The heat. Why is it always so hot in Kansas City?

Yeah, yeah, I know. In another four months, I'll be complaining that it's too cold. But I can always add more clothes. There's only a legal limit to the articles of clothing that I can take off in public. Or so I'm told...

 

Today I did Pilates for the first time in quite awhile. (And by "awhile", I mean something along the line of years.) I found some of the Winsor Pilates episodes on YouTube that I used to work out to from maybe 2005 to 2018 (sporadically, that is).

Here is what I remembered, after tackling that 20-minute workout. 

• I am not flexible. I have never been flexible and will likely become flexible only if someone chops off my leg and places it against my forehead. And then I guess I'm really just dismembered.
  
  
• 
  The lead Pilates demonstrator always looks so happy, even when she's contorted into the most bizarre or strenuous positions. This position? I swore the entire time I was in it, but she looks like she's just sitting normally, maybe reaching for a bowl of ice cream. At moments, I hate her. At other moments, I love her and want her to reach over and high five me. Just once I want them to move the guy to be the front-and-center person. He seems more my pace: he's doing it because he's getting paid, doing a great job, but isn't an overachiever and is just biding his time until he can leave class to go grab a Miller High Life. 
  
  

• I have a hard time counting. I mean, basic addition and counting I'm okay with, but pilates counting is something different. The number of repetitions plus the number within is what they're doing, or something like that...? I always end up doing more than I should. That does not please me, and my abs hate me for it.
  
  
• I always think that the next session will be better, my body will adapt, it will get easier. No. I am like watching a salmon moving upstream. It looks as difficult as it is, and as much as you might want to yell "Go, little buddy, go!" for encouragement, you hold back because you're afraid that you might spook them and, realistically speaking, they won't hear you. I won't hear you due to the whoosh of inflexibility resonating in my head and my mumbling the wrong rep counts.

Scratch This

I've become obsessed with scratch-off things. Well, to be more specific, scratch-off posters. But, to be real, I'll take any scratch-off item, like a lottery ticket.

It's just so satisfying to rub off that top layer to reveal another pattern or discovery...something...underneath. It's not quite like scratching a mosquito bite until it bleeds, when the intensity of the scratch relieves the itch of the bite. But similar.

I limited the number of scratch-off posters that I'm allowed to have at one time to three. At this point in time, listed in the order that they were purchased:

1. A scratch-off poster of the 50 states. When the state is scratched, the state flower is revealed beneath the gold foil. I originally bought it with the intention of using it to track the states that my husband and I visited together but, at his insistence, it only represents the states that I have visited. By far the most intricate of the scratch-off posters that I have, it was so hard to scratch the smaller states - like Massachusetts - without going into its neighboring state - like New Hampshire. I have only 12 more states to visit, meaning only 12 more states to reveal. I'm already sad thinking about the moment when I scratch off the final gold foil for that last state. 
   
   
2. A scratch-off poster of the 100 Top Books. I'm not exactly sure who determined the list, but it's a wide-ranging collection of children's books (like The Secret Garden and Pippi Longstocking) to classic literature (such as Dante's Divine Comedy and Sherlock Holmes) to modern literature (such as Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone and The Secret Life of Bees). I've only read 55 of the books at this point, and the thought of scratching the last box on this poster is daunting...do I really want to read Ulysses? My eyes just glazed over, and I imagined myself falling asleep with the print of the book's pages becoming embedded on my face. Each book is represented by a gold foil square, and it's heaven when I do scratch off the square to reveal pastel artwork depicting the book's protagonist or other representation of the plot.
   
