A thousand words? Maybe not

The holiday season is upon us.  Truth be told, the holiday season has been upon us since the 5th of July, when all any retailer can do is dream of ghosts and goblins followed by big fat jolly guy hauled around by a bunch of overworked reindeer.  Halloween and Christmas are the two biggies between July and January, and there is no better place to get your holiday groove movin' than at the grocery store.  Now I know that there is a rather substantial celebration sandwiched in between the October tricks and the December treats, but for some reason unknown to me, Thanksgiving just doesn't make the cut.  I think until costumes, candy and/or presents are involved, Thanksgiving will continue to be celebrated more as Black-Friday-Eve, or, that night we bulk up before we hit the stores at 3:00am to buy a toaster oven for a nickel.

Tonight I bring you a grocery store pictorial.  No turkeys in these shots.  Or should I say, no feathered fowl.  There are plenty of turkeys.  God bless us, everyone.

The Hook costume was awesome,

but what you can't see,

and what made it ten times funnier

was he wasn't buying a bottle of rum.
It was a case of Bud Light.

Seen today.  In November.  On a date that only has single digits.

This is one disturbing Charlie Brown.

It looks more like Grandpa.

Or maybe, considering those two flaps in his yellow shirt,

Grandma.

Charlie Brown also needs to pull down his sleeves.

His cyborg circuitry is showing.

Probably the least scariest display of the bunch, so less to mock here.

However, it gives me a chance to repeat the funniest Facebook exchange of the day,

as one of my friends commiserated with another about people who complain

loud and long about the early appearance of Christmas decorations.

and I quote,

"Christmas decorations are like an 8-year old singing show tunes.

They're both going to come out eventually."

After a late-night viewing of The Godfather, Santa thought of a great joke to play on Mrs. Claus.


 It's not exactly filled with fairy dust and elven magic.Maybe in his off days, Herbie wanted to be something more than a dentist.Taxidermy, anyone? 

Pants on Fire

Things I learned this weekend.  Or more exactly, Lies I disproved.  Like a Sunday night installment of MythBusters.

1. The weekend is for rest and relaxation.
It is pure fantasy to look at the calendar and see two entirely bank squares on Saturday and Sunday.  Saturday is filled with all the things you have to do during the week that you just have no time to do because hey, you work for a living.  Do people really spend the weekend playing?  If the answer is yes, I'm not sure I want to know, because I'd either punch you or sob.

2. Gaining an hour in the fall means more sleep.
WRONG!  So wrong.  First you have to spend inordinate amounts of time changing the clocks.  And don't forget the stove clock that always gets forgotten.  Oh, and that one clock radio that nobody really knows how to work, but sure as you don't change the time, it will go off randomly between the hours of midnight and 5 am.  When you finally get all the house clocks done, then there is your watch.  And when you finally remember that one, there is THE CAR.  I've found car clocks come in two varieties -- super easy to change, or, see that one clock radio above.  When and if you get all the clocks changed, and you crawl into bed for a long  winters nap +60 minutes, the trick is STAYING ASLEEP.  I can't speak for anybody else, but my internal clock doesn't read calendars all that well, so I was wide awake at 4am, because 4am is the old 5am and 5am means time to get up and get moving.  Bleaugh........

3.  People who work retail are snarly, rude, and a general pain in the ass.
Maybe so, but this weekend was a pleasant surprise on the other end of the spectrum.  With much shopping that needed to be done, we found all our store workers to be friendly, helpful humans.  Every once in awhile humanity manages to surprise you.  I was grateful for that one.  We had much to whack off the list and we were entirely successful.

4.  Teenagers have no taste or manners
Oh nay nay.  This weekend ended up being back to school shopping for winter clothes.  We found sales, we found cute clothes and a very patient and savvy TeenTuna.  Shopping (especially of the clothes variety) can be an enormous strain on all parties involved, and we came out with what we needed, and we still managed to be speaking to each other.  Even better?  A bucketful of thank-yous.  Win Win Win!

