Grand Social - Memorial Day

Today I’m linking up with the lovely Lisa from Grandmas Briefs, for a Memorial Day tribute.  I’m actually linking an old post from last year, one describing a bit of my Air Force Basic Training experience.  Although things have changed a lot, Basic Training is still Basic Training, and every single Airman, Marine, Soldier and Sailor has to go through it.   So come along with me as I describe how clueless and wet-behind-the-ears I was at eighteen, but how proud I was to serve my country. 

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They used to call me Airman

And sometimes Gomer

I was looking at old pictures, which is not something I do often. But when I do, it always turns into a sappy blog post.   So get ready, because here we go again.   Did you ever wonder why there’s such a strict age limit on entering the military?    No, it’s not because old folks can’t do combat!  That’s just silly.   Obviously, you haven’t seen Grandpa chasing rabbits with old Duke and his sawed-off  shot-gun.  And, obviously, you haven’t seen Grandma jet-setting all over Europe with her old sorority sisters in their big Red Hats.   Seventy is the new forty, you know!   Or so I’ve been told.   I’m not seventy, quite yet.

So back to my old pictures.

I found one of me in my uniform and sat there admiring my legs.  Gosh I had nice legs.  They’re all lumpy and stubby now.  And my boobs?  They were amazing.  Now?   Lumpy and stubby, and annoying.   Seriously….I hate the extra time it takes to corral them into my bra and make sure they’re both pointing front and center.  It’s not easy.  I get one positioned just right and the other disappears somewhere under my arm pit.  It’s enough to wear me out, and usually does.   I really think we should start out life as an old woman or man, and get younger.  I would appreciate my youth a lot more now than I ever did when I actually had it.

Oh yea, the pictures. 

So I was looking through the pictures and thought it might be fun to share with you what Basic Training in the Air Force at Lackland AFB, Texas was like way back in 1971.   And I will warn you, it is exhausting, so you might want to sit down…..and have a drink.  Stay hydrated.  It’s good for you.

Just another perk of reading my blog…..the healthy advice you get!

On October 22, 1971, I entered the Air Force, was sent to Lackland AFB, Texas, and was the youngest woman in my flight.  I was also the fastest runner in my flight, which really proved nothing because there were no races.  It was all about the marching.   I was also the only Southerner in my flight.  Everyone else was from New York City.  True Story.  My fellow Airmen (yes we were called Airmen) called me “Gomer”.  (Gomer Pyle, get it?  Southern accent?  Gomer had one. God I’m old).

For those of you non-Air Force types who are wondering what a flight is….it is like a platoon.  And for you non-Army types who don’t know what a platoon is…it’s like a group of 70 or so people, in this case all women, all marching together, showering together, exercising together, eating together, cleaning together, sleeping together (and not in a fun way) for 6 weeks of Basic Training hell.

We got up at 5 am, learned how to get showered and dressed in 20 minutes and in-formation outside by 5:30 am.    Then we’d march to the chow hall for breakfast.   Then we’d march back to the barracks and change into our PT clothes and get back into formation.  Then we would march to the workout field where we would do lots of working out, followed by lots of running laps.  After that…..you guessed it….we’d get back in formation and march somewhere else.  Usually it would be to the academic building for military studies classes, but sometimes we’d have to march to the clinic for shots.   And then there were the times we would march just to practice marching.

Lunch time came, and of course, we marched back to the chow hall for lunch.   After lunch, we might have training or cleaning detail back at the barracks.  And how’d we get there?  Anyone?  Anyone?    Yes We Marched!   In the course of six weeks, I managed to wear out my tennis shoes and a hole in the side of my low-quarters leather (frumpy black clodhopper) shoes.   I marched my butt off.  We even had to march to church on Sunday.  First of all, I didn’t want to go to church on Sunday because I wanted to sleep in.  My cranky old Sergeant would have none of that, though.  We marched our butts to church.

