Find it here.

I miss. Meeting the eyes of pedestrians with a nod and. Good morning. Rather than head down. Eyes shifted away everyone. Seems afraid in this. Place. Afraid to be. Honest with themselves honest. With each other and I fear that I have. Been here too long and. Have adopted something similar for myself.

Mouring the loss of my. East coast. Attitude and waking up to the smell of. Good old fashioned diner coffee black as. Tar needing more sugar than. You could imagine to. Choke down. Hoping to find my. Self under the cushion of a. Chair or in my. Sock drawer.