Our cat, Playful, has not spoken to me for six days. My crime? I switched my full sized futon mattress for a twin bed. I am guilty of thinking of the health of my back over her need for personal sleeping space. I am a rotten animal provider.
The crimes against Playful have been many over the years. She has endured a lifetime with a litter mate, two boys who thought nothing of chasing her for their own pleasure, and a dog. It has been a gruesome and grueling existence.
And now, finally, in her old age of thirteen, she had her life at a pleasant state. The dog has become her companion for nightly walks, litter mate has become tolerable, and the boys grown enough to stop the chase. But then we pushed her too far.
It started with the puppy. Yes, you heard me correctly. Our family had the nerve to take home a tail chasing, high energy, scampering, inquisitive young animal. Did we think of Playful's needs? Did we reflect for a moment on her deep desire for peace and tranquility in the home? Her love of a non-changing environment? If we did, it was only scoffed away as a 'She'll get used to it' attitude. Mean, selfish, that's what this family has become.
Even then, that selfless cat was going to brave that bothersome baby. She is that much of a beautiful, forgiving being.
Until the bed change. That became the deal breaker in our relationship. She is done with us. No more will she sleep on my pillow with her fur topping my head. When I feed her, Playful waits until I leave the room to eat. If I stay, she will lick her paws and glare at me. I have been ungrateful for the time she has bestowed on me over these years together. Time and again I thought of others over her needs. How can I ever live down the shame of my neglect?
Are there enough years left in her cat life to make it up to her? Enough tuna in the world as bribe for her favors? What can I do?
For starters, we will return the puppy to the animal shelter and get rid of the litter mate and old dog. The new bed will be tossed into the street. Who cares if the old futon was causing me immense lower back pain--this is Playful we are talking about. Finally, we will buy a new carpeted kitty condo for maximum restfulness at nap time. Should I hire a cat sitter to come over and pet her when I am gone for the day? Yes, that is a good idea.
Maybe, just maybe, if I do everything in my power, I can get that cat to love me once again. All I can do is try.
Heather Leigh,
Callous Cat Companion
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
There Is No 'Me'
I just can't have my own personality anymore. Everything I do, think, or partake in has origins that are not from me. There is just no space to be me!
Whenever I do something dingy, it's because I'm a blond. What I am balanced, fair and optimistic it's because my birth stars were in alignment with Libra. My eyes belong to my mother, height to my father, and big butt from Grandma. I tried to give her the butt back, but she wouldn't take it. I am a slow mover, eater and talker from some great uncle who wasn't even around when I was born. What kind of legacy is that to leave to a kid? Sheesh.
And now, just when I thought I had one trait that was all mine, turns out it's the writer in me. It must be true, because I saw the posting in Facebook. Writers feel alone in crowds and at peace when alone.
What the heck? I can't even claim to a desire for alone time without the writer issue pushing its way in. There is just nothing unique to me. How do people find themselves when it has already been explained by birth, profession, family and coloring?
Here is a personality hypothesis that I am sticking to: there is a difference between bakers and cooks. Bakers are more precise and analytical. They're the ones who stress about one and a half teaspoons of baking powder and one. Need to know which one you are dealing with in life? Have them bake a batch of cookies. If they are just the right chewy/crispy ratio, you have someone who may want to control your life. They have the potential to put your kitchen in order, balance your checkbook, and notice when you have gained weight.
Cooks are about passion, creativity and flair. In other words, emotional roller coasters. If their gravy roux doesn't thicken, keep all knives away from them. Pot and pan banging is a natural course of stress relief.
As these are my revelations, you can accept or ignore them. If you look at my dumb blond hair, you can easily blow off my words. If you appreciate my writing skills, my baker/cook thoughts might give you something to reflect on. Don't ask me to direct you on what to think. Libras are notorious for indecision.
My poor teenage boys can't do anything right by their own will. Every time they say excuse me, open a door for someone, or say thank you, it is because they were raised right. At least, that's what I've been told. They don't get one polite credit to their name. If they are moody, stressed or having a pathetic day, it's because they're teenagers. So once they turn twenty, they are on their own. No more excuses. They should start practicing now so it doesn't hit them all at once.