5.  Score a lot of points and you'll win the game.
Not if the other guys score a lot of points +2.  Poor Illinois.  You were on the losing end of a basketball game played on the gridiron in shoulder pads.  Maybe next time both teams should let the defense come to the game.

6.  The Amazing Race.  Tonight at 8pm!
Ho Ho Ho.  I'd laugh if I were able to stay awake.  It's currently 55 minutes late and counting.  Phil, I don't want to sleep through the eyebrows, but after a weekend filled with shopping, no sleeping, teenager toting, one concert, one rehearsal, long church and 65 points scored in vain, it's been a long weekend.  Maybe I'll grab a Diet Coke.  I hear those are pretty good at keeping you awakzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......

Pants on Fire

Things I learned this weekend.  Or more exactly, Lies I disproved.  Like a Sunday night installment of MythBusters.

1. The weekend is for rest and relaxation.
It is pure fantasy to look at the calendar and see two entirely bank squares on Saturday and Sunday.  Saturday is filled with all the things you have to do during the week that you just have no time to do because hey, you work for a living.  Do people really spend the weekend playing?  If the answer is yes, I'm not sure I want to know, because I'd either punch you or sob.

2. Gaining an hour in the fall means more sleep.
WRONG!  So wrong.  First you have to spend inordinate amounts of time changing the clocks.  And don't forget the stove clock that always gets forgotten.  Oh, and that one clock radio that nobody really knows how to work, but sure as you don't change the time, it will go off randomly between the hours of midnight and 5 am.  When you finally get all the house clocks done, then there is your watch.  And when you finally remember that one, there is THE CAR.  I've found car clocks come in two varieties -- super easy to change, or, see that one clock radio above.  When and if you get all the clocks changed, and you crawl into bed for a long  winters nap +60 minutes, the trick is STAYING ASLEEP.  I can't speak for anybody else, but my internal clock doesn't read calendars all that well, so I was wide awake at 4am, because 4am is the old 5am and 5am means time to get up and get moving.  Bleaugh........

3.  People who work retail are snarly, rude, and a general pain in the ass.
Maybe so, but this weekend was a pleasant surprise on the other end of the spectrum.  With much shopping that needed to be done, we found all our store workers to be friendly, helpful humans.  Every once in awhile humanity manages to surprise you.  I was grateful for that one.  We had much to whack off the list and we were entirely successful.

4.  Teenagers have no taste or manners
Oh nay nay.  This weekend ended up being back to school shopping for winter clothes.  We found sales, we found cute clothes and a very patient and savvy TeenTuna.  Shopping (especially of the clothes variety) can be an enormous strain on all parties involved, and we came out with what we needed, and we still managed to be speaking to each other.  Even better?  A bucketful of thank-yous.  Win Win Win!

5.  Score a lot of points and you'll win the game.
Not if the other guys score a lot of points +2.  Poor Illinois.  You were on the losing end of a basketball game played on the gridiron in shoulder pads.  Maybe next time both teams should let the defense come to the game.

6.  The Amazing Race.  Tonight at 8pm!
Ho Ho Ho.  I'd laugh if I were able to stay awake.  It's currently 55 minutes late and counting.  Phil, I don't want to sleep through the eyebrows, but after a weekend filled with shopping, no sleeping, teenager toting, one concert, one rehearsal, long church and 65 points scored in vain, it's been a long weekend.  Maybe I'll grab a Diet Coke.  I hear those are pretty good at keeping you awakzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......

NaKuPoMo

 I don't understand
this picture at all.  Rabbits
typing ransom notes?


We shopped dawn till dusk.

Credit card and I burned out.

Economy saved.

The name of the game?

Football revenge, Mitten-style.

Even rodents won.

Is it gaining time

If it takes over an hour

to change all the clocks?

Isn't the weekend

For rest and relaxation?

Saturday? You're fired.

Sunday remember

Those gone from sight, but not heart.

True Saints and Angels.

Cats in their places.

Teenager to bed as well.

That's my cue. Lights out.

NaKuPoMo

 I don't understand
this picture at all.  Rabbits
typing ransom notes?


We shopped dawn till dusk.

Credit card and I burned out.

Economy saved.

The name of the game?

