As I reach out into the world, I try to make connections with others. Sometimes I succeed. Other times I don’t. That’s life I guess.
At work, at play, at home I’m always on. Always reaching. Always searching. Always out there.
After a few months of burning the candle at both ends, I’ve finally run out of wick.
It’s time for me to re-group.
Time to unplug.
Time to reconnect with myself.
I have turned off the phone, unplugged the computer, locked the front door, and stocked up on chocolate and bacon for a mini-hibernation-rejuvenation week. My personal goals are small and attainable.
Sleep in
Eat
Read
Play
This is me, signing off.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sir, may I have S'more?
1 graham cracker
2 marshmallows
1 brick of chocolate
1 wood fire
(There cannot be any variation. It is what it is. A S'more.)
I sit in front of the fire and teach my son how to make these marvelous treats.
About a million years ago, when I was just a wee tyke, I remember watching in wonder as my parents helped me build my first S'more.
Breaking the graham in half and laying the chocolate in preparation for the toasted marshmallow.
I would slowly turn my air-puffed sugar so that it would be evenly browned on all sides. I would know when it was ready when it would start to slide down the stick I had ripped from a nearby tree.
I would quickly place the molten marshmallow on top of the chocolate and place a graham cracker on top.
SQUISH!
I would just mash it flat until the melted goodness oozed out all four sides and all over my hands.
That's when my S'more was ready for eating.
Flash forward and I watch my boy set his mallow on fire. Only then for him is his ready.
He places is burnt-to-a-crisp mallow on the chocolate and topped it off with a crumbly graham.
SQUISH!
I watch the guts of the S'more get mashed and squeeze out the sides all over his hands.
He takes a bite and smiles a sticky smile.
I've passed on a culinary memory that I hope he will in-turn pass on to his children.
Maybe he'll tell the story fondly of his first S'more.
I hope so.
It's memories like these that make it all worth it.
Even when I'm covered in chocolate and I can't seem to get the marshmallow out of my hair.
2 marshmallows
1 brick of chocolate
1 wood fire
(There cannot be any variation. It is what it is. A S'more.)
I sit in front of the fire and teach my son how to make these marvelous treats.
About a million years ago, when I was just a wee tyke, I remember watching in wonder as my parents helped me build my first S'more.
Breaking the graham in half and laying the chocolate in preparation for the toasted marshmallow.
I would slowly turn my air-puffed sugar so that it would be evenly browned on all sides. I would know when it was ready when it would start to slide down the stick I had ripped from a nearby tree.
I would quickly place the molten marshmallow on top of the chocolate and place a graham cracker on top.
SQUISH!
I would just mash it flat until the melted goodness oozed out all four sides and all over my hands.
That's when my S'more was ready for eating.
Flash forward and I watch my boy set his mallow on fire. Only then for him is his ready.
He places is burnt-to-a-crisp mallow on the chocolate and topped it off with a crumbly graham.
SQUISH!
I watch the guts of the S'more get mashed and squeeze out the sides all over his hands.
He takes a bite and smiles a sticky smile.
I've passed on a culinary memory that I hope he will in-turn pass on to his children.
Maybe he'll tell the story fondly of his first S'more.
I hope so.
It's memories like these that make it all worth it.
Even when I'm covered in chocolate and I can't seem to get the marshmallow out of my hair.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Kryptonite...
For years I've mocked my parents at their inability to handle caffeine after 2:00 pm.
Yesterday Karma bit me in the butt.
One tall peppermint, mocha, latte later I tossed and turned in my bed. I watched the orange numbers on my clock shift into different shapes. The evening was turning into the morning.
My eyelids did not become heavy.
I turned over and hit the pillow. Frustrated that my mind would not shut down and my eyes would not stay closed.
Every little sound was amplified as if I had bionic ears. My mood turned sour and I felt a mean streak starting to form within the core of me.
My legs wanted to run around the room while the rest of my body wanted to sleep.
I was too tired to rationally figure something out but too wired to meditate and calm myself down.
When I finally was able to fall asleep, the alarm woke me up.
The jangle on my nerves was the last straw for me.
So, today I stomp around glaring at innocent bystanders until I get the antidote.
Which, I presume, will be a good night's sleep.
Yesterday Karma bit me in the butt.
One tall peppermint, mocha, latte later I tossed and turned in my bed. I watched the orange numbers on my clock shift into different shapes. The evening was turning into the morning.
My eyelids did not become heavy.
I turned over and hit the pillow. Frustrated that my mind would not shut down and my eyes would not stay closed.
Every little sound was amplified as if I had bionic ears. My mood turned sour and I felt a mean streak starting to form within the core of me.
My legs wanted to run around the room while the rest of my body wanted to sleep.
I was too tired to rationally figure something out but too wired to meditate and calm myself down.
When I finally was able to fall asleep, the alarm woke me up.
The jangle on my nerves was the last straw for me.
So, today I stomp around glaring at innocent bystanders until I get the antidote.
Which, I presume, will be a good night's sleep.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Hooked...
Odd hooks pepper the ceiling and I wonder what they were there for. I'm pretty sure the previous owners didn't have a trapeze hanging there, but who am I to judge?
I try and figure out what I can do with the hooks. They're just at odd intervals and spots. Nothing comes to mind.
For now I'll leave them be. I have too many other things to do besides pulling out hooks to nothing.
I try and figure out what I can do with the hooks. They're just at odd intervals and spots. Nothing comes to mind.
For now I'll leave them be. I have too many other things to do besides pulling out hooks to nothing.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
If it ain't broke...
The silver hoop hangs in your ear defiantly.
A reminder of the rebellious days of when young men did not do such a thing.
The people gathered around the campfire are all friends I've known since I was 15.
We've all changed a bit physically. We're heavier, or greyer, or thinner on top.
All of us have children as this point.
The laughter comes easily. The women pull into their side, and the men into the other.
Chatter is the same. The men talking about their new gadgets and how goofy their wives are.
The women laugh about their husbands and children, when something in the conversation struck me.
The girls talked about how they were constantly trying to "fix" and change their men.
I looked at you and wondered why they were always working on trying to tame the man-beast?
Was a leash really necessary? I never felt we needed one.
Time has certainly changed us a bit. Certain situations forced us to grow up - but all in all - I still see the bad boy in you that attracted me in the first place.
Names are rattled off of those who are now divorced or working on one. The numbers are staggering.
Was the main reason for breaking up because one person felt the need to re-vamp the older version hoping that once the changes were implemented they would be acceptable?
It boggles my mind.
A reminder of the rebellious days of when young men did not do such a thing.
The people gathered around the campfire are all friends I've known since I was 15.
We've all changed a bit physically. We're heavier, or greyer, or thinner on top.
All of us have children as this point.
The laughter comes easily. The women pull into their side, and the men into the other.
Chatter is the same. The men talking about their new gadgets and how goofy their wives are.
The women laugh about their husbands and children, when something in the conversation struck me.
The girls talked about how they were constantly trying to "fix" and change their men.
I looked at you and wondered why they were always working on trying to tame the man-beast?
Was a leash really necessary? I never felt we needed one.
Time has certainly changed us a bit. Certain situations forced us to grow up - but all in all - I still see the bad boy in you that attracted me in the first place.
Names are rattled off of those who are now divorced or working on one. The numbers are staggering.
Was the main reason for breaking up because one person felt the need to re-vamp the older version hoping that once the changes were implemented they would be acceptable?
It boggles my mind.
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