Staycation
Guess what people? When I leave work on Thursday, I will officially be on vacation for 10 days and I’m not even fired, yet.
Do. The. Macarana.
This is a stay-at-home vacation, or a staycation, you know the place you pay tons of money to maintain, but are never there to enjoy it. Yeah that place.
I’m a homebody and can stay tucked away inside for days on end. I don’t need to go outside – plenty of sunlight filters through the mini blinds – and if the sun’s shining, I’m good.
One thing I will never understand is people who are home, for whatever reason, and say that after a while they become bored. Whatever.
Anywho, I’m looking forward to a relaxing time at home with a few fun activities thrown in once a day, mainly for the kid’s sake.
What relaxes me probably seems like work to most people, but I don’t mind it. I receive a satisfying dose of endorphines when things are organized. “Relax your mind, lay back and groove with mine” why don’t ya? If you can name that tune, the one I’m thinking of, in quotes, I’ll mail you $5.
So, what’s on the agenda?
A coworker gave me some chocolate covered Oreos and now I’m hooked. I found out how to make them from a recipe online and will give it a try. I need to purchase a dipping fork and they all need to be eaten by Sunday.
I’ve been ignoring the lack of organization in my closet. It’s not too unkempt, but I cringe because the pants are partying with the suits, the suits are hanging out with the skirts and the blouses are all over the place. That’s not how I roll, everything has a place and it needs to be in it.
I also need to try on everything in my closet to see what has to be given away. Since losing a few pounds, some of my pants are too big and I need to have them altered. And the pants that no longer reach past my ankle have to be given away. I’m like one of the attractions at an amusement park: You have to be this tall to ride this ride. I wish I had a tailor for my oddly shaped body.
Clothes need to go to the cleaners and buttons need to be sown on clothing. By the way, I hate sewing buttons back on clothes. They should never come off in the first place. It’s only on children’s clothing that buttons live for an eternity, but I’m much too tall for a 8T, so I wear grown-up clothes.
Is it too much to ask that buttons be secured with enough thread to survive a blast? Then the clothing includes a label that says: This blouse was inspected by Inspector No. 435 aka Hope. Yeah I get it, you better hope you see where the button lands when it falls off.
I will exercise, everyday. I’m home, there’s no reason for me not to, right? I’m going to weigh myself on Sunday and then the day before I return to work, I don’t want to come back fatter. There’s a race track down the street from my house so I plan to start my day with a morning run. Then when I get home 100 seated chair dips for my triceps and 100 reps of the Bicycle for my abs. Anything else I do will be extra, but I at least want to do those three things, daily.
I plan to catch up on some reading. I was reading 5 books at once, but that’s just crazy. Each day I’ll set aside a block of time, just for reading and finish one book at a time.
I also plan on taking some pictures. Beginning on Friday, each day, until the end of my vacation, I will upload a photo in my album, Through the Lens, in the Gallery so be sure to check back.
I’m not sure if we’ll do this one, but I would like to hop on a train, go to the City and walk around. The Newark Museum, the Crayola Factory and other activities are also options, but they haven’t quite made it to the Plan A column yet.
I’ll also be having lunch with a friend who’s making me pay, I agreed and I haven’t canceled the appointment. I would say I’m in definite need of a vacation. I know for one thing, I will not be bored. If anything, I should probably unplug the computer if I plan on getting this stuff done.
Anybody who gets bored at home, doesn’t have enough hobbies.
In: Vacation · Tagged with: Fun, Staycation, Vacation
Six Degrees of Seperation
I’m off the wagon, in a manner of speaking.
Isn’t it funny how we can use an expression and associate the correct meaning, but never query its origin, how it came about. As a future Jeopardy hopeful, I like knowing that Pebbles Flintstone was born on February 22, 10,000 B.C. or that Barbie’s (yes the doll) full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts, and she has parents. Who’d thunk it?
So naturally I had to research the expression “off the wagon” and this is what I found: “The origins of this phrase lie in the 1800s, with the temperance movement. During this era, many people felt that alcohol was an extremely harmful substance, and they abstained from alcohol while encouraging others to do the same. The term references the water wagons which were once drawn by horses to water down dirt roads so that they did not become dusty. Members of the temperance movement said that they would sooner drink from a water wagon than touch a drop of alcohol, so when someone failed to keep a temperance pledge, people would say that he or she had fallen from the wagon.” Thank you WiseGeek.