Football revenge, Mitten-style.

Even rodents won.

Is it gaining time

If it takes over an hour

to change all the clocks?

Isn't the weekend

For rest and relaxation?

Saturday? You're fired.

Sunday remember

Those gone from sight, but not heart.

True Saints and Angels.

Cats in their places.

Teenager to bed as well.

That's my cue. Lights out.

Or Not

It's getting to be hunkering down season.  The weather is colder, the trees are bare once again and despite the fact that we gain an hour's sleep on Sunday morning, and for the next several months my light sources are either fluorescent, street- or head-lights.  Nearly all of the Halloween trappings are down, and although I'm hopeful that I won't see giant inflatable turkeys decorating neighborhood yards, I know that Lite-Brite reindeer, penguins trapped in inflatable snow globes, and  a huge assortment of Santas, Frostys, Angels, Shepherds, Wise Guys and Baby Jee's are going to be everywhere sooner, rather than later.

This time of year always has a "ready or not" vibe to it, and I, without fail, am always squarely in the "or not" camp. As a result, I'm always scrambling to do the best I can, which is always so much less than everybody else.   Forget keeping up with the Joneses.  They're several months ahead of me, and widening their lead with each passing day.

The best I can do is take it all in stride and try not to force my holiday months into a Better Homes and Gardens cookie cutter.  Sure, some days might end up being filled with sugar-coated sprinkles, twinkling lights, and Christmas Carols sung by the fire as we spin our dreidel and commemorate Kwanzaa.  But other days?  Those are the days I ask "What Would Chuck Norris Do?"

Maybe he'd come to my house and bake me some Ninja-bread men.
Sounds pretty damn festive to me.

Or Not

It's getting to be hunkering down season.  The weather is colder, the trees are bare once again and despite the fact that we gain an hour's sleep on Sunday morning, and for the next several months my light sources are either fluorescent, street- or head-lights.  Nearly all of the Halloween trappings are down, and although I'm hopeful that I won't see giant inflatable turkeys decorating neighborhood yards, I know that Lite-Brite reindeer, penguins trapped in inflatable snow globes, and  a huge assortment of Santas, Frostys, Angels, Shepherds, Wise Guys and Baby Jee's are going to be everywhere sooner, rather than later.

This time of year always has a "ready or not" vibe to it, and I, without fail, am always squarely in the "or not" camp. As a result, I'm always scrambling to do the best I can, which is always so much less than everybody else.   Forget keeping up with the Joneses.  They're several months ahead of me, and widening their lead with each passing day.

The best I can do is take it all in stride and try not to force my holiday months into a Better Homes and Gardens cookie cutter.  Sure, some days might end up being filled with sugar-coated sprinkles, twinkling lights, and Christmas Carols sung by the fire as we spin our dreidel and commemorate Kwanzaa.  But other days?  Those are the days I ask "What Would Chuck Norris Do?"

Maybe he'd come to my house and bake me some Ninja-bread men.
Sounds pretty damn festive to me.

What's My Line?

If you spent much time in the Tuna household, you'd discover fairly quickly that we are a widely diverse bunch ... and there aren't even enough of us to make a bunch. TeenTuna and I are like the Twelve Faces of Eve, except that we have an extra two or three hundred faces in reserve.  We are equally happy watching South Park as we are watching "Live from the Met" on PBS.  We love Rick Steves just as much as Phil Keoghan, and although I'm sure it would never happen, I'd pay good money to hear a frustrated "MY OX IS BROKEN on an episode of Europe Through the Backdoor.  Tonight the iPod down the hall was blasting Hilary Hahn playing Bach violin concertos, which was followed by Jesus Christ Superstar, which in turn was followed by some Katy Perry drivel that I tried to ignore.  I do have some standards.











It's a blessing and a curse to like so many things.  On one hand, we can never be accused of being picky, but on the other hand, it's can be difficult to make a decision.  All food sounds good, I have never come away empty-handed from a book store, and although my instant movie cue is heavily weighted documentaries, foreign films and drama, there are always entire seasons of Law and Order to Watch.  Or Mystery Science Theatre 3000.

