I don't know how they do it

You have to give those happy Walmart employees credit.

After eight hours of being in that depressing store, I don't know how anyone can keep a smile on their face.

I feel like I should have a picture or something to post with this thought. But I don't, it is just a thought.

Maybe I am just tired of the tears

After wandering around the blogging world for awhile, I am beginning to see all the people who really love to read and write. I guess I knew they existed, but I didn't comprehend it until I saw it with my own eyes.

"I write. I want to be published." "I am getting published." "I am published and it is not all it is cracked up to be." All these writers talking about writing and publishing, and their woes and pain. And I ask myself, "Why?" If writers write for the love of writing, what is all this scrambling about to find an agent, to get published, then get the best contract, then worrying about selling the book and people liking the book? It seems all of that is a distraction from the true purpose of writing.

Isn't writing about writing? If we write we are writers. Right?

I have a ballet dance video that I enjoy doing as often as possible. It is good for me and makes me feel like a dancer. I will never be a member of the New York City Ballet, in fact I will never dance outside of my living room. But I regularly dance, improve, and feel good. Does a dancer have to be on stage to be a dancer?

Does a writer have to be published to be a writer?

I think writers would be a lot happier if they wrote for the pure pleasure of writing, and publishing was just gravy on the cake. Or whatever.

The man with three teeth

Last week I was at The BF's house while he was at work. I heard something strange while I was vacuuming, so I turned off the vacuum and heard another knock at the door. Normally I would stay quiet, hoping the visitor would assume no one was home and leave, but I had just turned off the vacuum so it was too late for that.

I opened the door to find a man who was probably not much older than me, but looked like he had lived a hard life. His face was weather beaten, and gray, his matted blonde hair stuck up in patches and his smile showed only three teeth.

"Hey," he greeted me enthusiastically.

I thought of excuses to make him go away.

"Want me to rake the leaves in your yard?"

The yard needed raking, but I didn't have cash, and I was intent on getting rid of him.

"It will be cheap!" He offered with a smile.

"I don't live here," I said.

His face fell. "Is the person who lives here not home?"

"No."

He turned away, beaten. "I'm just trying to find some work," he said.

He picked up his rack and leaf bin, and walked away.

A few days later, as I watched The BF blow the leaves into a pile, I thought of the three toothed man trying to find work with his rake and bin. Where was he now? Did he have shelter? Food? Warmth?

I wish I had let him rake those leaves.

Refreshingly Cold

Winter is a time of year that strikes fear and numbness into my heart and finger tips. Winter makes everything in life a thousand times more difficult. Driving, leaving the house, filling your gas tank, walking, being warm, having fun, all the things you take for granted the rest of the year. Plus I hate being cold. Hate it!

As I prepared to leave the house in the dark hours this morning. I imagined shivering all the way to my destination, and long after. But when I stepped into the chilly morning air, I found it wonderfully, surprisingly, refreshingly cold. Not bone chilling, teeth chattering, uncontrollable shivering cold, but a nice cold. A light cold. It is a phenomenon I rarely experience, and when I do, it is so delightful I almost want to go for a jog to feel that chill across my face and down my back. But let's not push our luck.

Now I am back home, looking out the window, wanting to be out there again. Oh the joy and the irony of a refreshingly cold day.

The Magical Merry Go Round

At the amusement park. The screaming rides crest up and down, with their long lines and rickety tracks, they look so fun. I want to ride those.

Then I spot the Merry Go Round. The shiny, golden hoofed horses, the red carriages. the twisting, spiral poles all whisper, "Ride me. Ride me. I will take you to a magical place."

So I get on board, select the most promising steed with golden mane and saphire eyes. It even has a leather strap for me to hold. If any of these animals are magical, this one is.

And the ride starts slowly. Round and round. Up and down. Slowly. Slowly. It never speeds up, and it never goes anywhere.

The ride stops and I get off my plastic horse covered in shiny paint. I walk away disappointed. From a distance I glance back. Shiny and magical, it calls to me again, "Ride me. Ride me. I will take you to a magical place."

I walked through a graveyard today...

Rows of mangled cars piled high, with smashed windows, and gaping eyes, stared at us like rotting corpses. Most of their guts hung out, and their blood pooled in the dirt amid broken glass glittering like jewels beneath our feet.

Grease covered, half-animal men lumbered about, grunting and growling at each other, scaveging and hording what remained of the car's broken bodies.

It was beautiful in its grime. A tragic poem.

Going to counseling, a.k.a. the hairdresser

I have hair.

I cannot describe my hair because what it looks like depends on the day. Is it blonde, brown, red or black? I don’t know, all I can say is that it is not black. Is it curly or straight? I don’t know. How long is it? It is not really short, or really long, but why are you asking all these difficult questions?

I just know that for many years my hair and I fought. I told my hair what to do, and she promptly did the opposite. I asked my hair if she would please be nice and do what I ask. She said no. We went to counseling repeatedly, she would behave for a day, but her good behavior didn’t last long. The next day she would curl one chunk of hair, or go frizzy, or get depressed and hang like the ears of a basset hound.

So one day I sat down and had a talk with my hair.

"What do you want from me?" I asked. "I try to be good to you. I take care of you. Why won’t you do anything I say?"

"Stop telling me what to do," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, just let me go. I need hair cuts and I need to be cleaned regularly, but that’s it. Don’t curl, tease or blowdry me. Let me do my own thing."

"Okay fine," I conceded.

So I let her go. From that day on I have rarely touched my hair, I would like to call my hair a hippy, except that it doesn’t look like one, it just acts like one. This is my hair impression, "I'm free. Just let me be free. Can't we just hang out without all this pressure to look good?"

It is the strangest phenomenon, some days she cooperates and people tell me I have movie star hair, other times she gets upset and as my grandma said, "It looks like it went through the dishwasher."

I don’t know. I just have to sit back, let her smoke pot and do her own thing. Otherwise we will have a big fight. I have better luck when she styles herself anyway.