Shades of Grey

Has anyone else noticed all the gray vehicles roaming around lately?  Or I should say, failed to notice them?  Seeing as how they’re so annoyingly unseeable.  It’s like they’re nearly invisible.  The only reason I see them at all is because I’ve nearly run into them about a billion times.  It’s seriously only at the last second that I’ve seen them enough to avoid hitting them.  Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t exactly say that I’ve seen them.  It’s more like I’ve spotted a blurry moving object out of the corner of my eye, followed very closely by a window and an angry floating head.  That’s generally when reality sinks in and the rest of the car slowly materializes.

In my defense though I don’t think I should be held liable for these near misses.  If I can’t see you then I can’t avoid you.  I mean, it’s not my fault you chose a car that fades into the nothingness. True, this seems to happen more on cloudy, rainy days, but then again I’ve witnessed gray cars seemingly melt into the pavement on nice days too.

Despite all that, how is gray even a color?  Gray, a color?  Ha!  It’s not a color.  Gray describes a mood, a thought, a feeling or an emotion.  It’s the word you use to describe the weather or a particularly depressing day. Gray is more of a, I feel like wallowing in my own despair kind of color, a, oh look at this rain cloud over my head kind of feeling, or even a Russian 1950’s potato and vodka Siberian winter sort of deal.  But in no way does it inspire me to take to the open road and let the wind whip through my hair while simultaneously allowing adrenalin to pump through my body and out through the gas pedal!

No, when I think of gray the word exciting does not come to mind.  Uninspiring maybe.  Gloomy, dull, blah, bleak, dismal and boring -definitely.  It’s like silver but without the warmth and charm.  Yes, if gray and silver were in the same family gray would most certainly be the ugly cousin.  Fact, the only reason gray goes on dates at all is because she’s on a double date with silver.  Silver’s got character.  A certain sparkle if you will.  Take that away and all you have left is gray.

Now I am curious, if you own a gray car I’d like to know, “What were you thinking when you purchased your monstrosity?”  Perhaps you weren’t.  I’m hoping that you bought your car used and focused more on the quality and content of the car than its color.  That’s understandable.

That said, why is this color so popular to begin with?  What knob in the automotive world said, “If we only had more gray, drab colored cars life would be grand?!”  My thought is that the car manufactures ran low on paint colors one day and decided to throw them all into one big pot.  Then, just for kicks they mixed them together and wah-lah, the resulting colors were gray and ugly brown.  Gray seemed the more appealing of the two colors but don’t worry, ugly (aka dookie) brown is primed too be the new “IT” color very soon.  I’m joking, but I’m not putting it past anyone.

If cars are supposed to be an extension of self, then what does it say that so many of us chose such a seemingly depressing color?  Are we all just screaming out for help?  Are our lives so dull and routine that we’ve taken to wearing our personalities on our sleeves, or in this case, our metal exteriors?  If you consider that one of the definitions for gray is monotonous, then does that mean our lives are lacking in adventure and spontaneity?  Is what we really need just a little splash of color?  Are we ourselves trying to blend into the nothing?  To go unnoticed?  To not be seen?  Do we feel unimportant and unappreciated?  Or does it go deeper?  Perhaps it’s all one big plot to have us all thinking, dressing and shopping exactly the same!  Hmmmm….

Nah, I think it’s simply just a boring color and I should let it go.  Whatever the case might be, I hope this trend doesn’t persist much longer.  My own personal sanity aside there’s the safety of drivers everywhere to consider.  Not to worry though, I’m sure gray won’t last long.  Not with dookie brown looming on the horizon.

You’re a pain in my… heart!

Ouch!  My heart hurts.  No physically it hurts.  Good news though, I’ve decided that I’m not going to rip this wound open anymore.  Also, I’ve decided to not pour any more salt on it.  Please someone hide the briny white stuff!  I can’t be trusted.

I don’t know why it took me so long to figure this out.  I guess the heart wants what the heart wants.  Idiot.  Not me, my heart.  Thank God for my head, otherwise I’d never move forward.