We did manage to turn it into a “flirting” opportunity, however, as the men also had to march to church.  So we primped extra nicely before leaving the barracks.  There was some mega bra-stuffing and skirt-hiking, as I recall, but the Sergeant was one step ahead of us and confiscated all contraband prior to entering the Lord’s house.  We were a bunch of heathens for sure.   Well, they were.  I already had big boobs and really couldn’t leave them behind.

And so life went on at Basic Training for six long weeks.  Upon graduation day, we had to march (of course!)  in a big parade and salute the General.   The only difference was we had our Dress Blues uniforms on and we were strutting our stuff.   It was a proud day.  I don’t think anyone who has ever been through Basic Training would disagree that the last day was filled with Pride.

In a small way, this was my little tribute to our men and women serving their country and keeping us safe.     Keep these people in your thoughts and prayers, along with all of our fallen service men and women. 

Monday Listicles - Ten things a husband should do

Buuwwaaahhhh! 

Oh hello.  Don’t mind me.  I’m still freaking out over this week’s Monday Listicles subject. Thanks a lot, Stasha’s husband.  You succeeded in scrambling my brains.  What's left of them.

Uh, I don’t have a husband.  Uh, I have a wife.  Uh, does that make me the husband?  Uh, no.

So.

Questions. Hair-pulling.  Where’s my happy pills?   I.Am.Stressed.

But.

I am always up for a challenge!

So.

I’m listing.  That’s right.  Right along with you ladies who have husbands and actually know what you’re talking about.  And how am I going to approach this monumental writerly task? 

I’ll just make shit up.

So here goes…

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Ten Things MY Husband would do, IF I had a Husband...

(Title slightly altered to fit my particular situation. Or lack thereof)

• If I had a husband, he would Cook.

• If I had a husband, he would Clean.  The toilets. The windows. The baseboards. The floors. My car.

• If I had a husband, he would go to work and make enough money so I could stop looking for a freaking job.

• If I had a husband, he would rub my feet.  My wife will not do this.  I'm suffering.
  

• If I had a husband, he would wash his own damned stinky socks and underwear.  Yes, I was married to a man a hundred years ago, and can still smell the afterglow.

• If I had a husband, he would understand my need to eat chocolate and drink merlot while crying over the Grey’s Anatomy’s season finale.  In fact, he couldn’t have any of my chocolate, but I would share my wine and drippy tissues with him.  Yea, I have a big heart like that.

• If I had a husband, he would go kick some ass in whichever direction I pointed.  Cause he loves me.  And he’s all butch like that.  Come to think of it, my wife already does that.  Never mind.

• If I had a husband, he would sleep on the couch because I cannot stand the snores and the farts.  Seriously, mine are bad enough without adding testosteronic mutations (is that a thing?).

• If I had a husband, he would be kind, sharing, gentle and loving like my Dad.  Only not just like my Dad because that would be creepy.  But you get what I’m saying.  He would be a real gentleman. 

And finally…..

• If I had a husband, he would gladly consent to a sex-change operation.  Because I'm sure as hell not jumping the penis fence.
  

Oh.My.Goshness Batman!  This old broad is outta control!

Don’t blame me. 

Blame Stasha’s husband for coming up with the subject. 

Now go out there and have a super Monday.

I’m heading back to my corner, to lie in wait for next week’s Monday Listicles subject.   Go ahead.  Bring it!

 

Images from Google Images

WTFriday - Own It. Say It. Suck It Up.

I have stuff on my mind today.  WTFriday? 

Stuff other than sex.

What?  It could happen. 

The first thing on my mind:

Own it.  WTF does that mean?  I’m talking about writing.  Or sketching.  Or painting.  Any form of self-expressionism, really.

In my humble and highly unsolicited opinion, if you create it and you have the balls to put it out there, own it.   And don’t get your panties in a wad when someone has something to say about it.   If someone does come back at you with uninvited critique of which you may not agree or that makes you want to scoop out their eyeballs with a spoon…tell them.  You have a voice.  And by that I mean you have an “I don’t have to be squeaky-nice when responding to your comment because I fucking do not agree with you” kind of voice. 