Might I add that while being off the wagon generally refers to a person’s attempt to give up alcohol, it can allude to any number of vices. My vice? Well that’s not important, just know that I relish the monotonous hum of familiarity and don’t fancy change. If I’m on the wagon, I’m on the wagon and will ride until the journey is over. It seems uncharacteristic of me to hop on and off the wagon for the sheer thrill of it – why rock the buggy – but it happened.
Personally, I think I was pushed.
Last week, not only was I on the wagon, but I was steering that bad boy with both hands. So impressed was I, that my eyes admired my arm muscles as they kept the pace with my mental determination, daring not to be the weakest link along the dirt road of triumph.
It was then that overconfidence nudged me on the shoulder, convinced me to run alongside the wagon and do my business, assuring me I’d be able to hop back on, unscathed. So I did, several times. One slip up turned into two, two turned into four and four turned into six. Six degrees of separation between me and the wagon. Is that so bad? Admitting to being off the wagon seems like a letdown, even if for most of the ride, I was straddling the darn thing.
My situation reminded me of an article I read in Psychology Today and the ability to eliminate relationship irritants lies within each of us, it all depends on how we interpret the problem. That is to say, if your mate snores, you choose its meaning: It can be an annoying sound for which they must be smothered or you can interpret the snoring as a well-being. Your partner is safe and at home.
In other words, deny the problem, give it a new name until you can live with it or it goes away. The article also went on to say that “small problems coalesce into a vast, submerged force when they take on a different meaning in your mind—when you add them up as evidence of a character flaw or moral defect.”
I buy it.
So technically, I’m not off the wagon but positioned by a mere six degrees of separation, and still holding on. That’s my story and I’m standing next to it.
In: Food for Thought · Tagged with: Expressions, Interpretation, Vices
Kiss My Converse
One of my favorite movies – minus the few violent scenes and the offensive language – is The Last Dragon. Yes I’m a girl and don’t normally enjoy watching martial art movies, but I like this one and have seen it at least 40, if not 50, times. That’s no exaggeration.
In Berry Gordy’s The Last Dragon, Leroy is on a quest to achieve the highest level of martial arts, known as “The Final Level.” When a student reaches the “Final Level” they possess “The Glow” and he is one of the best in the world. When his entire body glows, he is the greatest fighter alive.
However, before Leroy can claim his title, he is repeatedly confronted by his adversary, Sho’nuff, who wants to prove he’s a better fighter. In one scene, Sho’nuff and his cohorts arrive at Leroy’s dojo to coerce him into a fight. Leroy responds, “But I do not wish to fight you.”
Sho’nuff says, “Well who is it that you wish to fight then?” One of the female goons smacks Leroy in the mouth, but instead of fighting, he maintains his composure and bows.
Sho’nuff acknowledges the bow, but he wants more. He snaps his finger, points to his feet and says “Kiss My Converse.” Leroy looks at the faces of his students and rather than show them the wrong example, he concedes. But before Leroy can get a good smooch of his Chuck Taylors, Sho’nuff delivers a kick to Leroy’s mouth instead, knocking him on his behind.
Sho’nuff says, “You may not wish to fight me, but you will Leroy.” As he and his goons leave the dojo, Sho’nuff asks: “Who’s the baddest” and they respond by saying, “Sho’nuff.”
Stay with me, I think there’s a correlation somewhere.
Last night, just after 9:30 p.m., I was, among other things, extremely tired and cranky. I wanted to go to sleep. My eyeballs were already tucked in their drunken REM blanket, all I had to do was stagger to the bed and fall down. I never made it.
Instead I heard a ruckus outside, followed by a loud boom and then some kids arguing. When I peeked outside the window, the scene that played out on the street was “but I do not wish to fight you.” Everything was under control whereas if they just got back into their car, I could have gone to bed. No harm, no foul. But no. Someone had to get all Last Dragony and request a kiss of the converse. Unlike Leroy who only used his martial arts to defend, the girls in the street were more like Sho’nuff and wanted to be the baddest. So they fought.