   
3. IMDd.com's Top 100 Movies Watchlist. Oofta. This one I should have researched better before purchasing but, in true me form, I slung back a few glasses of wine and thought ordering it off Amazon was a brilliant move. It's a combination of classic and modern movies, black and white films, silent films, foreign films, children's and animated movies, and...Japanese anime. This one, my husband and I tackle together, the compromise to the scratch-off states poster. We watch a movie together, and then I scratch off the gold and black foil movie square. It doesn't matter whether he and I have both seen the movie individually, at a time before we met each other, it only counts if we watch the film together.The scratching is torture, as the gold foil comes off easily but the black does not. Most of the time, I scratch too deep on the black area and scratch into the actual colored print below. I try to hide my mistakes with a black sharpie where I can, but the poster looks beaten if you look at it too closely. We have 44 squares...or movies, rather...before this poster has received its final scratch. I cannot wait. 

I haven't given much thought to my scratch-off poster for once these three are complete. Maybe the Top 100 Albums to Listen to? the state parks? Top 100 Things to Do on a Date? I can't wait...and hopefully they scratch easier then that fucking IMDb movie poster.

  

 

The top five things that I should do when I have free time:

1. Write.
2. Work out.
3. Spend time with my family.
4. Read a classic novel that is on my Top 100 Books scratch off poster, such as Madame Bovary or Ulysses. 
5. Scrub my kitchen floors.

In reality, the top five things that I do when I have free time:

1. Snuggle with my cats while watching a murder show. (Typically, something of the Dateline or 48 Hours variety.)
2. Snuggle with my cats while eating chips and queso.
3. Snuggle with my cats while working on a subversive cross stitch...while a murder show plays in the background.
4. Snuggle with my cats while reading a fluff book. (Currently, Megan Miranda is my go-to author for quick, brainless reading.)
5. Scoop out a litter box.

So. Am I blaming my cats for my lack of productive behavior when I have free time? Well...no. My cats just mean that I have no free time. As wrongly attributed as a quote from one Sigmund Freud but, regardless of who said it, still holds true: Time spent with cats is never wasted. 

The Smell of Summer and Bitten Flesh

 

My favorite smell that I have come to associate with summer is the aroma of burning OFF! mosquito coils. That's right: don't give me the sweet aroma of coconut tinged sunblock, ocean breezes and sandy beaches, fresh cut grass, campfires, lemonade, or wild flowers. Give me some citronella or good ol' fashioned DEET. 

The OFF! coils have been around for years, but last summer I discovered the metal portable coil holders. They come in a pack of two and, based on the product description and online pictures, the intention is for campers to place one coil in a holder and then hang it from their tent or nearby their outdoor area to help repel mosquitoes. 

But not me. I like to crack the holders in half and place a coil on each half so that I have four coils burning simultaneously. I place them around my patio chair as if I'm in the middle of a zisurrú holding a glass of wine, trying to ward off mosquitoes instead of evil spirits.

My mosquito coil circles don't seem to be working, however. This past week, I've sat outside almost every night with my ring of protection and yet my legs still contain swollen bug bites where I have scratched my legs raw. Tonight I discovered I have a mosquito bite on my right cheek. 

So I take this as a sign. Not that I need to start spraying myself physically with bug spray or to spend more time indoors until the bugs have died for the summer season. No, this is a sign that I need to buy more metal mosquito holders so that I can expand my magic circle to eight burning coils...

Zzzzzzz

 When I can't sleep, I don't count sheep. I used to start counting backwards starting at 100. I would visualize each of the numbers behind my closed eyes, using my eyes to trace the numbers behind my eyelids. I picture the numbers in fuchsia, which might not be the most relaxing color; however, it typically works. By the time I reach the 30s, I'm usually asleep.

Recently, though, it hasn't been working. I think it might be because this internal stress that I have been feeling the last few months has continued to increase. I've always been a terrible sleeper, so it's not surprising that it's gotten worse. Before the pandemic, I had prescription strength sleeping pills to help me on the nights that I was truly struggling. But then my prescription and the sleeping pills ran out, my insurance changed with getting married, and I was too lazy to find a new doctor and renew the prescription.

Instead, I've started writing blogs in my head while I lie in bed. Words bouncing around in my head, ricocheting around like it's a game of pong. I swear the topics are interesting and it's so well composed that you all would be enthralled. I tell myself that I need to get up and write it down so that I don't forget, but then that's the moment that sleep overtakes me. I can't even remember the topic the next day but, I swear, it's riveting. So, basically, if anyone wants to volunteer to be my scribe at about 10:43 p.m. tonight, give me a call so that I can mutter my most brilliant blog yet to you.