I would talk to them about it, but being a woman, mom and Libra, I am too much of a softie to discipline them on anything.
Hah! Got out of that one.
Well, I am off to eat my baked potato. In a past life, I was Irish. That's why I love those potatoes so much!
Heather Leigh,
Pre-defined soul
Whenever I do something dingy, it's because I'm a blond. What I am balanced, fair and optimistic it's because my birth stars were in alignment with Libra. My eyes belong to my mother, height to my father, and big butt from Grandma. I tried to give her the butt back, but she wouldn't take it. I am a slow mover, eater and talker from some great uncle who wasn't even around when I was born. What kind of legacy is that to leave to a kid? Sheesh.
And now, just when I thought I had one trait that was all mine, turns out it's the writer in me. It must be true, because I saw the posting in Facebook. Writers feel alone in crowds and at peace when alone.
What the heck? I can't even claim to a desire for alone time without the writer issue pushing its way in. There is just nothing unique to me. How do people find themselves when it has already been explained by birth, profession, family and coloring?
Here is a personality hypothesis that I am sticking to: there is a difference between bakers and cooks. Bakers are more precise and analytical. They're the ones who stress about one and a half teaspoons of baking powder and one. Need to know which one you are dealing with in life? Have them bake a batch of cookies. If they are just the right chewy/crispy ratio, you have someone who may want to control your life. They have the potential to put your kitchen in order, balance your checkbook, and notice when you have gained weight.
Cooks are about passion, creativity and flair. In other words, emotional roller coasters. If their gravy roux doesn't thicken, keep all knives away from them. Pot and pan banging is a natural course of stress relief.
As these are my revelations, you can accept or ignore them. If you look at my dumb blond hair, you can easily blow off my words. If you appreciate my writing skills, my baker/cook thoughts might give you something to reflect on. Don't ask me to direct you on what to think. Libras are notorious for indecision.
My poor teenage boys can't do anything right by their own will. Every time they say excuse me, open a door for someone, or say thank you, it is because they were raised right. At least, that's what I've been told. They don't get one polite credit to their name. If they are moody, stressed or having a pathetic day, it's because they're teenagers. So once they turn twenty, they are on their own. No more excuses. They should start practicing now so it doesn't hit them all at once.
I would talk to them about it, but being a woman, mom and Libra, I am too much of a softie to discipline them on anything.
Hah! Got out of that one.
Well, I am off to eat my baked potato. In a past life, I was Irish. That's why I love those potatoes so much!
Heather Leigh,
Pre-defined soul
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Vaccinated Ants
Ants have an enviable communication system. Before my family could even figure out what had happened, the ants had spread the word: Mom was taking the day off.
Yes, it is true. I spent the entire day reading 'Pride and Prejudice' to the end, watching New York, I Love You and Black or White. Both great movies, by the way. It was not that I was sick, just need a day of nothingness. I figure if I cave into those urges of void every so often, I can keep my composure for a month at a time. Plus it is healthy for my teenage sons. You see, when I am happy and content, I do not have as many selfish temper tantrums.
Anyway, back to those efficient communicators: The Ants. When I made the decision yesterday morning to only stir from bed to make my world famous popcorn, the ants knew it. And this is when I was still in the just thinking about it stage! Wow. Nature is full of wonders, is it not?
Here is the memo that flew through the ant community in the time it takes to make an ant sized step:
Mom is staying in bed! That means:
No one knows how to unload the dishwasher, put away food, wipe off the counter, clean dishes or put trash in the trash can. Free buffet all day long!
The joke is really on the ants. Because my family does know how to do all of that. The thing that is actually happening is that my staying in bed triggers an automatic response system. I believe other moms, and some dads, know about this condition. It's called TeMDOFA, Temporary Mom Day Off Amnesia. It is quite common. Sad really, but what can you do?
You see, the rest of the family forgets how to keep a kitchen clean. But boy, those ants always remember. They get right in there and attack every last crumb in the kitchen. They even make a complicated trail from their underground cave-home, to the spilled pieces of dog food on the counter.