Which leads me directly into the second thing on my mind:

Say it.  WTF does that mean?  It means use your voice.  Participate in meaningful and thought-provoking informational exchange and/or debate.  Critique others, but only when invited.  There are exceptions to this unofficial rule, of course:  For example, if both commenter and responder know each other’s preferences (to critique, not to critique, safe words, use of handcuffs, feathers etc…) then they can go at it like snickerdoodles in heat. Just don’t hurt the onlookers, ok?  My eyes bleed easily.

However.

Some of us (some of you I mean.  I’m just writing this and minding my own damned business.  Don’t give me a second thought, really) can’t keep our big mouths shut no matter what the subject and we are always right, aren’t we?  So of course we have to make our “rightness” known. 

Not necessarily.  There’s a line to be drawn, and if you must always be right, then you are stuck with drawing that line.  If you want any friends or followers, that is.  Or in my case, stalkers.  We all want them, don’t we?  I love my peeps.  But I am one smart cookie.  I know where and when to draw that line.

I don’t respond to a post with critique unless specifically asked for “writing critique”.  I go for the content, baby.  I read for the content.  I absorb your wisdom and wit like a sponge.  Why would I critique your writing when I am so entertained by your content?  I wouldn’t.  I just enjoy you, and my comments reflect that.  As my writerly friend Kimberly would so aptly put it, “You rock my face off”. 

You can’t put a value, especially a writing-critique value, on that sort of entertainment.  So don’t.  Just my advice.  Enjoy the blogs you read, and if you feel like expressing your pleasure, please do.  I get all tingly just thinking about it.  But critique when you know it is welcomed.  As for me?  Critique me anytime you want.  I can take it.  I have a special pillow that, when placed securely enough over my face, snuffs out all my screams.  It works for me.

I recently had a conversation with a friend/blogger who expressed disdain at a few comments she’d received on her blog.  Of course, I had to visit said post and see for myself.  Sure enough, there were some rough comments on there.   However, she had invited critique.  When I pointed that out to her, she responded that she really didn’t mean it that way. 

Uh, make it clear what you want, people.  If you say critique, then prepare to “duck and cover” because you’re gonna get critique.  The blogosphere is plentiful with brilliant (and some not so much brilliant as mercifully clueless) writers who are ready to pounce with their advice.   I mean, look at me, here I sit giving you my brilliant advice. 

You’re welcome!

Which leads me directly into my third thought:

Suck it up. WTF does that mean?  You put it out there.  You take the hits.  So lick your wounds and put some more out there.  Or hobble into the bushes never to be heard from again. 

A very important person in my writing life recently pointed out to me that my sketches were not professional enough to include in ePublishing of my written work.  Said important person knows her shit, so I listened and will not be using my sketches.  I knew I should have spent that money on art lessons instead of those fucking slot machines.  Did my witty-bitty feelings get hurt by her words?  Like a flaming sword through my heart.  Nah.  I was fine.  When I put my sketches out on my blog, I did not ask for critique; however, when I decided to ePublish, all bets were off.  I wanted to hear the truth.

Own It. Say It. Suck It Up.  Good advice?  You decide.  I leave you with a quote by Elbert Hubbard, an American writer, artist and philosopher who lived a way, long time ago: To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.   Sure puts it in perspective, doesn’t it?

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That’s my story and I am sticking to it.   Wine at 5, 7, and 9 pm.  Film at eleven.

What The ?

(Image from Google Images)

My ABCs

This week I became the stalker of Ducky.  Ok that sounds weirder than it really is.  Let me back up just a step or two.  

Ducky is a blogger.  Hilarious blogger.  She’s a youngun, somewhere in her early 30s I think.  She visited my blog one day and I fell in bloggy love.  She’s way past funny; she’s a master at the humor craft, that one!  I’m in awe. 

OK enough gushing about Ducky.  But her website is called Batcrap Crazy.  I think that’s really all that needs to be said. 

Except.