Life's Too Short for Crappy Pens

 

I'm a pen snob. I recognize this about myself and know that it makes me difficult to live and work with. My office had the best gel pens: black or blue ink, 10mm, soft plastic outside. But, since the pandemic started, I've been working from home for the last 13 months and my pens ran out of ink. I was faced with the torturous chore of going to Target and sifting through dozens of different brands of disposable gel pens and ink lines. I couldn't remember what the office had, so it took me trial and error of so many pen packs it's embarrassing. But then I found it: the perfect pen. My new preferred favorite is the Pilot G-2 Premium Gel 10 mm, black ink. I originally purchased the 5 mm and then the 7 mm, but the point was too fine and it made me angry. That's right: too fine of a gel ink brought me rage. 

My dentist office kept giving me retractable ball point pens. I guess because of COVID-19 it was cheaper for them to just give the pens to patients as opposed to try and sterilize them between uses. I had three or four of them in my purse; every time I pulled out one of Dr. Mingos' pens, I immediately groaned and searched for one of the gel pens that I knew I had buried somewhere in the purse. At first, I tried to sneak the inferior pens -- Dr. Mingos', the 5 and 7 mm gel pens, or other ball point pens that did not fit my standards -- into our junk drawer. My husband appears to be less discerning when it comes to his pen use, so I thought it was a mediocre solution: I could get rid of the pens without throwing them away. Inevitably, though, every time I opened the junk drawer to use one of the 10mm pens I had placed there for my sole use, I pulled out one of those other unsuitable pens. It was like the pen gods were taunting  me. It then occurred to me that life is too short to use a terrible pen, that the satisfaction that I get from that smooth gel line is one moment of brief happiness that I get everyday. So I threw out all the pens that I couldn't tolerate. Let's just say that I Marie Kondo'd the pens in our household. 

Snow Tail

 Today it snowed. 

April 20, and it snowed. Yesterday, it was almost 60 degrees. Today it snowed. Sunday is going to be in the 70s. Missouri weather is so unpredictable, so indecisive, so fickle that it makes me want to curl in the fetal position until we get one of those very few mild days, where the sun comes out and it's a pleasant 65 degrees with a slight breeze. Ahhhh...I can almost feel the warmth of the sun from past springtimes. 

Today it snowed, and Olive watched the snowflakes, completely mesmerized. This little seven-pound cat who is so full of energy that it's exhausting, sat perfectly still for a few long minutes, intrigued by what she was seeing. It wasn't her first snowfall - she's seen a few snow flurries in December -- but it's been a while. Olive sat so still, slowly batting her eyes at the white fluff falling down as if she was trying to befriend it. Meanwhile, I sat next to her on the chaise lounge, frustrated by a meeting that had just ended. Her tilted face, just enjoying that moment from her kitty perspective, made me take a deep breath and look out the window, a reminder that that type of frustration is unnecessary. It was a good reflective moment that I needed. 

Then Olive proceeded to try to bat the snowflakes through the window, and shortly after jumped onto the back of the chaise, where she perched in the meatloaf position. Her tailed wrapped around the side of my face, and she proceeded to methodically swat her tail on my cheek for the next 15 minutes. I like to think it was her way of literally drilling home the importance of taking a moment to breath.  

Why, Hello Again

It's obviously been a hot minute since I last posted anything here (or closer to 657,000 minutes). 2020 was...a year. It started out promising, and then craziness ensued. For me, overall, it was a pretty amazing year, but saying that aloud today typically results in people reacting like you've just admitted to being patient zero in all this.

