If you ever see me with a French pedicure, I’m being held against my will and am trying to signal you to call the police. And I don’t just mean the fashion police either. Whenever I see someone with a French pedicure, I’m pretty sure I need to stage some sort of intervention. After all, they do look like a call for help. (I’ve never seen male feet with one, but there’s no call to be sexist about bad ideas, right?) Read more…
I’ve written before about being mistaken as my kids’ grandmother instead of mother. When it’s a kid that does it, I don’t get mad. After all, I seem to recall as a high school sophomore thinking the college-aged kids must be really mature and have their life all planned out as I served them post-parting-hangover food. Obviously, one’s own age and experiences plays a role in such perceptions.
An older gentleman who had a “grandpa” like status in my childhood had two sayings he was fond of: “Hair and brains don’t mix” and “Age ain’t nothin’ but mind over matter; if you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” Yes, he was bald as a cue-ball and a very fun-loving young-at-heart kind of soul. He may have missed a few lessons on grammar and proper language, but he was spot-on about the role of context and perspective.
It’s Friday and I’m uber busy getting reading for two major things I have happening this weekend for work. So, of course, I am procrastinating. Why is that? Am I the only one? Please tell me I’m not.
I seriously have a bucket-load of crap to get done before 4:15. And I just opened my cabinet and thought about which coffee cups I never use anymore and could donate to Good Will. What the eff brain? The only thing that stopped me was the realization I don’t have a box big enough to hold them all.
Have you ever wondered if part of human evolution has been to make us more extreme? Or has technology simply made it seem that way? It seems like more and more often I read, hear, or somehow experience extreme reactions to even the most mundane things. Of course, it may be that my Gen X “meh” is just showing. After all, it seems ludicrous to expend so much energy on some of this stuff.
Take Comic Sans for example. People seem to largely have feelings about this font. And their feelings tend to run mighty big. “LOVE IT!” some scream in the style of Wheezy from DragonTales. Others scream just as loudly, “Burn it with the fire of a thousand suns!” like the grumblers they are. The whole thing leads me to say, “It’s a font folks.”
I have gadzooks of writing to do today. Seeing as how I’m a writer among other things, this is not a surprising thing. However, in this case I’ve got gadzooks of writing to do for work as well. So yeah. There comes a time when you can’t procrastinate any longer on certain projects. This rubber needs to meet the road and in a hurry. But I also need to buy some pants.
We’ve all done it — talked about someone or something in disparaging terms. Call it “venting” or “going stabbity” or whatever, there are times when airing our feelings, perhaps in even a less than favorable gossip-like way, feels like the right thing to do. But how comfortable are you to talk about actual poop? As in your own?
Me, not so much.
Today has been one of those days. Not necessarily bad, just not the kind you want to have your own personal Groundhog Day modeled after. Case in point? I got to chat with the dude from the gas company while wearing my “grandmotherly” bathrobe and my hair standing on end. I bet he wishes he hadn’t come to my door right then. I suppose the bright side of the whole catastrophe is the fact that by being freshly showered instead of my pajamas he may have assumed I was some health nut who’d been exercising for three hours. Of course, we all know I was swilling coffee and writing, but whatever. Read more…