I don’t normally blog on Wednesday, but I’m feeling especially generous with sharing myself today.  You lucky people!   However, I want to make it quick because I have homework, job hunting, exercise, shower, and finishing The Hunger Games to do today.   Yes, I’m probably the only person in the universe that has not finished said book yet.  So sue me.  I have to study and that requires a shitload of reading.  I get sick of reading.

Until I picked up The Hunger Games.  Oh my goshness!  I am so hooked.   We are going to see the movie Saturday and I cannot wait.

So back to today’s post.  I give you the ABC's of me. Stolen from Ducky who stole them from Donna. Um, just the context not the content. I kept most of the subjects, but also added a few of my own.  I'm a rebel like that. 

So here we go:

The ABCs of me

Age:  58  and somewhat comfortable in this age. I could do without the arthritis and occasional sneeze-piddles though.

Bedsize:   Queen.  Suits my lofty and pretentious attitude.

Chores that you hate:   Not enough room on here to list.  The one I hate the most is vacuuming.  Fucking Freaking hate it with a fucking freaking passion.  Fucking Freaking vacuuming.  I’m in a bad mood now.  Thanks.

Diapers:   Not yet.  Good thing, too, since I couldn’t afford them.

Essential start to my day:  Caffeine and a crane, to get my broke-ass outta bed.

Favorite Color:   RED.  Baby, I love me some red.  A curvaceous woman in a long red dress.  OY

Gold or Silver:  Yes and Yes.  Yes to Diamonds and sapphires too.   Hells yes.

Height:   5’6”.   I used to be 5’7 ½” but got in a rollover when I was 38.  Compression fractures.  Ouch. 

Instruments you play:  I can pick my nose rhythmically.  Does that count?   Oh yea, and I can whistle with my fingers.   I had a butch friend teach me that right after I came out.  So far it hasn’t gotten me laid.  Dang.

Job Title:  My job is looking for a job.  I am 2.5 years into it now and have reached the Expert Level.  Go ahead, test me.

Kids:  I have two sons, 38 and 29 and three grandsons, 6, 10 and 16.  Still waiting and hoping for a granddaughter.

Living:   Yes, thank God.  Considering the alternative.  I’m happy with my current status.  Alive.

Music:  My iPod has everything from hot Jennifer Lopez to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack.  I am a music fan of gargantuan proportions. 

Nicknames:  Terri, now.  Growing up it was Katie.  Or Shithead when my mom was drunk.

Own or Rent:   I own my soul.  I own my mistakes.  I own my opinions.  I own my successes.  You can’t rent that stuff people.

Pet Peeves:  Whiny bitches, liars, tailgaters, know-it-all’s.  Oh yea, and food-smackers.  Keep it shut Paaalllease.

Quote from movie or TV Show: "I like it a lot”  from Dumb and Dumber.  Don’t judge.   It totally fits in so many instances.  Think about it.

Righty or Lefty:   I’m always right.  If you don’t believe me, just ask me.  I’ll corroborate.

Siblings: The cutest little 4’11” Sissy you have ever seen.  She is freaking adorable. 

Time: - Need more.  Never get enough.  If only we could Clone time.  That would be awesome.

Underwear:  Yes, for cryin out loud.  And?  Sometimes Granny panties.  Shut up.  But.  I apologize for the visuals.  Send me your eye-doctor bill.

Vegetable you hate:   OKRA

What makes you run late:   Never EVER late.  That’s the one part of Type A personality I seem to have adopted.  Everything else gleans from my B side.  Thank God.

X-rays you've had:  You name it.  I’m 58.  Do the math.

Yummy food you make:  My family loves my mashed potatoes, gravy and biscuits and meat loaf.  I love it when I don’t have to cook.  I win most of the time.

Zoo animal:   Bengal Tiger.  Grrrrrr.  Fits my personality.  Or at least my “made-up” one.

So, what are the ABCs of you?  Hmmm?  I’m dying to know.  Give it up.