So. I consider this post to be my obligatory acknowledgement of the gap year in my blog. I won't attempt to summarize 15 months of absence - even my eyes are glazing over with what that read might look like. But, I will tell you this: 2020 allowed me to achieve my reading challenge by completing 41 of my 40 books goal. So, take that, all you 2020 haters. I'm getting crazy in 2021 and upping my reading goal to 41 books. I'm currently six books ahead of schedule. I know everyone is on edge wondering whether I'll make the goal this year. 

So here's to the next post happening before July 2022. And hopefully being more entertaining or insightful or grammatically correct. 

 

Expanding My Area Search

I'm getting that antsy feeling again (not to be confused with angsty) that I need to be doing something artsy or involved or challenging. This partially might be due to me spending most of this weekend trying to upgrade my Mac's OS to one that's supported by Chrome or, really, any other major online activity. Apparently I neglected to pay attention to the OS updates, and I quickly fell from even the bare minimum passing requirements. (Also, why must Apple name their platforms ridiculously? Why does it need to be anything other than the OS' version number?)

As I've bored myself to death trying to get first one OS to download and then the next just on the hopes that I might avoid having to buy a new computer, my mind has had plenty of time to wander. This morning I spent a good chunk of time on Facebook, searching events going on in the area. Now that I no longer live in downtown Kansas City, adjusting my search range brought in a whole new array of places to visit and consider.

And now I want to do it all.

I want to attend the class where I'll learn how to make a wood tray. Play Wednesday night wine bingo at a wine/pizza place. Sign me up for the class where I'll plant a succulent and learn all about propagation. I don't need any of those Bob Ross-like paintings from those wine and paint classes, but it'll give me something to do.

I realize that some of this is stemming from the six-week hiatus that my rec league sports have given me between the holiday and winter seasons. (Six weeks was waaaay too long.) Perhaps another portion is that my living location has changed, and I'm still adjusting to have to drive to get to, frankly, any place, person, or activity, whereas before if I got bored, I'd just go for a walk downtown and find a coffee shop to read in or a store to putter about. According to Yelp, the nearest coffee shop is a tiny Starbucks 5.8 miles away. So now I'm looking at Groupon and Eventbrite, trying to see which experiences to purchase to get me out of the house with a destination. Now that I've started looking, I've discovered so many things that I want to do but I can't because three nights of indoor volleyball and/or pickleball interferes.

First world problems. I should just be grateful that I have free time to enjoy and that I have all these options, like taking a class on how to build my own cheese board.

I'm currently leaning toward a cake decorating class. I thoroughly enjoying baking cakes for birthdays, but my decorating skills always end with a cake looking like it was written by either a first grader. What if I could decorate a cake and it actually looked like the design I intended? Although who am I kidding? Even if I take that four-part decorating class, my cakes will still look like a serial killer wrote "Happy Birthday". But at least I could say that I took the class.

When You Can't Cut the Cheese

By this point in my life, I have a fairly good understanding of my limitations. I recognize my strengths, those elements that I can conquer, those that I'll try at least once and then move on knowing that I won't be able to master them. Over the years, I've had skills that I've revisited and tried time and again to at least become somewhat mediocre at performing. 

It's the cheese slicer that has posed one of the biggest defeats for me. I can't even begin to describe the trauma and outrage that trying to use a cheese slicer has caused me. My parents had one, and I always relied on someone else to, well, cut the cheese for me. Something about pulling the slicer through a block of cheese just didn't connect for me. My mom could always cut these perfectly rectangular slices, each side smooth as if it had just fallen apart from the rest of the block, the width of it symmetrical from one end to the other. My slices always came out looking grated, as if the cheese had been pummeled back and forth between two boxers, chunks missing as if a rat had bitten into it.

Once I moved into my own apartment and started purchasing my own kitchen utensils and food supplies, I refused to add a cheese slicer to my kitchen resources. If I needed a slice of cheese, I bought it precut so that I could easily remove a slice from the package. It was perfect, it was stress-free, and I had no need to worry about cutting the cheese. I also bought prepackaged shredded cheese to avoid any muscle strain that might come from grating a block of cheese down into thin strips.