They must be immune to TeMDOFA. Wonder if they have some kind of vaccine against it? Maybe it comes in human sizes and strengths. I'm going to talk with them, see if they'll give me some. After all, I have just provided with them with enough food to feed an ant colony. They kind of owe me.
In trade, I would even be willing to throw out a teaspoon of sugar each morning into the backyard.
I'm going to go have a chat with them about setting up a barter system. After I do yesterday's dishes, of course.
Heather Leigh,
Rested Mom in a Dirty House
Yes, it is true. I spent the entire day reading 'Pride and Prejudice' to the end, watching New York, I Love You and Black or White. Both great movies, by the way. It was not that I was sick, just need a day of nothingness. I figure if I cave into those urges of void every so often, I can keep my composure for a month at a time. Plus it is healthy for my teenage sons. You see, when I am happy and content, I do not have as many selfish temper tantrums.
Anyway, back to those efficient communicators: The Ants. When I made the decision yesterday morning to only stir from bed to make my world famous popcorn, the ants knew it. And this is when I was still in the just thinking about it stage! Wow. Nature is full of wonders, is it not?
Here is the memo that flew through the ant community in the time it takes to make an ant sized step:
Mom is staying in bed! That means:
No one knows how to unload the dishwasher, put away food, wipe off the counter, clean dishes or put trash in the trash can. Free buffet all day long!
The joke is really on the ants. Because my family does know how to do all of that. The thing that is actually happening is that my staying in bed triggers an automatic response system. I believe other moms, and some dads, know about this condition. It's called TeMDOFA, Temporary Mom Day Off Amnesia. It is quite common. Sad really, but what can you do?
You see, the rest of the family forgets how to keep a kitchen clean. But boy, those ants always remember. They get right in there and attack every last crumb in the kitchen. They even make a complicated trail from their underground cave-home, to the spilled pieces of dog food on the counter.
They must be immune to TeMDOFA. Wonder if they have some kind of vaccine against it? Maybe it comes in human sizes and strengths. I'm going to talk with them, see if they'll give me some. After all, I have just provided with them with enough food to feed an ant colony. They kind of owe me.
In trade, I would even be willing to throw out a teaspoon of sugar each morning into the backyard.
I'm going to go have a chat with them about setting up a barter system. After I do yesterday's dishes, of course.
Heather Leigh,
Rested Mom in a Dirty House
Friday, October 30, 2015
High and Low Life
Today was a day of highs and lows. Let's start with the Halloween candy issue. There was the splendiferous discovery that when you procrastinate and buy the bags of sugar on the day before, they are half off!!! For those of you who suffer with fraction-itis, that means that for the same price, I could buy twice the amount!!! So that is the high point. The low is that I can eat twice as much.
Then, I WARNED my son to not open the bags. He said it would be fine because the candy is in little bags. He had the audacity to then whip those things open, pour the little bags of treats into a big bowl, and stash them in a cupboard where I could reach it. Another low. What was that kid thinking? For goodness sakes here, people, I have been going to Pilates for over a week now. Was all that exercise in vain when I can just waltz into the kitchen at any time, day or night, and devour twice the amount of chocolate before Halloween is even here? WAY low point.
Then came dinner. I decided home made mac and cheese was the best thing for tonight. I make a mean, bad a** mac. But tonight, on some kind of crazy fling, I went for a new recipe. This may have worked out, but my first born ensured me that he needed to have a doubled recipe. He is a mac addict. The doubling did not work. Soon after the roux was not thickening the sauce properly, my other son made the mistake of asking when dinner was going to be ready.
I screamed at that poor kid like a banshee from hell. Perhaps I should feel guilt and shame after my poor behavior, but I was in the middle of a thin roux. You can understand the frustration and agony I was under. Would this be classified as a low parenting moment, or a high on voicing clear and honest communication and feelings? You be the judge.
The day was saved with my clever recipe manipulations. The mac turned out just as good as normal. I know you are itching to know what I did to rescue my soiled sauce, but it is too personal to disclose. That's just how it's going to be.
