“Artfully Biting Off More Than I Can Chew….Again.”

English: Post-it notes

English: Post-it notes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I used to be so organized. I don’t know what happened to change all that. One moment I was Queen of the Post-It Notes, the next moment I’m drowning in Lake Inefficient. I remember how I used to clean the house from top to bottom once a week. When I say “top to bottom”, I’m speaking in the literal sense. I would work from one end of the house to the other, starting each room at the ceiling and working my way down. When I tell people this today, they look at me, look at my surroundings, and laugh. They think I’m joking.

Part of the problem is that I have a hard time finishing the things I start. I have the attention span of a gnat. In the last week  I’ve created a new website, signed up for more drawing classes,  began a new blog (add this one to the 3 or 4 others I write).  I try to contribute regularly on a forum that I frequent for caregiver support. (More on that later.) I have my two dogs, Coco Latte’ and ChewieBahka, that I want to spend time being with not just writing about.

I have a cubic butt ton of pots in the fire, but nothing gets cooked all the way through. This lukewarm, half-baked mess of mine is more than a little annoying.  I’m re-defining the term “Jack-of-all-trades-and-master-of-none.” At the close of day, I reflect back and see that I got caught up in so many small details that nothing  got accomplished. That sucks! Being detail oriented can be a really good thing. Being obsessed by it, though? Not so great. I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere. I feel like a fish, floundering on a dry dock. No matter how much I squirm and exert energy, I cannot reach my goal.

This drawing thing I do.
Let’s talk about

I have a tremendous longing to create. I used to think beading was my medium, until I realized (a few thousand dollars later) that I had skills in buying beads, not using them. I taught myself to crochet about ten years ago. (If any fellow hookers are reading this, you’ll understand what I mean when I say “the foundation chain took me 3 months to figure out.”) I still like crocheting, but there are only so many dish cloths one can make. And I don’t care what anyone says, making your own homemade stuff is not cheaper than buying it in the store. The people who say that shit obviously haven’t walked through a yarn aisle and seen the prices.  A regular sized afghan can easily run over $30 in supplies. You can’t tell me that you can’t find a twin sized blanket in some store somewhere for less than that, because you certainly can. (It won’t be as cool as mine, but that’s not the point.) :)

Here are some of my drawings. My recipe for this passion is one part love to ten parts frustration.

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Some days I just wanna take one of my pencils and stick it right in my eye. Know the feeling?
(This would be where I would place an MP3 to the Angry Samoans song, “Lights Out.” Since I haven’t paid for that ability, all I can do is give you a link. So, here ya go: LINK. )

If I could find something that I enjoy doing and earn a living from it? Dang, life would really rock.



“You Know You’re Getting Old When….”

English: Jackass Penguin Spheniscus demersus g...

English: Jackass Penguin Spheniscus demersus glaring. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Certain things happen as you get older that you probably never paid attention to before. Just little things, nothing big.
There comes a day, though, when those “little things” become glaring beacons of gritty, cold truth. They punctuate a sentence that goes something like this:

“You’re old as dirt.”

Wanna know what I’m talking about?
No one told me that this stuff was around the corner in my future. In the Spirit of helpfulness, I will save my younger readers from the brute impact of being unaware. You ready?

There is gonna come a day when  all the professional people you need  are younger then you.
Kids with degrees. Kids with passionate hope and unbridled enthusiasm. Smart-ass kids.
Kids that you kinda wanna smack upside the head, but don’t because they are gonna be giving you that colonoscopy next year.

It doesn’t stop there, though. Nope, not by a long shot.
Not too long ago I was registering on a website. I can’t remember which one. (Another awesome thing about aging)….

I went through the sign up page methodically, fulfilling all fields marked with the crucial red asterisk. And there it was.
“Year you were born”, with a drop-down box.
Seems benign enough. Most web-surfers have dropped that stupid box a thousand times or more. What kills me? The scrolling. Lots of scrolling. Way too MUCH scrolling.
My GOD. How long does it TAKE to get to 1968? And why the hell do they start the scrolling at the current year? C’mon, really? Does the webpage designer really think it necessary to create a user-friendly site in case  an 8-month old logs-in?

Is anyone out there reading this and thinking, “Oh my God, I know EXACTLY what she’s talking about!”?



The Hated First Entry

I don’t have anything to say, really. The daunting first entry, however cannot be denied. A blog can’t  “officially be a blog” if there’s nothing to read, right?

I hate that.

So I thought I’d get this troublesome entry done and out-of-the-way now.

There. Thank God THAT’S over with…