Forced Moving

If not forced into moving, I would lounge about in bed all day, every day. There would be a lovely silver bell on the night stand table that would rush a butler to do my bidding with every shake. When I close my eyes in contemplation of such a glorious fate, I can see him leaping over our dogs, flipping over the couch, and skipping down the hall to serve my flimsiest desire:

"Chocolate caramel topped with sea salt?" the butler would ask. "Green tea with a hint of lemongrass? Latest Pickles comic, or today's NY Times? How can I best serve you, oh great writer?"

But the butler has been on vacation since before I was born. And so I am pressured into seeking out these personal preferences all on my own.                                                    

In order to get what you want, do you, too, set yourself up with irritating naggers? A whistling tea kettle that shrills out the order to attend to it, so that you can have your cup of cozy tummy warming hot cocoa. A Zumba exercise teacher who demands that you move-that-body in the quest to have at least a semblance of healthy body and heart. An annoying alarm clock that will not shut up every single weekday morning so that you can fulfill yet another day with checking off your list of things-to-do today.

The creative naggers we set up for ourselves is over-the-top madness. Why don't we all leave well enough alone and go back to sleeping in until bedtime?

Who is responsible for the outrageous idea that life is meant to be lived?

The biggest, most obvious moving that we do, is move all of our stuff into a different house, sometimes even to a different city, for goodness sake. While I was not the first to partake in this silly practice, I have been overly guilty of over-indulging in it. The longest I have ever lived in one house has been four years; my average is two.

Why? The reasons are as varied as the creative naggers in your life. Every thing from a better job in a different city to wanting to experience life in another country. The reasons are irrelevant, it's the moving that is the BIG issue today.

My asinine addiction to writing is yet another thistle like burr that slave drives me into moving. In order to get this horribly intelligent, relentlessly witty post to you, I must have a computer. Last week, the dearly loved, decade old Mac abruptly died while I slumbered. After a couple of days of sleeping in until bed time, I was dragged into taking action by ordering a new computer. And how do I pay for this thing? I sale books. And where do I write the books? On a computer.

This entire vicious cycle translates to one thing: I have to move my entire body off the bed and on to the computer chair and desk. See what I am getting at? I have to actually move. No one else, not even a real live, not on vacation butler can do it for me. Life has become one immense series of moves. Ugghh.

In the end, I have at least achieved one thing in my life: I am a Master of Moving. And this leads me to wonder what things you have mastered in moving. What movement exercises, creative  nagger ideas, or ways to get out of bed? What cities, counties, countries? What states of mind? Please, tell me in the comment box below. If you don't satiate my desire to know your movements, then my mind will dwindle in idleness, thought process become stagnant in non-use. Please, do not burden me with such afflictions.

If you want to know my not-so-secret wisdom of moving tips, buy my book on moving with a twelve pack of beer (or wine or donuts). It is quite the read:

Moving: Are You An Intelligent Mover?

Missions for today: comment on your moving experiences, and buy one of my books. That should get you going until bed time.

Heather Leigh,
Mistress of Moving

Reflections On Non-Finishing

The Pacific Northwest in northern California has been our home for about six years now. Most of my life was spent in southern California, San Diego. And beyond the difference of a few million people versus a county population of a smidgen over one hundred thousand, there is one major issue that flings itself out at me every chance it can get: The sunlight up here can not speak in full, coherent, complete sentences. It is a treacherous tease, a scandalous skaleewagon, and a pernicious player. It is a burnt out cookie with looks but no flavor.

You know what I am talking about, you cruel taunting sunlight you. Pouring warmth through the window, you coerce me into the utterly false belief that the northwest can be warm in the month of January. When I stand at the sliding glass door leading into the backyard, your beams melt into my shoulders and caress my face.

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world (as sung by the wonder himself, Louis Armstrong).

Before I can stop them with their tomfoolery, my legs prance into the backyard with gleeful expectation of weather satisfaction. Only to be slapped in the face with a chilling embrace of forty degree Fahrenheit weather. It is not a pretty sight. Were it not for the muddy ground left from yesterday's storm, I would collapse right there in the dirt.

Once again, the sunlight has not finished it's job. If you are going to travel all of the millions of miles from the sun to the earth, then do your duty. Report here at sixty degrees, eighty, or somewhere in-between.

As my blog statistics have informed me, there are people reading this from Alaska. So you know what I am talking about. A big, bad, show-off, bloated ego sun sends us little farts of inferior sunbeams. With all your power and might, huge orange/yellow ball in the sky, mail us something useful. Something that will actually feel good from my skin to my bones. The stuff you have been throwing at us is not worthy of your might. It is an insult to our sensitive, deserving skin.

Because you have been ineffective in your job, oh sun, I have been forced to rely on a space heater. Located two inches from my legs, it is making up for your ineptitude. But I have to pay for it's services! Sunlight is free. And I have paid for my right to be a warmed Earthling. You are not living up to your end of the bargain.

I am going to initiate a petition to the sun, insisting it do it's proper duty. Who will be the first to sign? Probably my friends in Alaska. The ones who realize that forty degrees above zero is much the same as forty below.

Heather Leigh,
Cold Weather Activist

Cold Geese Words

The Webster's Universal Dictionary on my desk has over nine hundred pages of word definitions. That means, a whole heck of a lot of people got to think up new words, and get them published into a respected book that makes the words legitimate. These aren't slang words that only last a season or two, like twirking, which I still don't fully understand nor do I want to.

So, if all of these other word savvy smarty pants are made famous by getting their idea into a legitimizing book, then I have the right to enter Webster's as well. I'm pretty sure that's what eminent domain means. Or something close to that.

Here is my list:
Blahtrans, noun. the last day of being sick and realizing that tomorrow there is no excuse for being lazy. It is the essence of feeling blah to the moment. Of transitioning from a state of utter addiction and need for the warm, healing, comfy bed, to the world of productivity and cheerful people. See also, ambivalence.

Mudshea, verb. The act of discovering that on this day you will be unexpectantly washing sheets. Corresponds directly with muddy backyard from stormy day, and having two wrestling puppies snuggling under covers into above mentioned comfy bed.

Maswon, verb. An intellectual wondering as to why I do not have a massage therapist coming over nightly to massage my back before bedtime. This is especially prevalent to the hard-working writer who does so much to entertain the world. Finding laughter for others is a tough daily grind.

Cold Geese, noun. Geese flying south for the winter are a reminder that we are being left behind to endure the cold that they are skipping town over. Some unclever people believe that their presence, view, and flight patterns are lovely. Those are the people that most adhere to the next definition.

Stupeweaden, noun. Stupid people who wear light clothing in cold situations. If I am chilled, everyone else should be wearing a sweater. If they are walking around in a tee-shirt, they are deniers of the goose bumps on their skin which can quickly turn to frostbite within seconds. How do they not know this? Did they not have grandmothers who warned them of the seriousness of the evening chill?

Woo Scream, noun. The screaming that you will hear when I see my first of many Royalty payments of over one million dollars. Has been utilized by a plethora of writers before me. However, I am the first to actually get the word into Webster's. Hah, take that Hemingway.

This is a partial list of my new word entries. Perhaps I should start a GoFundMe account to get them popular with english speakers. The entry level fund for the account will be one million dollars. You can stick the money in my donation button to the right of this post.

Thank you for your support! The first donator will be with me on the red carpet as I receive my award for most highly achieved utilizer of the new words account in the Webster's dictionary. We'll go out for dairy-free frozen yogurt after the ceremony.

Heather Leigh,
Originator of self-serving words