Arms were twirling in the air like they were at a double dutch competition, only without the rope. I’m assuming someone was hoping to land at least one of those punches on a face, but it’s hard to tell who you’re hitting when your arms look like a windmill, on crack.
I’ve never been in a fight, but if I was, this is how I would envision it. The other person is screaming and yelling at me. Their blood pressure is going through the roof and maybe they’re turning red. Me? I’m as cool as a cucumber and in my mind, I’m thinking: you fool, what a waste of energy.
So I’m standing there, not even bothering to work up an emotion and the other person decides to pull back their fist to hit me. They approach. I punch them first. They fall down. See, I didn’t have to go all windmill on nobody. There is no verbal “wah”, “wah” followed by my arms moving in a circular motion like I’m the karate kid. I punch. They fall.
Fighting can be so logical; if people were a little more patient, they would have a lot more wins in the W column. If that doesn’t work, then I have very long arms and can keep them at a distance until the police arrive. But like I said, I’ve never been in a fight, but that’s how I would envision it.
Anywho, instead of only two girls fighting, everybody is fighting. One girl is being dragged across the street by her hands while another one is punching her simultaneously. Neighbors are outside with flashlights being nosy and inspecting their vehicles parked on the street.
Side: I learned after the first time someone hit my parked car not to leave it on the street. Now I make sure I park that baby in the driveway where only an Act of God can wreck it.
Some people are yelling for the fighting to stop. Then another person gets hit by mistake and now they’re fighting; so much for being the peace maker. This goes on for about a minute, but less than two. Then everybody stops fighting, get back into their car and drive away. And cut! Like it was all rehearsed.
I don’t know why the mêlée suddenly stopped, but I knew the police were on their way. It was difficult to tell who was declared the winner with all the windmills in the street blocking my vision. I say, if people are going to fight, do it right. I prefer organized fighting: a specific date, tickets, a boxing ring, a referee and a better view. I like closure, now I have no clue as to who won. Perhaps there’s a write up in yesterday’s paper, all is not lost.
Maybe the freedom fighters knew they had three minutes to do their business and get the heck out. In Maplewood, you have two minutes, or less. Maplewood police do not play. I once saw a boy riding his bike up the street toward the park. A few minutes later, the cops had him and his bike in the back of their car heading toward the police station. Maybe that wasn’t his bike.
They have nothing to do, but scoop up little children who threaten the reputation of one of NJ’s finest towns. I will say we don’t have too much trouble around here. In eight years this is the third time that the cops have been called. And just to be fair, I made the first call.
You can read that story here: http://tinyurl.com/c6h3np.
Of course, had those kids been just a few blocks up the street, the police may have “bang, bang” first and asked questions later. But since I live in the shoddier part of Maplewood, affectionately renamed Maplehood; they tend to ask questions first to be sure they’re not shooting anyone that would reduce them to desk duty.
So the only thing that had “The Glow” was the siren lights from the five cop cars that arrived on the scene. Unfortunately the police missed the traveling Sho’nuffs of Maplehood by a few seconds. One of the cars involved in the scuffle returned to the scene and told the police what happened. No more than five minutes later, the police had the place cleared out and the neighborhood was restored to the peace in which we are accustomed to living.
So the next time a cry goes out and someone wants to know who’s the baddest, I’m going to respond: Maple’hood Police.
Sho’nuff.
In: In the Hood · Tagged with: Converse, Fighting, Police
I’d Rather We Got Liquor Stores
I was going to post this last night, but since I wasn’t feeling well, I slid my laptop under my bed and went to sleep. I hope that darn Mother of All Bacteria is gone; I just popped the last pill this morning. I don’t want to be sick once more.
On a positive note, my brain seems to be working again but it’s trying to process four lanes of highway traffic on a narrow one-way street. I can’t write fast enough. Ramble yes. Write no. For now all I can do is write my thoughts down, give each one a number and deal with them in the order in which they were conceived. That’s how they handle the traffic at the ShopRite deli counter and everyone gets served.
Anywho, Friday nights is usually a trip to the bookstore, not always, but usually. I may not buy anything, but I like to sniff the books, thumb through them and see what’s new and on sale. I was browsing the humor section and I saw Larry Wilmore on the cover of a book, so I picked it up. The name of his book is entitled: I’d Rather We Got Casinos. I had to read it a few times. I’d Rather We Got Casinos? Excuse me. What?