Image from Google Images

Mega Bloggers forget us small fries

Are you one of those successful, mega bloggers who have dozens (or hundreds) of followers and commenters?  Do you have guest bloggers knocking down your door?  Do you have sponsors and constant invitations to provide sponsored content on your valuable space? 

And.

Did you get there from hard work?  Did you visit hundreds of other blogs and leave your thoughts and subscribe even when you didn’t have enough time in the day to think? 

Well.

Then my message is for you.

I am not a mega-blogger as everyone knows who ventures to my site on occasion.  God knows I’ve tried and just haven’t been successful.  

I’m not making excuses and I’m not apologizing.

I’m not a mommy or grand mommy blogger.  I don’t have a serious illness that I know of, unless you count chronic unemployment-itis.  I haven’t had a horrible thing happen in my life.  Oh wait, I have, but I don’t want to build a blog around it.   I don’t have money to hire someone to make my site pretty, and what you see is what you get.

I'm not dissing those who do, either.

That being said.

I have a list of a few dozen bloggers that I adore and I frequent as often as is possible.  Some of you are Mega-Bloggers and you know who you are.  Some of you visit my blog maybe once a month if I’m lucky.  I’m always happy to have you, but I’m not blind and I've been doing this for almost two years now.  Some of you are actually IRL friends and you still can’t take a minute out of your busy schedule to acknowledge my work. 

It is work you know, my writing.  I am a serious fiction writer, and will continue to write. 

I’m just not sure that being in this blogging business and trying to support so many people who don’t have the time to support me is really the wise thing to do.

I would like to say that I don’t care if you visit, but I do.  I would like to say it doesn’t matter if you don’t support me, I will always support you.  Up until now that has been the case. 

However.

I’m spending a lot of time supporting people who probably don’t give me a second thought.

If you no longer want or need my support, please email me.  Use the Contact Tab on my site and let me know.  I will not be upset. 

But let’s get real, shall we?   I love you all, but if you don’t need my help, I can direct it towards others like myself who really need the support and will reciprocate, at least occasionally.

Sorry to be Debbie Downer, but I’m busy too.  I spend hours each day trying to get work and the other hours studying for my Masters.  These things are important to me.

Enough said.  Have a good week. 

Much love coming from…

Terri’s Little Corner

Blog Bash - It Took Me 57 Years

Today I’m linking up with Ado of the Momalog and Alison at Momma Wants This for the big Blog Bash.  We are supposed to link up our favorite post ever.   I’m usually all about the fiction, but my favorite post ever was written last year, and brought me over 225 comments and the Freshly Pressed Award from Wordpress.  I was beside myself with glee.  I am posting said article below, sans the comments.  If you’ve read it, please enjoy once again.  I believe the message is timeless, and I’m not just bragging.  It was written from my core, and you can’t get more honest, raw or personal than that.  If you haven’t read it, I hope you will keep an open mind and heart and let me know what you think.  Thanks Ado and Alison for this opportunity!

It Took Me 57 Years

Artistic expressionism.  Drive.  Passion.  I get it.  I finally get it after 57 years and 9 months.  And I’m one of the lucky ones.  Many people go their whole lives without getting it.   Many people go through their entire lives in robotic motion, sans emotion, taking up space…wasting precious time.  I don’t want that to be me.  That will not be me!

I saw a beautiful human being rendered a crying, hopeless, helpless mess on a reality show this week.  The show was called, “So You Think You Can Dance”.  The man was so engulfed in his dancing that he failed to connect with his audience and, unfortunately, came to this realization mid-performance.   The poor soul ended up in a pitiful crying-heap, mid-stage, with not one understanding or compassionate comment offered to soothe his pain.   He simply gave too much of himself and we, the viewing audience, were ill-equipped to accept this raw and disturbing emotion, and consequently did not know how to respond.   What a shame!

This set me to wondering how often this behavior triggers negative/confused/hurtful response from people in everyday life…to those just trying to share their passion, to express their feelings in the one way they’ve discovered does it for them, whether it be dancing, writing, acting, art, poetry, sculpting, singing, mothering, loving or speaking...by those who want to open their minds but haven’t quite grasped the means by which to do so.   How do we all come together?   How do we all understand one another?   I just wish I had the answer.  I can only ask the questions, and hope I open some minds and lubricate the thought-processing mechanisms that are our brains.