It all changed when I moved in with my fiance. I should have looked through his kitchen utensil drawer more closely, paid better attention to his cheese supply. He's a cheese slicer. He owns a cheese slicer. No precut cheese for him. Like my mom, he somehow mastered cutting the perfect slice of cheese. I tried everything to avoid using the cheese slicer until he called me out for using a steak knife on the cheese block, which left the cheese block with a slightly riveted side and chunks chiseled out of the block. He tried to coach me on how to use it ("Just pull it slightly...you don't actually use it to cut the cheese." which then lead to me losing concentration from the inevitable cutting-the-cheese phrase.). It left him exasperated, me frustrated. I've sworn off slices of cheese. It's fine. I'm fine. I know my limitations. And it's not like I need to have that grilled cheese sandwich...

40 for 40 in 2020

And the challenge has been set...

Nailed it! 

Not only did I hit that goal, I surpassed it. The 37th book I completed was finished on 29 December, which means I even slipped in books 38 and 39 between yesterday and today. It was Stephen King's Under the Dome. A big ol' bad boy at 1,074 pages.  The length alone should have counted for two, maybe three books. That book sat on my bookshelf for more than four years, moved from a house to an apartment to a house. With another impending move in 2020, I placed it on my list of books that absolutely needed to be read. I refused to move that massive book again unless it's being donated.

The year 2020 no longer looms ahead. In less than seven hours it will be here. Along with the time to determine whether I'm going to set a new reading goal. Do I stretch myself and push for 40 books, knowing that I almost reached that goal in 2019, even though it was a tough push to knock out some of those books in the last month? Growing up, 40 books in one year would have been a piece of cake. I would tear through three or four books in one week, even with a full day of school, extracurricular activities, chores, and time with friends and family. The books weren't shorter, the days didn't have more time. Was it just more energy and not the same need for sleep?  

I'm weighing all the events taking place in 2020 in my life. There's so much going on, so many exciting events that are going to take time away from being able to read. But I'm excited to try it. After all, 40 is a bigger number for me next year. Let's make it 40 in books too. 

What Ifs

I recently had a conversation with a friend about the "what ifs" in life. Those moments in life where, if you had made a different decision -- no matter how minuscule that choice or selection might have had -- what would your life be like now, where would you, who you would be?

He started laying out his "what ifs", speaking to several different choices he made throughout his life that he felt like could have brought him to a different point, perhaps a different place and moment that would have been better than where he currently is at.

After several minutes of sharing his what ifs, he cut himself off in mid-sentence, raised an eyebrow at me, and told me that I was being quiet. "What are your 'what ifs', Megs? Where do you think your life choices led you down a path different than where you thought you would be at?"

I shrugged half-heartedly. To me, what ifs are pipe dreams or another form of torturing oneself. While I firmly believe in self-reflection to understand oneself better and to avoid repeating what might be considered past mistakes, I also don't think it's healthy to ponder so frequently the what ifs, the could-have-beens, the might-have-beens. My life choices brought me to where I am now, to the point in time where I am and should be. From the small ("What if I had a salad for lunch yesterday? Would I have gotten sick today?") to the significant ("What if I had broken up with my ex-husband that first year we were dating, like I tried to? Where would I be?"), those what ifs can be too overwhelming, too devastating, too complex to even begin to sort through.

One of my favorite movies is Sliding Doors, a movie in which Gwyneth Paltrow plays a woman whose love life and career all hinge on her catching a train. That moment in the movie -- whether she catches the train -- then divulges into two different story lines that show how what can appear to be an insignificant moment can completely change one's life, the movie flip flopping between two different versions of the character Helen: one emboldened, one meek; one finding love, one going through the motions of her life.

