Dear

I think I’ve mentioned that my blog entries are ostensibly letters without the “Dear” (I was never a “dear” sort of person) and for those friends who got a kick out of my letters. Old news for you guys.

When you see several week lulls, I’m caught up in the every day stuff that is sometimes too “real” for a public “note” – it usually occurs when topics like politics, work, people who should be smacked, major networks that should be shut down and their executives publicly flogged have managed to block out rational thoughts. I am still writing my heart out during the lulls (see above topics), but only to the few who can stomach the me that isn’t anywhere close to being humorous or sassy – the friends who can read “Me: An Ode to Beige” (a delightful poetic metaphor likening me to beige and comparing my vibrancy of one of Monet’s pastel water lilies) and not visibly roll their eyes (mind you, the close friends who read my blog just had a “what? What poem? I didn’t read that poem” moment – sorry guys, even I can put the breaks on when I’m being too much of a self-indulgent whiner), but they can also keep up as this bland water lily decides she’s some sort of vermilion paint haphazardly splashed across a canvas (one of us may have a hair trigger when it comes to rage – you should seek help for that – it’s most unbecoming).

So, let’s see… since this is a letter, I suppose I should give some sort of update.
Over the last few weeks, I seethed, I calmed down, I got a little miffed again, someone made my day, someone made me sad. Apparently the internet makes me a tad neurotic.
My tire died last week, someone chased me down for a couple of miles to let me know, I knew, I was just trying to get to the tire place. I made a mental note that sometimes I’m unflappable – like the time the stove caught on fire and I really just wanted to finish the dishes. Honestly, one person running around screaming was enough, but I stopped, found the extinguisher and took care of it. The dishwater got colder. I tried to determine if it was a pattern. After a few days of thinking about it, I’ve decided it isn’t.
I took some photos. I was wowed by others creativity. I felt embarrassed.
I watched the news. Nineteen pound babies… the Mamas & the Papas… Ahmadinejad… al-Gaddafi… wow, the universe must be throwing a carnival for crazy.
Someone stomped a major hot button. I acted out. Sometimes I’m 5, but still you don’t know me well enough.
I read two reviews of the new “Fame”, came home and ordered the original while listening to a snippet of Irene Cara. I threw The Outsiders into the mix. Amazon is sneaky with it’s “just $2.01 more and you’ll get free shipping” and I pay more for another item than what the shipping would have cost.
I sat back and smiled while Jim twisted himself up into a ball over the term “doodlebobbers”.
I read a little. I watched TV a little. I picked on myself a little. I read a love poem written for my Mom when she was 20 that I had never seen. It was in a box that held a lock of her hair from when she was 3. I rapidly fanned my hand in front of my face to let Jay know I was about to have a “moment”. You can fan away tears.
I put on a puppet show at lunch that made the waiter and my co-workers laugh.

All in all a “meh” kind of two weeks without a decent story to really latch onto – well, not one that I would feel comfortable enough to throw on the blog. The stories these past couple of weeks are better suited for an individual. Actual letters of the “Dear” variety. And maybe one day I’ll be a “dear sort of person”.

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