The Farmer's Dell

Despite the fact that it came from a six year old, my parents are surely over the moon. Or at least off the ground.  A marriage proposal is a marriage proposal.   
I was a tree climber, a bug catcher, a grass-stain wearer.  I had dirt under my fingernails and knots in my hair that were so tight I cried when a brush was taken to my head.  I chased boys because they were rounding second base or I was the cop and they were the robber - not because I thought they were cute or wanted a boyfriend.  Sure, boys eventually became cute but how was I supposed to tell them that in my sweaty sports jersey? 

In general, I don't chase after anything.  Its usually because I don't really feel as though I present myself as a viable pursuer.  In other words, I'm not well equipped.   And to be even more specific, I tend to not chase relationships, of any kind because it simply seems....undoable.  I've let a lot of people come and go with ease as I fail to step up and show any kind of interest in the other.  In the back of my head I've always thought that whatever will be will be and that especially goes for whoever I'm with.  Marriage is not on my list of "must do's" to be frank.

Thus, I've realized that for me to chase someone, they're going to have to be a heck of a catch.  Thank God.

True Story

DEPT

My frustrations have unexpected ways of revealing themselves.  Even at 26 years old I stand back and say, "Hey, where did that come from?"  Like a 9 mile run after work.  On Saturday after a long week it was 14 miles - the furthest I've ever made the legs pump.  
I'm not so good at letting my words carry my frustrations, often on purpose, because I typically feel like a little kid when I allow that to happen.  I bit my lip time after time until that's too painful to keep at, and then start blaming everyone for the blood running down my chin. That is, if I can catch my breath.
Yeah, something like that.

It seems to occur when people act as though they have insight into a situation they have never been in...they happen to know more than you because their position says so, not the fact they've actually been in the trenches.  Really, you're going to pull that card? I know I'm young, and I know you make more than I do, but let's stop there. 

E was so chipper today it makes dealing with "grown-ups" worth it.

This Will Fit Nicely In My Collection

Blank pages of a notebook seem to call my name, loud and from afar. They are certainly my greatest weakness, as I have an unexplainable compulsion to purchase notebooks on a whim.  The clean, new paper, store bought smell – I would can it as an air freshener if I could find someone willing to stock it; the fine smooth pages and edges; the colors displayed inside and out are all alluring factors.  Any notebook, however, leaves me to think, “It needs to be filled with some form of artwork, whether words or pictures.” I snatch it up and take it home like a bundle of fireworks on the Fourth of July, and have every intention of inking its pages from side to side with my creativity and passion. Then I am reminded of how many of these notebooks are already in my possession – stacked on shelves or on the floor, lying in drawers or on tabletops … each with a specific purpose assigned it to justify my purchase: “This will be for my journal, this one for poetry, that one for short stories, this could serve as a scrapbook, and this one I will fill with other’s inspirational pieces, etcetera, etcetera…”  

Realizing that this is simply too many notebooks to carry around, I then decide to combine the contents of two or three notebooks or switch notebook purposes, thinking,“This one is so much better for this.”  The real dilemma occurs when I spot a particularly attractive notebook, perhaps a lively color or unique design, or an odd geometrical size or shape.  They are simply too extraordinary for the mundane. How could I deface such fine pages with the particulars of my petty, boring life?  The idea often seems sacrilegious, like part of a tree was sacrificed in vain. Both scenarios leave me with numerous unused notebooks, each beautiful in its own right but receiving the same fate as it had before I bought it.  True, Coke-Cola memorabilia or those little porcelain dolls scattered all about the house aren’t much better as far as collections go, but perhaps more common. The last one I bought has bold purple stripes, and the one before that is honeybee yellow. There is one with a poem written beautifully across the front, and another has a picture of an adorable baby on the front.  I have a red suede one which I finally brought myself to use after four years of dormancy.   The end result of this seemingly incurable disease is me having a stack of notebooks that I don’t know what to do with.  I figure “I’m a writer, thus I write,” but I don’t write nearly as fast or as often as I buy. The obvious solution would be to write more – I have an excuse, a motivation, an impetus.  There should be words running out of me like melted butter, but of course, butter is messy, especially when it’s melted.  At some point, I’m going to have to be okay with messy, right?  Either that, or find someone who can gift wrap for me. 

Hump Days Typically Have More Than One Hump

I'm the one who keeps running and so I'm the one to blame. 10 miles, then 8, then another 8, even after it was obvious a bandaid wasn't going to do a bit of good.
I limped down the hallway after work at the end of the day and had bled through my sock by the time I stopped to look.  Then I just tapped that bad boy up and, you guessed it, ran. 


I can't concentrate when I go an extended period of time without a run.  It throws me off, so I suffer on one end to avoid the drag on the other.         

New shoes, which I aquire frequently, rubbed all the skin clear off a toe, and I don't have the patience for healing. It has has been unforgiving over the past couple of days. 


So has the cold. 
I'm dreaming about blankets and pillows.
And it's only 9:00.


photo via tumblerickkogHGf1qz

Now Hiring?

Robin's egg, dandelyon, salmon, cranberry, Ireland - the name paints a perfect picture, each better than the last.  And someone has that job.  Someone gets paid to sit and think of extraordinary names because sometimes just blue doesn't do blue justice.  I see each crayon aranged in rows from lightest to darkest before sliding one out of it's snug packaging and anticipating the name pinned to each variation of color.  I already have my own palat - Little Girl Blush, Wheatfield, Lillypad, Beehive and Lemonade, Antique...

I turn down a street and wonder who had the right to decide what gets painted on that green sign stretched before me.  It most likely depends on who has money and willingly contributes to pavement and construction....but I still desire to fill out an application. 

Can you tell there has been a lot of talk with the job lately? Jobs and residences. All this growing up has me exhausted.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Last year, well, last last year I lived in a one room apartment and was less claustiphobic than living in a five bedroom house.  Because my parents live in this house, as does a sibling. My new found independence has been lost in dishes, and counter spaces, and the coat rack...My claustiphobia is becoming more and more evedent.

I wonder if I was destined to live by myself; at least somewhere I can put others away. 
I like the idea of having the people I care about close by, close by as in maybe next door. 

 I could go visit after I've had my cup of coffee - or two - and vote on who would make breakfast before complaining about OTHER people, like celebrities or coworkers or the such.  Then I could go about the rest of my day, however that's supposed to go, until the evening comes with a nice dinner and possibly more complaining before heading back to my own place - or putting them back away.
All the holiday festivities might be the reason behind my need for more solitude.  Being off work and school, tt seems I've spent an extensive amount of time with the fam.  Not that the fam doesn't have their charm, and plenty of it (one of them is going to read this), but four adults should not live together.....at least not without some liquer.