MISSING:

If anyone has seen my Motivation, please send it right on back. I have a lot of work and house cleaning/organizing to do and I just can't seem to get it done without her.

I truly appreciate it.




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Brain Dump

My head is filled with cobwebs and fog and I am surprised I haven't left the house without a damn shirt on. I also got my ass handed to me this weekend. Both in call volume and also with a head to head blow out with a full timer. It was just *so* much fun.

There's nothing like being told the many ways you suck at life to perk a girl up.

But a text message requesting to be friends makes it aaaaaall better. *snort*

Scared doesn't cut it.

We all trickled into the driveway turning an empty concrete slab into a mini-parking lot. It has long been a Sunday tradition. Mom cooks, dad frets and we all eat ourselves silly. It is brat day and they have been simmering on the stove since before church. Mom's kitchen smells like a little slice of heaven. We all take our places at the table, built to feed a family of six now expanded to accommodate all of us, including the grand kids. The prayer is said and bowls of steaming food are passed this way and that. We chat, we laugh and we are all happy.

Lizzy is proudly sitting across of me. She has recently graduated to a stool in the chair. The same stool her mom sat on as a child. She reaches for a chip and Rick happily hands it to her with a reminder to be careful. Orange powdered cheese smears across her smiling face.

We all turn and look as her little face turns red. He gags and gags again. Her mom picks her up and pats her back. Everything in the room freezes. She gags some more and tries to cough. Her eyes are wide and her face red clinging to her mom "HELP ME!" Without blinking three chairs race away from the table. My brain has shut off and everything is happening like I am watching as a seperate person.

I'm on my knee and Lizzy is flipped over it. My left hand cradling her chest and my right hitting her in the back between her shoulders. A thin line of orange drool spans between her little mouth and the linoleum. Slowly it turns to a steady stream of vomit. As the puddle on the floor stops growing, she takes a deep breath and lets out the most heart warming scream I have ever heard. I hand her back to her mother as I bite back the tears that are pooling in my eyes. This is the first puddle of vomit I have ever been thankful for.

The Neverending Story

Not the one with the dog-dragon thing and the kid that wears the same sweater every day... I'm talking about tattoos. Now before you get all huffy and defensive, let me put it out there that I have one. A rather large one at that. One that will eventually wilt and closely resemble a willow tree, but whatever... I'm okay with that.

I have always been fascinated by tattoos. Whether or not it was intended, every tattoo comes with a story. That story may have inspired that tattoo or it very well may go the other way around. In fact, I remember very clearly the day I came home with my shirt tied to the side in an 80's flashback and my jeans unbuttoned and rolled down. I turned around and proudly displayed the masterpiece the artist and I created, planned and perfected. My mom immediately reached out to peel the "puff paint" off of me as there was no way this needle-phobic would have a real tattoo. Of course I yelled and informed her that it was indeed one hell of an expensive scab she was picking at. My dad got up and walked away.

Everyone asks me what the story is behind the tattoo. There really isn't one. I wanted one, but wanted something unique. Something no one else could stake a claim to. Something I helped create. It really has no deep meaning that I can identify. Sure, I was smack dab in the middle of my streak of defiance and rebellion, but that wasn't it. I wanted something beautiful and something in this world that was mine and mine alone.

I hear it everywhere that my generation is going to be the first to fill the nursing homes with 'mutilated' bodies. I really couldn't disagree more. Every time I ask these people if they have been to Old Vet's Place. Because if they have, they will realize we are not the first generation. There are several that came before us that bear the scars and memorials on their arms, chests, legs and hearts. I am usually rewarded with a blank stare that can do nothing more than blink a few times. When I take them to the hospital I notice the tattoos and I want to know the story, but I don't ask, afraid of what the story might do to me or them. Even so, I know it is there hiding somewhere in the pigment.

So what's your story?

Hello! Hello in der!

Yeah, nothing. That's what I've got.


Sorry I have nothing of interest to say as of late. My boring life is starting to permeate into my now boring blog.



So say hi and leave a comment because I'm needy like that.