That we just might have memorized.




And oh, that little memorization thing.  It's a genetic defect trait in my family that just seems to intensify with each generation.  Say one line from a movie, and we're off and running for the next 10 minutes.  In fact, you would only have to say something that vaguely sounds like something we know and WHAM -- we're at it again, reciting dialogue or breaking into song at the slightest provocation suggestion. These mini performances always end in fits of hysterical laughter, because we know just how incredibly funny we are.  Sure, there are exasperated sighs and the occasional confused head shake, but those don't slow us down at all.  In fact, it probably feeds the frenzy.  So word to the wise: if you throw us a bone and give us some sort of prompt or cue, we won't even take the time to thank you ... we're just going to break into whatever routine fits, and then, well, break into fits.  So be particularly careful of words and phrases such as Harold, Rumbly, crescent rolls, star fish, narwhal, unicorn, I'm being oppressed, the salmon mousse, That's the fact, Jack!, boat nectar, The little boat!??, brain damage, Canada, New Math, Edmund Fitzgerald, and The Vatican Rag to name just a few.

We might be awhile.

What's My Line?

If you spent much time in the Tuna household, you'd discover fairly quickly that we are a widely diverse bunch ... and there aren't even enough of us to make a bunch. TeenTuna and I are like the Twelve Faces of Eve, except that we have an extra two or three hundred faces in reserve.  We are equally happy watching South Park as we are watching "Live from the Met" on PBS.  We love Rick Steves just as much as Phil Keoghan, and although I'm sure it would never happen, I'd pay good money to hear a frustrated "MY OX IS BROKEN on an episode of Europe Through the Backdoor.  Tonight the iPod down the hall was blasting Hilary Hahn playing Bach violin concertos, which was followed by Jesus Christ Superstar, which in turn was followed by some Katy Perry drivel that I tried to ignore.  I do have some standards.











It's a blessing and a curse to like so many things.  On one hand, we can never be accused of being picky, but on the other hand, it's can be difficult to make a decision.  All food sounds good, I have never come away empty-handed from a book store, and although my instant movie cue is heavily weighted documentaries, foreign films and drama, there are always entire seasons of Law and Order to Watch.  Or Mystery Science Theatre 3000.

That we just might have memorized.




And oh, that little memorization thing.  It's a genetic defect trait in my family that just seems to intensify with each generation.  Say one line from a movie, and we're off and running for the next 10 minutes.  In fact, you would only have to say something that vaguely sounds like something we know and WHAM -- we're at it again, reciting dialogue or breaking into song at the slightest provocation suggestion. These mini performances always end in fits of hysterical laughter, because we know just how incredibly funny we are.  Sure, there are exasperated sighs and the occasional confused head shake, but those don't slow us down at all.  In fact, it probably feeds the frenzy.  So word to the wise: if you throw us a bone and give us some sort of prompt or cue, we won't even take the time to thank you ... we're just going to break into whatever routine fits, and then, well, break into fits.  So be particularly careful of words and phrases such as Harold, Rumbly, crescent rolls, star fish, narwhal, unicorn, I'm being oppressed, the salmon mousse, That's the fact, Jack!, boat nectar, The little boat!??, brain damage, Canada, New Math, Edmund Fitzgerald, and The Vatican Rag to name just a few.

We might be awhile.

Am I Blue?

If I were to ever go to a police lineup and have to identify the culprit that stifles creativity and sucks all the joy out of life, I would point a fast and furious finger at 040 Waterfront Blue

... otherwise known as Cubicle Blue.

Monday through Friday this is my sun and moon.  It is my rain, snow sleet AND hail.  It is my blindingly beautiful summer days and my ominous tornado-warning skies.  It is my day and my night, my springtime birds and my explosive autumn trees, with hues more vibrant than a box of Crayola 64s.

Can you feel the hate tonight?  I do.  Or, I would, if I knew it were night.  All I know is cubicle blue.

Sure, I try to cover it up as best I can.  THANK GOD for full sized Demotivator posters, because without them, my life would full of that much more cubicle blue.  But no matter how many humorous posters, art-filled calendars, and knick-knacks on shelves and desk, I'm still smothered by cubicle blue.