My what ifs brought me to my life today: an imperfect life that I am so grateful for. I'm in love with an amazing man who is perhaps the best human being I've ever known. I now have two kitty cats that bring snuggles and joy into my life and are pushing me to crazy cat lady status for the way that I dote on them. My friends, my family, my career -- all those people and moments in my life for which I am incredibly thankful for. Perhaps if my what ifs had gone differently, I would have more money, be more successful, be thinner, have children, be famous, and so on. Or those what ifs could have gone the opposite path, and I could be desolate and alone. But my what ifs have worked out better than I can imagine. So perhaps it's not the looking to the past that I need. It's the what-will-bes, the future that is to come and those moments that are yet decided. Maybe it's a little like being a glass half-empty or a glass half-full sort of person. I think I prefer to be the forward looking person focused on the what-will-bes and not the what-ifs of the past.

Nine to Go...

It's almost the end of October, so let us check in with that pesky reading challenge.

Nine books left to read in roughy 11 weeks. It sounds doable...one book a week...one book taking an average of 7.22 days at this point. 

But Goodreads is once again reminding me that I am behind in life. Thank you, Goodreads, for that reminder of being two books behind schedule and, therefore, only minimally failing at life at this point. I'm glad you can help with that self-esteem booster. 

Pat, Pat

For the last four months, I've had a slight cough. The doctor can't trace it to anything specific and I'm not sick, so the general consensus seems to be that it's related to the environment. It could be that I've lived for the last four years surrounded by concrete and brick of downtown Kansas City and then moved to four acres of land surrounded by countryside. When I walked out of my backdoor three months ago after riding an elevator down seven floors, I was surrounded by pavement, cars, tourists, and a national monument. Today when I walk out my back door, I see nothing but grass and trees, occasionally some deer, frogs, wild turkeys, owls, snakes, raccoons, marmots, or coyotes. (Move over, Cinderella -  I have more woodland creatures to make my clothes than you did.) My body likely is having an adverse reaction to nature.

The doctor also speculated that I might be allergic to the cats, which immediately led to the doctor telling me that I should no longer let Gus sleep with me at nights. 

So I washed all the bedding and tried sleeping alone without Gus for eight days. My breathing cleared and I found myself coughing less. My lungs felt air again. But Gus was not pleased with the situation. During that time he became aloof and avoided eye contact with me. When I walked into a room, he arched his back, stretched, and slowly sauntered out. 

Based on the online articles that I read, cats can get upset with you, but their short-term and long-term memories seem to indicate that they can't carry a grudge more than a day or so without moving beyond it or seemingly to forget it. Gus' behavior seemed to prove that research differently. 

I missed our cuddles and one-sided conversations, so I caved today when I stayed home from  and let him back in the room. He immediately curled up on my chest, and then for the next two hours proceeded to lightly tap me on the chin, cheeks, and nose with his front paws...always at the moment that I found myself falling into an uncomfortable, feverish sleep. It felt like he was saying, "Hey, hey. [pat, pat] Look at me. Don't pass out. [pat, pat] Pet me, love me, pay attention to me, shower me with attention." According to Animal Planet, this patting of the face is a cat's sign of affection -- the cat is putting his scent on you to show you that he trusts and adores you. I have decided to go with this interpretation as opposed to thinking that Gus was trying to slap me as punishment for his banishment from the bedroom.

So Gus and I are friends again. I haven't coughed yet today either, so hopefully everything is on the mend and all is right in the world again.  

Pack, Pack, Pack It Up

One of my friends told me recently that she enjoys moving. We were having drinks, and I wondered if she had a few drinks before we met. "Wait...are you drunk?" She explained that it was cathartic to pack up all her belongings, to take stock of what she owned, and then unpack it all in a new location. All the possibilities and potentials of having a new home, a fresh perspective, and her old things in new surroundings gave her a renewed sense of purpose and meaning.

Son of a biscuit, I thought. After such a deep interpretation of moving I felt like anything I said in response was going to be shallow. If I confessed my loathing and burning hatred for packing all of my life belongings and then having to move them in 5-to-25 pound boxes was going to sound whiney. So I responded with, "Moving gives me debilitating anxiety and makes me realize that I own way too much stuff for just one person and, yet, not enough for one person as old as I am." We sat there in silence for a few minutes, and then I pulled out two koozies from my purse for our beer, as if to emphasize that my stuff was spilling out of my place and into my purse.