My third high/low challenge comes from my sons. The oldest was not at home when the mac came out of the oven. He was off carousing and causing chaos with his dance buddies. He is in the Nutcracker Ballet. So you know what that means--hours of practice, great exercise, wholesome friends, and a healthy life style. This is hard for me to admit what he is putting the family through. But I know there are others out there with great teenage sons who suffer also.
The other son did this tonight: the dishes, played the piano, and completed his math homework with a pleasant attitude and high spirits. Where did I go wrong with this bunch?
(Now before you go defending yourself and wondering about your own kids, rest assured. Those sons of mine have their issues too. It's just that today was a good day for them both.)
So there you go. My day of highs and lows. Tomorrow is Halloween night, and at midnight starts NaNovWriMo: National November Write a Novel in a Month. Who knows what kind of crazy spell we will be under in just a few hours.
Heather Leigh
High and Low Author.
P.S. I apologized to my son for the Banshee scream. He understood once he found out it came from almost ruined mac and cheese. He knows the importance of a good roux.
Then, I WARNED my son to not open the bags. He said it would be fine because the candy is in little bags. He had the audacity to then whip those things open, pour the little bags of treats into a big bowl, and stash them in a cupboard where I could reach it. Another low. What was that kid thinking? For goodness sakes here, people, I have been going to Pilates for over a week now. Was all that exercise in vain when I can just waltz into the kitchen at any time, day or night, and devour twice the amount of chocolate before Halloween is even here? WAY low point.
Then came dinner. I decided home made mac and cheese was the best thing for tonight. I make a mean, bad a** mac. But tonight, on some kind of crazy fling, I went for a new recipe. This may have worked out, but my first born ensured me that he needed to have a doubled recipe. He is a mac addict. The doubling did not work. Soon after the roux was not thickening the sauce properly, my other son made the mistake of asking when dinner was going to be ready.
I screamed at that poor kid like a banshee from hell. Perhaps I should feel guilt and shame after my poor behavior, but I was in the middle of a thin roux. You can understand the frustration and agony I was under. Would this be classified as a low parenting moment, or a high on voicing clear and honest communication and feelings? You be the judge.
The day was saved with my clever recipe manipulations. The mac turned out just as good as normal. I know you are itching to know what I did to rescue my soiled sauce, but it is too personal to disclose. That's just how it's going to be.
My third high/low challenge comes from my sons. The oldest was not at home when the mac came out of the oven. He was off carousing and causing chaos with his dance buddies. He is in the Nutcracker Ballet. So you know what that means--hours of practice, great exercise, wholesome friends, and a healthy life style. This is hard for me to admit what he is putting the family through. But I know there are others out there with great teenage sons who suffer also.
The other son did this tonight: the dishes, played the piano, and completed his math homework with a pleasant attitude and high spirits. Where did I go wrong with this bunch?
(Now before you go defending yourself and wondering about your own kids, rest assured. Those sons of mine have their issues too. It's just that today was a good day for them both.)
So there you go. My day of highs and lows. Tomorrow is Halloween night, and at midnight starts NaNovWriMo: National November Write a Novel in a Month. Who knows what kind of crazy spell we will be under in just a few hours.
Heather Leigh
High and Low Author.
P.S. I apologized to my son for the Banshee scream. He understood once he found out it came from almost ruined mac and cheese. He knows the importance of a good roux.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Pilates Pain Conspirators
Ever tried a Pilates class? As of this morning, I have. Funny thing about pilates. The true pain is discovered later. It's a tricky, sneaky snake of a beast.
The teacher said it was an intermediate class but that I looked fit enough to try it out. Wow, does he not ever know me. Maybe his glasses were broken. The word intermediate scared me, but I was too hyped up and ready to try this thing. I mean, after all, I had woken up at 7:30 to do this danged class. With that kind of sacrifice and commitment I was not about to leave. But then, lo and behold, I got through that 50 minutes with out a huge amount of discomfort. I actually followed through with just about every exercise.
But now here comes the funny part. The City Manager of our small town decided to re-pave just about every road in town TODAY: first time pilates day! There must have been some kind of special with the tar the road company. Every road I tried to turn down was blocked. The detour sent me to the other side of town. By the time I got home, it was too late.