Last night I was thinking and this is what I came up with.  Time and a poor memory are good things.  Whoa, deep thought!  Come on, hear me out here for a second.  With time comes forgetfulness and sometimes we need to forget.  At the end of every day you sleep and with sleep comes rest and with rest there is a peace.  There is peace because the thing that made you hurt falls away a little piece at a time every night when you dream and this is a good thing.

You don’t get something for nothing though, so you should know that the price for this gift is pretty steep.  It’s mortality and it comes one night at a time.  One dream at a time.  One restful slumber at a time.

Funny, there was more to it than that but I’ve forgotten it now.  I suppose the night took it.  Which is fine.  It wasn’t that important anyway.  The feeling and understanding is still there and that is what I hold on to.

I am tired.  It is time to sleep.  Oh dreams I welcome you.

Wow, this sounds depressing.  It is not.  It just is.  I am sad but I am also happy.  I am more well than unwell.  Tomorrow is a new day and I am excited for it!  Tonight I put this to rest.  Tomorrow I don’t look back.

No Shit!

(Author’s Note:  This “piece” was written 2 years ago but I thought it was funny and might be worth sharing with all of you.  Then again, I could be terribly wrong!  Warning: this is not for those with sensitive constitutions!)

Last night I had such an intense discomfort in my stomach that it forced me from my bed and into the bathroom.  It was like a wicked cramp that was twisting my stomach in two.  Thankfully I was able to relieve this displeasure by, well, ah, by taking a shit.  It could have been much worse though as my girlfriend has flu like symptoms.  I guess it could potentially still go there, but I feel like I’ve prepared myself mentally to prevent this.

How have I done this, you ask?  I’ll tell you.

If I were a country and diseases were people, then I have made it very clear that there is absolutely no admittance into my holly land.  My borders display signs that read as follows:  “Diseases go home!”  “I have no room for you in my country.”  And last but not least, “You will be shot on sight.”  So there!  Don’t even bother swimming across my borders or trying to bribe someone to let you in either, because I’m a fortress and there is no entrance.

Now that we have that firmly established, lets get back to the matter at hand, or in this case, ass.  As I was relieving myself I began to feel better.  Good for me.  That said I took issue, yet again, with the toilet.  That thing doesn’t work for shit!  No seriously.  If you shit in it, you’re most likely going to have to plunge it.  Which I hate!  But then again, who doesn’t?  The idea that your own mushy matter could potentially spill over and on to the floor, or worse yet, somehow splash onto your person, is not the most pleasant of thoughts.  If it gets on the floor you’ll have to clean that up.  No one else is gonna do that for you.

Even if it doesn’t overflow, just the idea that I’m accidentally touching it vicariously through a plunger freaks me out and makes me feel dirty – and not in that sexy kind of way either.  Afterwards I scour my hands much longer than is necessary and feel the need to take a shower.  I realize that this is a bit extreme but that doesn’t change the way I feel about it.

Anyway, there I was plunging it away.  A procedure that I have become all too familiar with lately.  What can I say?  My toilet sucks, when I would rather it flushed.  At any rate, I’ll admit that there have been occasions that have warranted a good hardy plunging, but on this particular evening, I was stumped.  How did one small to regular sized log, some diarrhea and a modest amount of paper not flush?  This should be a no brainer for a toilet.  An easy day.  Diarrhea for God’s sake!  How does that not flush?  One of life’s great mysteries I suppose.  Some things we’re just not meant to understand and perhaps this is one of them.  Now it is true that my ass did not come in peace, but then again, it did come in manageable pieces.  So really, what’s the big stinking deal?  Flush already!

But back to the actual act of plunging my remains.  It sounds like I’m disposing ashes or something.  If only it were that easy.  So there I stood, working the plunger and watching its head bob up and down, an action that reminded me of a blow job, but without the blow.  There is no glory in this job, but for me, personally, I admire this little guy’s efforts.  No one else wants to do it.  Hell, he probably doesn’t even want to do it!  But here I am ramming his face quite literally into my shit.  Sorry dude.  Still, whether he likes it or not, this guy is really getting the job done.

This is where I paused to give thanks that I am not a plunger and that my life is far, far away from the shit house.  We’re talking “galaxies far, far away.”  I’ve got it pretty good.  Hell, I’ve got it way good in comparison!  If your life is on even keel with a plunger you’ve got issues.  Stop whatever it is you’re doing right now and reevaluate your priorities!