Synopsis: Collected for the first time, all in one place, are his Black Thoughts. From why black weathermen make him feel happy (or sad) and why brothas don’t see UFO’s. He also wants to do away with Black History Month! After all, can twenty-eight days of trivia really make up for centuries of oppression? In Wilmore’s own words, “I’d rather we got casinos!”
If he can get a book deal on I’d Rather We Got Casinos then I’m sure some publisher out there is interested in my book: I’d Rather We Got Liquor Stores. Okay maybe he is a little more well-known than I am, but I’ve seen some other books in the humor section I wouldn’t take to the toilet. Actually I started writing a humor book years ago, but I lost it.
A few minutes into reading the book I found out that hope, as in expectation, is black. If hope were a real person and had to fill out a job application, under race it would check the box, African-American or black. Hope. Is. Black. Okay now I’m interested, explain. He said if hope were not black, there would be no need for The Great White Hope. Then he referenced Obama’s book, The Audacity of Hope and I couldn’t help but laugh. I got it, it made sense to me. Hope is black. Who knew?
Speaking of Obama, there’s a woman at my job who loathes him and I like to get her riled because, I can. Just say Obama and her blood pressure rises and I like to watch. We’re friends, so it’s okay. She said in the event of an emergency and she passes out, I could revive her with a chocolate bar she keeps in her desk.
I offered to draw a white chalk outline around her body and eat the chocolate bar myself. Now that I think about it, she may have already eaten the chocolate bar during Obama’s inauguration. I will keep the chalk in my desk though, for his re-election. Anyways, she was ranting about his inexperience and how Americans are a bunch of sheeple who follow the crowd. And had they really thought about it they would have realized that Obama is not qualified for the job as president.
I’m a public defender of some kind, so I pulled this one out the air, not really, but since we had already been talking about the bible – our conversations know no limits – I thought I would use it to make a point or to raise her blood pressure. I explained that Moses was not a great speaker, he had a speech impediment, a stuttering problem maybe, but he used his brother Aaron as his spokesman. Moses was inexperienced, but he was chosen to lead a nation of people, so experience is not always a prerequisite.
Silence.
After mulling it over she said: “Get out of my office.”
I laughed out loud. Hey I’m not saying Obama is the chosen one, I know better, but my point was that we shouldn’t judge people in position, some are put there for a reason.
Moving on. I listened to a few minutes of Steve Harvey this morning, his entire radio staff irks my nerves, but sometimes they drop knowledge and I take notes. They had a guest on the show, I don’t know his name and don’t care to, but one thing he said caught my attention.
His grandmother told him never to fall in love with a stripper. She explained that you should never fall in love with someone who strips you of who you are. When we feel the need to “fake the funk” or lay who we are to the side just to be with someone, sum ting wong.
I don’t know how much control we have over who we love, but I’d rather we choose someone we don’t feel the need to “change our spots” just to keep. After all, can a few scattered moments of happiness really make up for years of pretending to be someone we’re not?
I’d Rather We Got Liquor Stores.
In: Food for Thought · Tagged with: black, casinos, liquor
It’s Not Like Riding A Bike
Today was my first day back in the gym in over 10 days and good thing because I’ve been eating everything not nailed down to the kitchen table. I think my bronchitis came with a tape worm. Seriously, my appetite has been insatiable and somehow I’ve been able to maintain my weight, despite the over consumption of food. Go figure.
I didn’t want to over do it, so I did a 1/2 hour on the treadmill, walking at 4.0 on a 2.5 incline and sometimes at 3.7 mph. I even tried running for 1 minute at 6 mph but that was tough. Normally I can put in 10-15 minutes of running, but not today. My stamina is in the toilet and I’m still have some shortness of breath. It will probably take me over a week to get back to where I was before I was sick.
Then I used the leg press and watched TV, but was easily distracted by the line someone made with their finger and cut through the dust on the TV screen. It bothered me enough to climb on the exercise equipment and dust the screen off. A few seconds later, Sean walked in, he works on the first floor. I said you caught me during an OCD moment, but the TV was dusty. He said it was okay, told me he’s a Virgo and understood.
I don’t know what that means, but maybe Virgos hate to see dust too.