My body was ruined. The aches and pains that avoided me in class had time to catch up with me on a drive home that took twice the usual time. I'm pretty sure this is part of the conspiracy theory that people whisper about. You know, the one about waiting for Heather to take an intermediate pilates class, set up road blocks to make her get home late, and then hit her like a girl scout cookie on diet days. You've heard of that theory, right?
So now I am stuck in this chair, writing for the rest of the day. Don't know if I'll even be able to get up and fix myself lunch. Perhaps the local vegan restaurant will deliver lunch to my home office desk.
Have you ever been attacked with a personal conspiracy theory aimed right at you? Up until this point, I had been skeptical they existed. But now that I've gone through one, I can tell you that they are out there. Lingering, stalking, watching your every move. Waiting until you were vulnerable and stupid enough to try out something new.
Well, you mean old conspirators, I will fight back. I will vow to never try another exercise class again. Wait, I'll go even farther. I'll just stop exercising altogether. That will set my revenge in place. HAH!
I don't even care if I put on fifty pounds and go for three chins. Anything I can do to prevent myself from being attacked, I am ready! And to seal the deal with myself, I'm going to eat a box of chocolate covered caramels. As soon as I can get up, of course.
Don't think yourself above such things as personal conspiracy theories. I did, and look what that got me. Join the campaign and quit all exercise and nutritious eating habits right away! Have donuts and soda for lunch. It's the only way to fight back. I'll be here, stuck in my chair, routing for you.
Good luck and may poor health be with you. And remember, there are others joining you in our cause. You are not alone!
Heather Leigh,
non-exercising Author
The teacher said it was an intermediate class but that I looked fit enough to try it out. Wow, does he not ever know me. Maybe his glasses were broken. The word intermediate scared me, but I was too hyped up and ready to try this thing. I mean, after all, I had woken up at 7:30 to do this danged class. With that kind of sacrifice and commitment I was not about to leave. But then, lo and behold, I got through that 50 minutes with out a huge amount of discomfort. I actually followed through with just about every exercise.
But now here comes the funny part. The City Manager of our small town decided to re-pave just about every road in town TODAY: first time pilates day! There must have been some kind of special with the tar the road company. Every road I tried to turn down was blocked. The detour sent me to the other side of town. By the time I got home, it was too late.
My body was ruined. The aches and pains that avoided me in class had time to catch up with me on a drive home that took twice the usual time. I'm pretty sure this is part of the conspiracy theory that people whisper about. You know, the one about waiting for Heather to take an intermediate pilates class, set up road blocks to make her get home late, and then hit her like a girl scout cookie on diet days. You've heard of that theory, right?
So now I am stuck in this chair, writing for the rest of the day. Don't know if I'll even be able to get up and fix myself lunch. Perhaps the local vegan restaurant will deliver lunch to my home office desk.
Have you ever been attacked with a personal conspiracy theory aimed right at you? Up until this point, I had been skeptical they existed. But now that I've gone through one, I can tell you that they are out there. Lingering, stalking, watching your every move. Waiting until you were vulnerable and stupid enough to try out something new.
Well, you mean old conspirators, I will fight back. I will vow to never try another exercise class again. Wait, I'll go even farther. I'll just stop exercising altogether. That will set my revenge in place. HAH!
I don't even care if I put on fifty pounds and go for three chins. Anything I can do to prevent myself from being attacked, I am ready! And to seal the deal with myself, I'm going to eat a box of chocolate covered caramels. As soon as I can get up, of course.
Don't think yourself above such things as personal conspiracy theories. I did, and look what that got me. Join the campaign and quit all exercise and nutritious eating habits right away! Have donuts and soda for lunch. It's the only way to fight back. I'll be here, stuck in my chair, routing for you.
Good luck and may poor health be with you. And remember, there are others joining you in our cause. You are not alone!
Heather Leigh,
non-exercising Author
Monday, October 12, 2015
Jealousy and the Caterpillar
The front wall of our house has been under siege by monarch caterpillars for over a month now. At first, I thought it was just a few wayward souls who lost their way from the front yard maple tree. But since then there are too many to believe it is just some random occurrence. Evidently, our green house calls to them. Must say something about the splendiferous nature of the people living inside.