Now where was I?  Plunging I believe.  Yes, that’s right.  At this point I was plunging and flushing and plunging and flushing, all the while making sure to leave the head of the plunger in the bowl, thereby allowing the fresh water to wipe it clean and dispose of any lose remains.  How else are you supposed to clean a plunger?  Or do you even bother?  Do you take it outside and blast it with the hose?  Do you boil it in its own special pot?  I think not.  That’s far too dangerous.  “Ah…you used which pot for spaghetti?  Guess I’m just not that hungry tonight.”

I suppose my “dunking the head in clean toilet water” technique is the recommend method, but then this is merely an assumption on my part.  I’m only a part time plumber, and at this point in the process, I want my participation in this foul affair to be over.

Assuming that it’s clean enough I return it to its home base beside its true love fair; the toilet.  I do this knowing full well that it is still seriously tainted for the next time I have to pick it up.  Which I do with my thumb and forefinger whilst the other digits spray out as far as possible to the sides.  My pinkie is perfectly poised as if ready for a sip of English tea.  Only in this case, this is one black tea I don’t want any part of.

Eventually I tire of this method because plunging a toilet with two fingers (well technically one finger and a thumb) is at best difficult and is in reality nearly impossible.   Therefore the whole hand ultimately winds up getting in there.  And why shouldn’t it?  I’m going to have to scrub up anyway.

All this fuss, and for what?  It’s not like the wooden handle had any part in the plunging process, but I dislike it by association anyway.  Why do I do that?  It’s not like the funky, yucky remains are going to creep up the handle and leap onto my hand.  It doesn’t work that way.  At least I hope to God that it doesn’t!  But in the alternate universe where this thought may actually be a reality, I head to the sink and give serious thought yet again about hitting the showers.

You’d think I was going into surgery the way I clean up afterwards.  Soap.  Soap.  Scalding hot water.  Scalding hot water.  Check, check and double check.  Then I’m up to my elbows, if not my armpits, in antibacterial soap.  Lathering rather vigorously I let it settle in for a moment, just to be sure.  Then I rinse.  Then I repeat.  You can never be too sure about these things.

One final note if I may, do yourself a favor and get the best plunger that money can buy.  This is some serious shit you’re dealing with here folks.  So remember, the words cheap and plunger should never go together.  The last thing you want is brown water splashing back at you.  Even now, just writing about it I want to run away from the very idea.  Trust me, spend the extra five dollars, it’s worth it in the long run.  Unless you like fecal matter splashing towards you.  It’s really not my business.  Pinch and save however you like, but being cheap and buying a bad plunger will only come back and bite you in the end, and yes, I do mean this quite literally.

Uber-business Gay

I’m feeling uber-business gay today.  Is that even a category?  No matter.  Here I sit wearing a black, long sleeve thermal and a turquoise, black striped, 80s tie.  Classy, right?  I know.  I’m bringing sophisticated, chic, gay business owner out of the closet!  Yeah, baby!

At least for today and probably tonight.  It seems like appropriate New Year’s Eve wear.

This tie is my inspiration for the day.  It’s the “confidence feather” that helps me believe I can fly.  Remember?  Dumbo?  He could fly all along, but it was the feather in the beginning that gave him the confidence he needed.  I think there was also something about trippy, pink elephants but, I’ll save that for tonight!

Either way, look at me!  I learned something new today.  My day started with the exploration for knowledge.  The search for information on how to how to tie a tie – and I found it.  New thing added to repertoire, check!  Already my reserve is stronger. Granted I’ll have to do this thing about 200 times before it sinks in, but, it’s a start.

And so here I am, tie and all, ready to make some business phone calls.  To get things done.  To get things started.  I feel strong and self-assured and my thinking is this: I am hot, I am smart, I am determined and I am ready to kick some ass!  This feels great.

Hey 2010…prepare for takeoff!

Thoughts from the Other Side of the Mirror

It all started 9 years ago with one little, white hair.  The one white hair that was glaring back at me from the right front corner of my eyebrow.  Bastard!  I couldn’t believe that it was happening to me.  How dare it sit there looking so fat and happy, content in its taunting of me.  It wasn’t possible.  It wasn’t happening, and yet it was.  As much as I tried to convince myself that this was all just a dream, it was no use.  This was my reality and the proof was mocking me from the other side of the mirror.