I'm in the process of moving into my boyfriend's four bedroom, three bath home that sits on four acres of land. I currently live in a 650-square foot apartment. I don't own a lot of stuff. I've never liked knick knacks, and most of my items serve a functional purpose. With my plan to sell most of my furniture, it looks like all of my world possessions will occupy a 15x15 foot area in his basement. Even that feels like too much "stuff". Do I really need to keep that tub of scrapbooks that I made when I was in third and fourth grades? How many vases does one person really need, even if they serve a different purpose in the spring (obviously, flowers) versus fall (wine corks) versus Christmas (Xmas bulbs)? If I walked away from it all, I don't think I'd miss any of. I might have a tinge of regret for some of the sentimentally valued items -- such as the jelly bean jar that sat on my grandparents' countertop when I was growing up or my grandmothers' teacups -- but I'm sure I would quickly recover. Perhaps I should feel a remorse that, physically, my existence is summed up in roughly a 15-foot area, but I'm really more relieved. When I die, there will be less for my family to deal with, less to sort through and have someone else bear that guilty feeling of tossing away an item that they thought meant a great deal to me, when it really probably didn't.

So I'm continuing to take a critical eye to what I pack. Maybe I can get that area down to 10x10, or maybe even 8x6. The minimalist side of me is seeping tears of joy at that prospect.

Fresh Air With a Side of Ash

After getting home from work today, I needed to sit outside. Being cooped up in an office for nine hours, staring at a computer screen and attending meetings while breathing manufactured white noise, made every part of me itch to be in the fresh air. So I came home, poured a glass of wine, and now am sitting outside. Sitting outside in front of a computer. But at least the air is fresh, I can hear the birds talking to each other, and the sounds of neighboring machinery (a lawn mower? a tractor? a generator? a bulldozer? what is it?!!).

Someone is burning something nearby. It smelled amazing when I stepped out of my car and into the air. It also was another compelling reason to sit outside for a while tonight. I love the smell of campfires and wood burning. However, when I got to the back patio, the chairs and patio were covered in grayish ash. Motherfucker. Whatever the neighbors are burning is blowing into our backyard. It periodically floats down, like a light dusting of snow, which then makes me think of the stories from WWII, how survivors described how ash would fall from the sky when the Nazis burned people in the concentration camps. So my overactive imagination is telling me that the neighbors have murdered someone and I'm getting a light dusting of someone's essence lightly landing in my hair and in my wine. I realize it's probably more along the lines of debris from the yard or household garbage or a random collection of broken chairs and brooms, but I still periodically turn my head to the side and make a face, a little gag as I brush the ash from my hair.

But at least I'm sitting outside in the fresh air...

Let's Make a List

I love both the US and British versions of The Office. I've seen episodes from both series multiple times, and I just recently started watching the US version of The Office from Season 1, Episode 1 with my boyfriend because he had never seen a full episode of either series. [Insert shocked face, gasp, and an explicative here.]

Last night we reached Season 5, Episode 20, called Dream Team. This is the episode in which ***Spoiler Alert*** Michael Scott and Pam Beesly have started the Michael Scott Paper Company after quitting Dunder Mifflin. It's their first day of MSPC. At different points in the episode, Michael and Pam experience melt downs as they realize that they have quite their jobs to start a new paper company in an economy where paper companies are being replaced by big franchises like Staples and Office Supply. The answer to calming both down? Making a list of things that need to be done. Seeing the tasks at hand written down and then checking those items completed off bring both Michael and Pam back to focus and calmness.