Fifty Seven years is a long time to walk this earth and not have a passion, not have a voice, but somehow I managed it.  Fifty Seven will forever be my very favorite age because at 57, I discovered writing.  I discovered my voice.   For those of you who do not have a passion, you will not comprehend my journey, and I would strongly and desperately advise you to find that passion.   For those of you who know how it feels to write something that moves you to tears…those of you who know how a poem represents your sadness, in a way nothing else can….those of you who know how drawing a picture of the clouds viewed from your bedroom window completes you and helps you sleep at night…don’t waste your discovery, your passion!  Use it to fulfill you.  Use it to make your life sweeter.  You’ll never use it up, as long as you keep using it.   It dries up when you quit.  Funny how that works.

Tonight I write from my heart, and to my friends with love.  Don’t worry about me because I’ve found my voice, my passion, and my life is so much sweeter because of it.  If you haven’t found that passion, look for it.  Find it and embrace it.  You won’t believe how much fuller your life will be when you find your voice.

Much love from a happy 57 year old writer/mother/grandmother/sketcher/humorist/lover/friend/daughter/human. 

Please feel free to leave your thoughts on my thoughts.      

 

 Image from Google Images

WTFriday?

I’m all about new stuff.  I’m one of those old broads who welcome change.  I not only accept change; I reach out for change, and I revel in it.  I am a Change Goddess.  That being said, I’m changing Fridays up in here and adding a new weekly adventure to my already awesome repertoire.  Oh, I can just hear the moaning and groaning out there among both my fans.   You’re asking, “Why mess with perfection?”

And to this, I must reply, “Pretty simple really.   I love attention.”

So, in order to obtain more of said attention, I have founded WTFriday?

It will be a little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing.  I will scamper around in my writerly knickers (no pictures, I promise!)  and come up with brilliance amazement wonderment spectacle something or other that will tickle your funny bones.  After all, it really is all about me you.

Unless it’s not.  About me, that is.  And I realize that does happen, once in awhile. 

And so?  I’ll try to cover things of which have nothing to do with me, also.  If I must. 

Where was I?    Oh yes, so ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses to Terri’s Little Corner’s newest addition:

WTFriday?

 I think it might be a new thing.

And couldn’t we all use a new thing?   I certainly could.  Use one.  A new thing, that is.

 Is anyone still following me?  

WTFriday?

Most of my Fridays are pretty uneventful.  I start my morning with my usual oatmeal, orange juice and coffee, followed by a walk around the apartment complex, then more coffee, a short nap between yawns, and then a little writing.  A real Ho-Hummer of a morning, really.   I do try to get into the “spirit of Friday” like everyone else seems to be.  But Friday just doesn’t do it for me. 

Except for today.

Today I got my hair cut.  What’s so special about getting my hair cut?  Well, if you knew me and my relationship with my hair, you might understand how a simple hair cut could either make or break my Friday.   Ever since I grew my hair out, it has become yet another of my addictions/obsessions.  I can’t do anything half-assed.  I have to Over-Doo everything.    And that includes my Doo.

I walked into the salon this morning, put my name on the list, and then sat down to have a personal interlude with my smart phone.  I was having withdrawals, having not checked my phone for a full 20 minutes, since I had left the house.  You see, there’s a new law here in Vegas.  No phones while driving.  I know it’s an important safety rule, but I gotta tell you, it took some getting used to.   Seriously, people, I had tweets to return and important Words With Friends 5-letter plays to make.  A girl has her priorities.

So I was right in the middle of intimately selecting just the right letters to offer up to a complete stranger when BAM, the hair stylist called my name.   Mildly annoyed, I stowed my phone and hurried on over to her station.  She draped me, toweled me, pulled at my hair, smacked her gum, and said, “So what do we want done today?”

WTFriday?