As I stared at it with great cynicism, I couldn’t help but think, “Where did you come from?  I don’t remember you being there last night before I went to bed.  And what kind of cruel joke is this anyway?”  Was this really my birthday present from the Universe?  My gift for turning 25 and hitting the quarter century mark?  Really?  This was my gift?  Great, happy birthday to me!  Can I take it back and exchange it for something else, I wondered.  Something a bit more blonde perhaps.

Your first white (gray, silver whatever) hair is a big deal.  It represents something, and in this case it was a something I wasn’t ready for yet.  Wasn’t it enough that I had conceded to turn 24 just the year before?  That one was a big deal.  That was the one that I thought would make all the others seem like a cake walk.  Allow me to explain.

You see in my mind I thought that 23 was the perfect age.  It was like the crowning jewel of all the ages combined.  The huge golden nugget that you knew you would find sooner or later but wouldn’t realize you’d had until it was gone.  In my case though I was smart enough to see that I had found the prize, and as such, there was no way I was letting it go.  Twenty-three was my very own Never-Never-Land.  It was the year where I wasn’t a kid anymore but wasn’t quite an adult either.  Can you imagine?  It was a responsibility free zone – the perfect place for playful mischief.

Now it’s one thing to realize that you have something good and it’s another thing entirely to voluntarily let go of that good thing.  Only a fool would do such a thing and I was no fool.  I wanted to keep this one thing for myself for always and forever.

As the days drew closer to my impending birthday, my anxieties began to mount and the urge to resist this new year grew stronger and stronger.  Despite my best efforts to thwart its advances though it continued to gain ground in its approach.  It made no difference that I repetitively visualized pushing it away with both feet.  Or that I kicked and screamed and hit at the air in an effort to stop it.  As cliché as it sounds it was like trying to stop the tide from rolling in, and as you know, it was no use.  Now, at 34, I can see what a ridiculous a notion this was, but at the time it seemed possible.  I was strong.  I was invincible.  I was 23.

All the same, it happened one day on the 11th of June.  I turned 24 and just like the white hair I would receive the following year, I was powerless to stop it.  Like a thief in the night, time snuck silently into my room without so much as a peep and stole 23 back from me.  I’m not sure of the exact hour but it doesn’t matter because it happened all the same.  In retrospect I can see that it was never mine to keep.  I can see that time was merely retrieving something from me that it had been kind enough to let me borrow.

When I woke up as a 24 year old I felt the same.  Nothing was different.  The sky still looked the same, water felt the same and my thoughts came to me all the same.  So what was the big deal I wondered?  My perspective had changed overnight and I realized that I should consider myself blessed to be here another year.  I thought, I should be thankful to get another trip around the sun.  And so I was.  At that, I decided that I would give thanks each birthday for the opportunity to walk, breath and live another day on this glorious planet.

With this fresh perspective in tow I set out for adventure and whatever else might come my way.  Thankful for this revived outlook on life I again felt invincible.  I felt that I knew myself better and so I was content to head in a positive new direction.  That is of course until the morning of my 25th birthday.  The day where something I hand’t anticipated arrived in the form of a white hair.  It was a something that I wasn’t prepared for and so it caught me off guard.  That one little, white hair was enough to stop me cold in my tracks and prompt me to think about something I hadn’t had to the year before.  In that moment I was forced to examine something that only grownups had to think about, and that thing was mortality.  Death.  The big sleep.  The big game over.  The expiration of your lifetime membership.

That one white hair represented getting old.  It represented the passage of time, the marking of days and years.  It was the realization that you only have so many moments left and as a result you should consider how to use them most appropriately.  I thought of it like this, if I was to live 100 years I had just used up the first quarter of my life.  Nothing ground breaking there, but it got me thinking, “What will I do with the next quarter?  Will I live them as fully?  Will they seem as rich?  Or will they pass me by in a blink?”