One of three posters on my wall.  It sums things up nicely.

 

There was never a better calendar page in the history of calendar pages.

Neville, I feel you.

My buddy, my pal, Tom Servo.  

He understands life in captivity.

Now I know that in this day and age (not to mention the decidedly bleak economic and employment conditions) I'm lucky to have a job at all, cubicle blue wall or not.  But I would submit that I walls aren't all they are cracked up to be.  For one thing, they give coworkers the false impression that an unseen employee (hidden by said cubicle blue wall) is either absent or deaf.  And since silence is equivalent to permission, cubicle blue allows people to launch into a verbal tsunami of personal minutiae, including (but not limited to) the traffic (bad), the current weather (hot, cold, rainy, snowy, sunny, humid), the upcoming weather (hotter, colder, rainier, snowier, sunnier), allergies, lunch, breakfast, what they did last weekend, what they are going to do this weekend, the current state of the college, professional or peewee sports team, and the last time their grandchild pooped in the potty.  Each and every one of these is a valid topic of conversation.  For someone WHO CARES.

But Cubicle blue doesn't give me a choice.  Cubicle blue wraps its arms around me like a straight-jacket and, like a torture session in an undisclosed location, forces me to listen to the never-ending banter whether I want to or not.  And believe me, I want to NOT.

I only have one true weapon at my disposal.  It does nothing about the Cubicle Blue.  I'm afraid that's here to stay for the foreseeable future.  A future which, by the way, is blue.  However, my secret weapon, used in conjunction with the allied forces do a pretty good job of keeping the crazy at bay for eight hours a day.

My one and only weapon.  

My Obi-Wan Kenobi.  

My only hope.

 

The force is strong with this one.

(Unless the tubes of the Internet are clogged, 

in which case, I'm pretty much screwed)

Am I Blue?

If I were to ever go to a police lineup and have to identify the culprit that stifles creativity and sucks all the joy out of life, I would point a fast and furious finger at 040 Waterfront Blue

... otherwise known as Cubicle Blue.

Monday through Friday this is my sun and moon.  It is my rain, snow sleet AND hail.  It is my blindingly beautiful summer days and my ominous tornado-warning skies.  It is my day and my night, my springtime birds and my explosive autumn trees, with hues more vibrant than a box of Crayola 64s.

Can you feel the hate tonight?  I do.  Or, I would, if I knew it were night.  All I know is cubicle blue.

Sure, I try to cover it up as best I can.  THANK GOD for full sized Demotivator posters, because without them, my life would full of that much more cubicle blue.  But no matter how many humorous posters, art-filled calendars, and knick-knacks on shelves and desk, I'm still smothered by cubicle blue.

One of three posters on my wall.  It sums things up nicely.

 

There was never a better calendar page in the history of calendar pages.

Neville, I feel you.

My buddy, my pal, Tom Servo.  

He understands life in captivity.

Now I know that in this day and age (not to mention the decidedly bleak economic and employment conditions) I'm lucky to have a job at all, cubicle blue wall or not.  But I would submit that I walls aren't all they are cracked up to be.  For one thing, they give coworkers the false impression that an unseen employee (hidden by said cubicle blue wall) is either absent or deaf.  And since silence is equivalent to permission, cubicle blue allows people to launch into a verbal tsunami of personal minutiae, including (but not limited to) the traffic (bad), the current weather (hot, cold, rainy, snowy, sunny, humid), the upcoming weather (hotter, colder, rainier, snowier, sunnier), allergies, lunch, breakfast, what they did last weekend, what they are going to do this weekend, the current state of the college, professional or peewee sports team, and the last time their grandchild pooped in the potty.  Each and every one of these is a valid topic of conversation.  For someone WHO CARES.

But Cubicle blue doesn't give me a choice.  Cubicle blue wraps its arms around me like a straight-jacket and, like a torture session in an undisclosed location, forces me to listen to the never-ending banter whether I want to or not.  And believe me, I want to NOT.