Today we got lucky to the extreme. We caught one in the act of building her cocoon. Since I feel a deep, personal connection after seeing this caterpillar in such a vulnerable moment, I am going to take the liberty of naming her. Chloe, I've always liked that name.
I was watching for Chloe to be spitting up some kind of cocoon wrap. She was surrounding herself with little pieces of something, attached in an oval around her. When my son came to check out nature in action, he noted that Chloe was plucking out her caterpillar fur one strand at a time. Then she placed it next to her body. So far, she has a horseshoe around herself!
It's just like that disease in which people pull out individual strands of hair. Except instead of being something based on stressed, this is the foundation of Chloe's new house.
So, I know it's something that people have been dwelling on forever, but how do insects know to do that? Did Chloe wake up this morning and think, "yah know, it being Monday and all, think I'll go over to the green house and pluck out my fur. And then, hey, this would be neat, I'll turn my hair into a house."
Is that what she was thinking? What else could it be?
The other thing about caterpillars is their reverence for a good long nap. I mean, look what they put into making their bed customized, comfy, and cozy. This is no lazy insect. If they are going to that much trouble to deck out their sleeping arrangement, they deserve that lovely deep sleep they are going to get. Personally, I feel full of high flying self-esteem if I actually take the time to make my bed in the morning.
I am rather jealous of Chloe, I have to admit. When I wake up in the morning, I do NOT come out looking like a butterfly. Not even close. Those monarch's sure have one cute style after a next. From fuzzy black and orange to intricate gorgeous wings of the same color. Do they ever have a bad hair day? I think not.
Hmmm, gosh, now I'm wondering what I could accomplish today that would be even half as interesting as building myself a napping house with my hair. Maybe if I add some new kind of sauce to tonight's tofu meatloaf, that would be something worth talking about. Who am I kidding? All I can do is sit around and write about the wonders of nature. But then, that's not such a bad thing. At least I get to share this with you.
Heather Leigh,
Fanatically jealous of the monarch
Today we got lucky to the extreme. We caught one in the act of building her cocoon. Since I feel a deep, personal connection after seeing this caterpillar in such a vulnerable moment, I am going to take the liberty of naming her. Chloe, I've always liked that name.
I was watching for Chloe to be spitting up some kind of cocoon wrap. She was surrounding herself with little pieces of something, attached in an oval around her. When my son came to check out nature in action, he noted that Chloe was plucking out her caterpillar fur one strand at a time. Then she placed it next to her body. So far, she has a horseshoe around herself!
It's just like that disease in which people pull out individual strands of hair. Except instead of being something based on stressed, this is the foundation of Chloe's new house.
So, I know it's something that people have been dwelling on forever, but how do insects know to do that? Did Chloe wake up this morning and think, "yah know, it being Monday and all, think I'll go over to the green house and pluck out my fur. And then, hey, this would be neat, I'll turn my hair into a house."
Is that what she was thinking? What else could it be?
The other thing about caterpillars is their reverence for a good long nap. I mean, look what they put into making their bed customized, comfy, and cozy. This is no lazy insect. If they are going to that much trouble to deck out their sleeping arrangement, they deserve that lovely deep sleep they are going to get. Personally, I feel full of high flying self-esteem if I actually take the time to make my bed in the morning.
I am rather jealous of Chloe, I have to admit. When I wake up in the morning, I do NOT come out looking like a butterfly. Not even close. Those monarch's sure have one cute style after a next. From fuzzy black and orange to intricate gorgeous wings of the same color. Do they ever have a bad hair day? I think not.
Hmmm, gosh, now I'm wondering what I could accomplish today that would be even half as interesting as building myself a napping house with my hair. Maybe if I add some new kind of sauce to tonight's tofu meatloaf, that would be something worth talking about. Who am I kidding? All I can do is sit around and write about the wonders of nature. But then, that's not such a bad thing. At least I get to share this with you.