 I looked around and, sure enough, I was in a hair salon, so I am quite sure I wanted my hair cut.  Duh.   Anyhow, I replied, “I’d like about an inch cut all around, no layering please.”  Pretty simple right?  

Nope, not apparently.

“So, your front is longer than your back.  Would you like me to even that out?”  she asked as she tenderly held my locks in her fingers.

WTFriday?

 “She is still talking about my hair, right?”  I thought, as I looked down at my 58 year old boobs.  Otherwise I might have to kick her ass with my 58 year old, size 9 Feet.  

But I am a woman of class so I politely replied, “Yes, thank you.  That would be perfect.”

BUT, hairdresser girl could not leave it at that. Nope, she had to press on.  And press on she did.

“So would you like a coloring today.  I notice your roots are showing a bit and we do have a nice special going on.”   My boobs and now my roots?   Yea, I knew right then I would be blogging about this bitch.

Gritting my teeth, I managed, “No, just the cut today, thank you.”   I swear if she kept me from my smart phone one minute longer than she needed to, there would be consequences.

She finally shut up and cut my hair.  

Not one inch.   She cut at least two inches off all around.

WTFriday?

I didn’t notice until she was almost done because I had my eyes closed.  I do this thing when I get my hair cut.  I close my eyes and make my grocery list.   Then I play a little game later at the store, trying to remember everything on my mental list.   It’s a nerd thing. Sometimes I go home with some really weird stuff.  But that’s another story.

Two inches?   I was again annoyed, a little more than mildly this time.   “Uh I only wanted one inch taken off.  What happened?”  I asked, politely I’m pretty sure, but I could have been growling at the same time.

“Oh I’m sorry.  I had to take off a little more to even it all out.  It looks really nice, don’t you think?  You have very healthy hair!”  Hairdresser girl suddenly turned into Mary freaking Poppins…a spoon full of sugar and all that crap.

Oh really.   That’s the best you got?

So, short story long, I paid and I left.  And yes, I even tipped the girl.  I have manners.  I am from the South and we are cursed with good manners.  Besides, being the highly compassionate and caring person that I am, I didn’t want to ruin MY day by causing a scene.  

My hair did look fabulous, after all. 

So WTFriday?

Heck, I may even go out and find an unsuspecting person and be kind to them.   Or pay something forward.  Or smile once or twice.

OR

I could just go home and play with the complete strangers on my smart phone.

Yea, I think I’ll do that.

(Images from Google Images)

Diary of a mad woman on sabbatical

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!  I am so happy to be finished with my self-induced coma networking sabbatical.  I did not enjoy it.  I did not accomplish much.  I don’t recommend it.  It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, especially for a crazy woman with no self-discipline.

That being said, I did write.  Because that is what I do.  I wrote a journal of short entries per day while on sabbatical.  Below is a first account of my adventures, accomplishments, and bowel movements.  I did decide to leave out the time-table I created of my seizures and nosebleeds.  I didn’t want to frighten you.  It was nothing. 

Except for the uncontrollable chills and shaking.  And I was really horney hungry.  And thirsty.  I do remember being thirsty.  But like I said.  It was nothing.   Don’t worry your pretty heads about me.  I’ll be fine. 

But I digress.  Where was I?     Oh yes, please partake of the juicy tidbits gleaned from my sabbatical antics.  You won’t learn a thing, but did you really come over to my blog to “learn” anyways?  Seriously.  Here goes:

Feb 17^th, Friday.   Second day on social networking break.  I already miss the attention from my blog friends.  A few have asked if I was ok and I assured everyone I just needed a break.   I miss reading their blogs, but I am forcing myself Not to do so.   So far, no ill-effects, unless you count the nervous twitch in my right eye and the mysterious humming.  Where IS that coming from?

Feb 18^th, Saturday.  Third day on break.  Breaking away from all things social-networking seemed to suck all the networking out of me today.  By that I mean, “life” networking.  I literally sat in my easy chair in the corner of my living room and watched TV shows I had DVRd during the previous week.  However?  I couldn’t tell you a thing about any program I watched.  I ate my way through the day.  And?  I played one game of “Words with Friends” after another on my android smart phone…..with complete strangers. 