I only have one true weapon at my disposal.  It does nothing about the Cubicle Blue.  I'm afraid that's here to stay for the foreseeable future.  A future which, by the way, is blue.  However, my secret weapon, used in conjunction with the allied forces do a pretty good job of keeping the crazy at bay for eight hours a day.

My one and only weapon.  

My Obi-Wan Kenobi.  

My only hope.

 

The force is strong with this one.

(Unless the tubes of the Internet are clogged, 

in which case, I'm pretty much screwed)

It's About Love

One of the things I like most about singing, and about teaching others how to sing is digging into the creative, interpretive side of performing that comes after the rudimentary learning of notes and rhythms, diction and breathings spots, and how to handle the tricky technical troubles that always seem to pop up at inopportune times.  My students are never too pleased when I give them "that look" across the piano and say, "Alright now... what is this song about?"  Most of the time they tell me they know, and then they struggle to put a sentence or two together without falling into that vague no-mans land explanation known as "It's about love."

In all fairness, it's a harder exercise than it sounds, and I tell them so.  Some songs come gift-wrapped with characters, a back story and a conclusion already in place.  Even though there is less digging required for these songs, it is still necessary to know the background.  What happened in the story to bring us to the point of this song?  Who sings it?  Why do they sing it? To whom to do they sing it?  What happens as a result?  Any student who goes to the trouble of answering these questions has a wealth of information they can use as a foundation for interpretation.

Other songs don't have such easy answers.  Some songs don't really tell a story.  Others have no discernible cast of characters.  Sometimes the poetry is confusing, or sparse, or from a time or location entirely foreign to us (Sanskrit, I'm talking to YOU), or seemingly silly to our sophisticated 21st century sensibilities.  As difficult as these songs are, they are some that I like the best, maybe just for the challenge.  Anybody can learn a song, but to really know a song, you have to discover the underlying message that is enhanced or obscured by melody, rhythm, harmony and text.  In a nutshell, the challenge comes in first accepting a song for whatever it is, and then learning to love it on its own level.  And that little nutshell represents a great deal time and thought and maturity.

Songs are a lot like people.  Or is it that people are a lot like songs?  While we spend our time on this earth we all have a story to tell.  Some are obvious.  Some are easier to understand.  Some are shared ready-or-not and come gift-wrapped with a bullet point list of accomplishments and lessons learned.  Others are more difficult to discern.  But despite the challenges, when we take the time to listen and learn, we are so much richer in our own lives.

There really aren't enough words to express how worthwhile it is for us to take the time to really know someone's story.  Thankfully, there are songs.

Listen carefully.
Consider thoughtfully.
Share freely.

And when someone asks you what the song is about, just tell them "it's about love."
You won't be wrong.

It's About Love

One of the things I like most about singing, and about teaching others how to sing is digging into the creative, interpretive side of performing that comes after the rudimentary learning of notes and rhythms, diction and breathings spots, and how to handle the tricky technical troubles that always seem to pop up at inopportune times.  My students are never too pleased when I give them "that look" across the piano and say, "Alright now... what is this song about?"  Most of the time they tell me they know, and then they struggle to put a sentence or two together without falling into that vague no-mans land explanation known as "It's about love."

In all fairness, it's a harder exercise than it sounds, and I tell them so.  Some songs come gift-wrapped with characters, a back story and a conclusion already in place.  Even though there is less digging required for these songs, it is still necessary to know the background.  What happened in the story to bring us to the point of this song?  Who sings it?  Why do they sing it? To whom to do they sing it?  What happens as a result?  Any student who goes to the trouble of answering these questions has a wealth of information they can use as a foundation for interpretation.

Other songs don't have such easy answers.  Some songs don't really tell a story.  Others have no discernible cast of characters.  Sometimes the poetry is confusing, or sparse, or from a time or location entirely foreign to us (Sanskrit, I'm talking to YOU), or seemingly silly to our sophisticated 21st century sensibilities.  As difficult as these songs are, they are some that I like the best, maybe just for the challenge.  Anybody can learn a song, but to really know a song, you have to discover the underlying message that is enhanced or obscured by melody, rhythm, harmony and text.  In a nutshell, the challenge comes in first accepting a song for whatever it is, and then learning to love it on its own level.  And that little nutshell represents a great deal time and thought and maturity.