Like Michael and Pam, I'm a list maker. I started making lists as soon as I could write full words. To Do lists, Grocery lists, What I Need to Pack lists, Places I Want to Visit lists, Goals lists, 2019 Goals lists, Blog Topic lists, Books I Want to Read lists...the list of lists goes on and on. I collect all the items on a sheet of paper, numbering each item (although sometimes I'll use a dash instead). I love the orderliness that that list brings to my life. I prefer lined paper and either a black or blue gel pen to write my lists. When I accomplish an item, the best feeling in the world is taking a black Sharpie and drawing a line through that item. If I'm at work, I'll use my dry erase board and alternate items in different colors; sometimes I'll color code them. But it's always a thick black line that gets drawn through a completed task. I used to keep them scattered about, but my ex-husband would pick them up and read them back to me, mocking the things I placed on my To Do list. He quickly made me become a closeted list maker, and today my lists are contained to one notebook. When I'm done with a list, I tear it out of the notebook and put it through the paper shredder for the ultimate feeling of accomplishment.

The lists help me organize my thoughts. It makes me feel less overwhelmed, regardless of how many items might be on that list. I don't understand the non-listmakers, the individuals who fly by the seat of their pants, no items jotted down, no black Sharpie line to indicate a sense of accomplishment. And I might create that list and procrastinate on starting it but, dammit, at least I have a list. I want to take my love of lists and force them onto others. My boyfriend has been talking about making a list of things he needs to think through, and I'm itching on his behalf to make that list. Just jot it down, I think. Use a yellow legal notepad and a quill ink pen. No numbers for you, just a flow of your thoughts down the length of the paper. Make your list. Make it. Make it now. But I can't impose my desire for him to have his list until he has it. I can't judge him for not making his list. Because sometimes I get sidetracked from a list long enough that I can't remember what the list was intended for, or the items no longer are valid, or I just don't have enough reasons to keep going with the list, and the list just ends up shredded anyway.

Now I need to go make a list...

Happy Birthday, America

This morning I visited the National World War I . Something about visiting a museum honoring the men and women who gave their lives in WWI to protect the spirit of America and the concept of freedom for both American and the individual on the Fourth of July seemed poetic and a prime example of patriotism.

This wasn't my first visit to the museum, but something about leaving the museum filled me with an immense melancholy and, admittedly, guilt. Over 37 million men, women, and children from across the world died during WWI; some civilians, some soldiers. Some gave their lives unknowingly, while others voluntarily signed on knowing that they might not make it through their service and the war. Some soldiers died a mere moments before the armistice was signed between the Allies and Germany at "the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month".

The sheer dedication and patriotism that those Americans felt to enlist in 1917 when the United States entered WWI is remarkable. While we were walking through the museum, my boyfriend asked me if I had ever considered signing up for the army. The closest I came was when I was 17; while applying for universities and writing essays for scholarships, I at some point had the Army on my list. Or maybe it was the Army's recruiters that had me on their list. I spoke to an Army recruiter at length, which ended with me getting a free pair of white tube socks with Army written lengthwise on them and several follow-up calls from their recruiters. In the end, I knew I was not a good fit for the Army: I have no upper-body strength, I hate being yelled at, the thought of killing someone terrifies me, and the late 90s were still not a good time to be female in the military. I found that I could support my country, but only from afar.

So when we stepped outside the museum, it seemed fitting that a gloomy rain had settled over Kansas City. The Fourth of July has never been at the top of my list of favorite holidays, which I have been told time and again by friends and family is un-American. However, it's not because I don't love my country. I am so grateful to live in a place that allows me the freedom to do almost anything that I could possibly imagine (really, the only thing that limits me is public nudity -- I wish it was okay to go outside in just my tank top and underwear, which I guess technically is legal, just not socially acceptable). I can vote, drink, marry who I choose, wear tank tops and short skirts in public, kiss someone I love in public, write this blog. I love the smell of fireworks, but cringe watching people set them off. I'm like a little kid when I have a sparkler on the Fourth of July, but am always slightly afraid that I'm going to light myself on fire. I feel a societal pressure to spend the holiday with friends and family, grilling out and having beers, when sometimes it just isn't possible to get together with everyone -- and sometimes, I just don't want to. I want to enjoy an entire day off from work without any pressure to be social.

I'm grateful for each day I have, but today was a reminder of just how fortunate I am.

Happy Birthday, America. Thank you for all that you have given me.