Heather Leigh,
Fanatically jealous of the monarch
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Mid Or Late At 47
Saturday I will be forty-seven. And I have some huge questions gnawing away at my brain.
First off: Will I be in my mid or late forties? If I am still in my mids, that let's me out of having to be any wiser, right? Or face a mid-life crises. Life can go on Easy Breezy Lemon Squeezy.
But late forties? I'll be responsible for knowing all of life's answers. I don't even know the questions. What do I say when asked how to bring about world peace, end suffering, and how to win at Mahjong? So much is expected at this great and noble age phase. I'm going to screw it up.
But then, if I am hitting mid-life crises stage, that means I get a new Porsche and some hot guy to ride in the passenger seat. Maybe we'll fly to Fiji to celebrate my birthday in my new jet. Well, now, that sounds good.
Second question: is there a list somewhere of things I was supposed to have accomplished by this age? And is the list about my happiness, or if my house is bigger than your house with more expensive toys in the garage. So much pressure.
Third issue: Several of my friends have already made it to the fifty year mark. They tell me they feel more free. That what others think of them is less of a concern. They feel happier.
Does that mean that I have three years left to suffer? Because I didn't even know I was suffering. I had been thinking I was pretty happy. Perhaps if I am in my late forties, then I will know if I am suffering or happy.
Finally, by the time I reach fifty, both kids will be graduated and gone. My old pets will probably be off to where ever it is that they go when they die. I will be free to live where ever I want. Should I go with tropical island vacations for the next ten years, or cruises around the world. Probably a mixture, I should think. As long as both places serve pina coladas, chocolate covered caramels, and Cabernet, I'll be set.
There are a group of yellow finches in our maple tree. I can see those little guys hopping around like they are not even involved in a forty-seven-year old anxiety. Shesh, just because they won't live a whole decade, it's like they don't even care.
Well, I guess Saturday I will find the answers to my huge questions. Think the answers come in a dream, or do angels come out and whisper what comes next into my ear? How am I supposed to wait three days to find out what happens for the rest of my life?
Maybe next life time, I'll come back as an instinct driven finch. Much easier.
Heather Leigh,
Almost forty-seven year old
First off: Will I be in my mid or late forties? If I am still in my mids, that let's me out of having to be any wiser, right? Or face a mid-life crises. Life can go on Easy Breezy Lemon Squeezy.
But late forties? I'll be responsible for knowing all of life's answers. I don't even know the questions. What do I say when asked how to bring about world peace, end suffering, and how to win at Mahjong? So much is expected at this great and noble age phase. I'm going to screw it up.
But then, if I am hitting mid-life crises stage, that means I get a new Porsche and some hot guy to ride in the passenger seat. Maybe we'll fly to Fiji to celebrate my birthday in my new jet. Well, now, that sounds good.
Second question: is there a list somewhere of things I was supposed to have accomplished by this age? And is the list about my happiness, or if my house is bigger than your house with more expensive toys in the garage. So much pressure.
Third issue: Several of my friends have already made it to the fifty year mark. They tell me they feel more free. That what others think of them is less of a concern. They feel happier.
Does that mean that I have three years left to suffer? Because I didn't even know I was suffering. I had been thinking I was pretty happy. Perhaps if I am in my late forties, then I will know if I am suffering or happy.
Finally, by the time I reach fifty, both kids will be graduated and gone. My old pets will probably be off to where ever it is that they go when they die. I will be free to live where ever I want. Should I go with tropical island vacations for the next ten years, or cruises around the world. Probably a mixture, I should think. As long as both places serve pina coladas, chocolate covered caramels, and Cabernet, I'll be set.
There are a group of yellow finches in our maple tree. I can see those little guys hopping around like they are not even involved in a forty-seven-year old anxiety. Shesh, just because they won't live a whole decade, it's like they don't even care.
Well, I guess Saturday I will find the answers to my huge questions. Think the answers come in a dream, or do angels come out and whisper what comes next into my ear? How am I supposed to wait three days to find out what happens for the rest of my life?
Maybe next life time, I'll come back as an instinct driven finch. Much easier.
Heather Leigh,
Almost forty-seven year old
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)