Your twenties are a time for such contemplations and in the end I again realized that I was indeed fortunate to be here another year.  I realized that I was blessed to have had such a great start to this thing called life. More importantly though, I had something new.  Something that really was a wonderful gift after all.  It was an awareness that I was responsible for the way I lived the next 25 years of my life and that I would be responsible for the ones that were to follow those as well.

Renewed in my vigor for life I plucked my hair and thought, “If I get one white hair every 25 years, that won’t be so bad.”  Since that time others have pointed out white hairs here and there amidst all the blonde ones and I’ve made peace with that.  There really aren’t that many of them anyway and honestly I hardly ever notice them.

Until recently that is.  A couple of months ago I noticed that my white hair had grown back to the exact same spot as before.  Now there’s no avoiding it as it is quite literally in my face where I am forced to see it everyday.  And you know what?  It’s not so bad.  This time I don’t feel the shock or the discomfort that I felt initially.  I’ve found a contentedness with it.  Which is probably the reason I’ve decided not to pluck it this time.

Instead I’ve decided to appreciate it for what it is, my daily reminder to live my life as fully as possible, my time badge that reminds me to use what time I have left wisely and my cue to smile and laugh at every available opportunity.  This time when I look at that one little, white hair I’ll give thanks for the full and happy life that is right here, staring back at me from the other side of the mirror.

Car lost to rapture?

Short thought… with all of these abandoned cars trapped in the snow along the side of the road it’s like the rapture has happened and no one’s noticed.  Wouldn’t that be hilarious?!  What if we just thought all those stranded cars were left because they got stuck in the snow, when in all actuality, Jesus had come back and taken his devout followers?  Is anyone missing a religious loved one?!

Finally the bumper sticker prophecies would have come true!  How appropriate would that be, that we clueless sinners, so self absorbed in our own little worlds, didn’t even notice?  But then again, perhaps that explains why we had so much fun this weekend!

Aye, my eye!

Is there such a thing as an eye callus?  Because if there is – I want one!

Perhaps this sounds strange but if you can toughen your fingertips to play guitar, why can’t you strengthen your eyes against eye strain?  It sounds perfectly logical to me, but then again, I’m also the girl who thinks that oranges should be eaten outside so they can be in the sun one last time.

My poor little eyes are so tired right now, especially the right one.  And what’s up with that?  Why is ”Righty” more tired than “Lefty”?  Is that eye putting in more time at the office?  Is it working that much harder than the other guy? Granted I do see better out of my right eye, so I don’t know, maybe it does make a difference.  Maybe Righty’s working overtime to compensate for Lefty’s slacker ways, and that’s just not cool.  Come on Lefty, get it together!

Still, if it wasn’t for my left eye I’d probably never finish anything.  Lefty’s my backup eye.  He’s my go to guy when Righty craps out.

At this point I’m really not sure which eye I should be more frustrated with.  Should I be pissed with Righty for cracking under the pressure?  For burning the candle at both ends?  Or should I be mad at Lefty for not pitching in and sharing the load to begin with thereby resulting in the meltdown of Righty?

Either way I’d love it if I could beef them up.  You know, put them through a little get-fit-quick eye bootcamp.  Lefty!  Righty!  Drop down and give me 60!  60 minutes of computer time that is.  My training regime could consist of 30 minute staring sessions at a computer screen until my eyes get all big and buff.

Maybe it’s my fault.  Maybe I’ve been too easy on them.  Maybe I’ve been babying them.  I mean, I dimmed the brightness on my computer screen – what else do they want?  Sleep?!  Come on!  If I can get by with less sleep why can’t they?  Sleep would but great, no doubt about it, but right now I’ve got too much on my plate.  I’m contemplating the creation of three different businesses, have a blog to update (which I love doing) and am trying (unsuccessfully) to figure out how all of these social networking sites work.  It’s no wonder my eyes are tired.

Ok, ok… I get it!  More sleep and less computer time, or at least more breaks from the computer when I feel the fatigue coming on.  Sounds easy enough.  Knowing myself like I do though I have a feeling this is going to be easier said than done.  Maybe I should just cover the tired eye with a patch and go around bellowing, “Aye, my eye!” when the exhaustion sets in.  Genius!  Oh well, until my dream of undetectable eye calluses pans out, I guess sleep is just another item to be added to the “To do” list.