Is that cheating?   Joan said it was. Party Poop.

So far.  This whole idea sucks giant melon balls.

Feb 19^th, Sunday.  Fourth day of hell……er, I mean break.   I sneaked a peak at a couple of my favorite blogs, but had an immediate guilt pang.   They won’t know I was there.  Unless they are like me and check their stats for incoming links.   Hmmmm.  Busted.

Feb 20^th, Monday.   Uh,  refer back to Feb 19^th.  Rinse and repeat.

Feb 21^st, Tuesday.    I honestly don’t remember this day.  I’m not sure it happened. 

I’ll just have a few more Cheetos and we’ll move along, k?

Feb 22^nd, Wednesday.   Cheated again.   Only I approached the whole thing in a bit of a sneaky manner.  I read several blogs I normally never read.   That way  I wouldn’t get caught over on my regular blogs.  It didn’t do the trick though.  Just reiterated in my mind the reasons I don’t read those blogs.    Fail. Again.

Feb 23^rd, Thursday.   Cheated again?   Who, me?  Well, of course!  Why should I stop now.  I’ve fucked up this entire sabbatical thingy, so what the hell.    Today I read a few blogs and commented.   I didn’t feel pressured, so the thrill was a little flat.  It was a bit like taking a big bite out of a cookie from a forbidden cookie jar, only to discover it was lacking sugar….

Or.

Like trying to make a funny analogy and discovering during the reading of the final draft....Analogy was there.  Not the funny.   Fail.  Again.

Feb 24^th, Friday.   Oh, today I was in my element.  I gave new meaning to the word sabbatical-cheating.  I not only read and commented on some blogs, but I got on The Twitter and did all my Friday Follow tributes.   It was a beautiful day.   I felt free.  Yet guilty.  Yet good.  Ya know?    I can’t explain it.  I think “Bad Terri” came out to play.   She’s the suppressed, but FUN side of me.

Seriously.  I needed that.  I’ve been so lonely.  For attention.  For bloggy attention.  For Twitter attention.  For the cheap red wine associated with all of the aforementioned attention.  

I need a fucking sabbatical from my sabbatical.

So.

Feb 25^th, Saturday.    I did homework.  Didn’t even look at blogs or Twitter.  Joan was home and kept a matronly, watchful eye over me and my shenanigans, or lack thereof.   Party poop.

Feb 26^th, Sunday.    Joan still home.  Homework.  Housework.  Holy Canolli I’m bored.  Blah blah blah. 

Feb 27^th, Monday.   That nervous twitch is back.  Only it’s in both eyes.  And my lip.   Maybe I could moonlight as Elvis on the Vegas strip?  It’s not like I have anything else to do.  

Feb 28^th, Tuesday.   Worked on editing my novel.  I was supposed to be doing this all along, and I would have, but the groundskeepers were planting flowers just below my balcony.   I couldn’t miss the show.  I mean, when those 5’2” tanned little men in dirty britches and big straw hats work their magic, I get all kinds of verklempt.  Raise your hand if you believe even one word of this shit.  And?  If you raised your hand?  You’re in worse shape than me.  I’m so sorry.

Feb 29^th, Wednesday.   Leap Day.  I think I’ll go to Hollywood and ask Jennifer Lopez to marry me.  Oh wait, I have work.   And I’m married.  Pesky real-life issues.

But?

I’m finished with sabbatical!   

Happy Days are here again!

***  If you are reading this, I made it through my sabbatical virtually unscathed except for a few cuts and bruises, a 5 o’clock shadow and a mysterious tangled mass in my hair.   I’ll get to those later.  No worries!  I’m finally free!

Stay tuned for a flood of frivolity, frolicking and general foolishness from Terri’s Little Corner.   Oh yea, and Sara’s Sleep continues this Sunday.     I can’t wait to read what happens next!

(Images by Google Images)