Songs are a lot like people.  Or is it that people are a lot like songs?  While we spend our time on this earth we all have a story to tell.  Some are obvious.  Some are easier to understand.  Some are shared ready-or-not and come gift-wrapped with a bullet point list of accomplishments and lessons learned.  Others are more difficult to discern.  But despite the challenges, when we take the time to listen and learn, we are so much richer in our own lives.

There really aren't enough words to express how worthwhile it is for us to take the time to really know someone's story.  Thankfully, there are songs.

Listen carefully.
Consider thoughtfully.
Share freely.

And when someone asks you what the song is about, just tell them "it's about love."
You won't be wrong.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Being a creature of rather severe habit, I boot up my computer in a very neurotically exacting organized fashion.  Email first, work program second, web browser third, IM programs fourth.  Even within my web browser there is a particular order from which I never stray:  Blog. Gmail. Facebook. RSS Reader. Twitter. I was extremely happy when the web browsers recognized my OCD dedication to order and allowed me to drag and reorder tabs, saving me the trauma of having to close everything down and start over again should something blip out unexpectedly. Because I absolutely, positively would do it (and let's face it, still do it), every single time.

Since the delightful day of May 27, 2010, I have opened up my blog and said hello to the same beautiful white peony that bloomed this past spring.  Unfortunately, "Hello peony, you sure are pretty" slowly morphed into "Yeah, flower, I know I really should get off my butt and write something."  Who knew that flowers were so good at heaping the guilt?  But as usual, I had a million things to do and a thousand excuses to go with them, and so my beautiful peony got to live at the top of my blog page for a long, LONG time.

At least it was something pretty and not something embarrassing.

Now the flowers are long gone, and we are barreling into November and December, pondering what it would be like to take a long winter's nap, if only our bosses or children or spouses or family or friends or social calendars or Internet farms would let us.  But despite the fact that even the insanity is overwhelmed by the crazy, one activity I don't want to neglect is participating in the November NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).  I'd hate to miss the opportunity of adding another pretty button to my collection, and who knows?   Maybe my multi-month hiatus wasn't so much a matter of me being a great big slacker (which of course, I was), but was, in fact, a chance for me to gather a few more stories to tell over the next thirty days.

 So sit back and enjoy. 
 Ready or not, here I come.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Being a creature of rather severe habit, I boot up my computer in a very neurotically exacting organized fashion.  Email first, work program second, web browser third, IM programs fourth.  Even within my web browser there is a particular order from which I never stray:  Blog. Gmail. Facebook. RSS Reader. Twitter. I was extremely happy when the web browsers recognized my OCD dedication to order and allowed me to drag and reorder tabs, saving me the trauma of having to close everything down and start over again should something blip out unexpectedly. Because I absolutely, positively would do it (and let's face it, still do it), every single time.

Since the delightful day of May 27, 2010, I have opened up my blog and said hello to the same beautiful white peony that bloomed this past spring.  Unfortunately, "Hello peony, you sure are pretty" slowly morphed into "Yeah, flower, I know I really should get off my butt and write something."  Who knew that flowers were so good at heaping the guilt?  But as usual, I had a million things to do and a thousand excuses to go with them, and so my beautiful peony got to live at the top of my blog page for a long, LONG time.

At least it was something pretty and not something embarrassing.

Now the flowers are long gone, and we are barreling into November and December, pondering what it would be like to take a long winter's nap, if only our bosses or children or spouses or family or friends or social calendars or Internet farms would let us.  But despite the fact that even the insanity is overwhelmed by the crazy, one activity I don't want to neglect is participating in the November NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).  I'd hate to miss the opportunity of adding another pretty button to my collection, and who knows?   Maybe my multi-month hiatus wasn't so much a matter of me being a great big slacker (which of course, I was), but was, in fact, a chance for me to gather a few more stories to tell over the next thirty days.

 So sit back and enjoy. 
 Ready or not, here I come.