Memories

I walk into the bedroom and into the living room. I can barely think about what I want to do. I can see what needs done but nothing seems to register or get me kick started. Sometimes the thoughts come and go, like fleeting shadows under the trees. Other times they are a little more substantial, like children playing hide and go seek among the oak trees and the meadow. I can see the thoughts appear from behind the tree or race across the meadow in my mind, yet I can never quite seem to catch up. Just a fleeting glimpse.

Memory: mental faculty by which things are recalled or remembered

I don't get it...

I woke up this morning and a color popped into my head. Maybe it was a remnant from the dream I had (that I promptly forgot 10 seconds after I woke up). The word "burgundy" popped into my mind. I mean, I like the color fine and all, but why that one? People don't say burgundy often and I've seen it spelled about 4 different ways. I looked it up and it means a couple different things and it's a place. Burgundy is a place, y'all! LOL!

That color also brought me back here to blog about the color burgundy. Weird. I hadn't forgotten about Wordaholism--life kinda got in the way (in a good way). But it's really weird that I ended up here today rambling about the color burgundy. Sounds funny when you say it more than 3 times in one sitting.

burgundy: a dark purplish red to blackish red

A Nitroglycerine Tablet! STAT!!

I miss Wordaholism.

Blogging seems to be one of those things where we tentatively dip our toes in the water, and either end up totally wet or we move on to other things. Since I started blogging a couple years ago, almost none of my original favorites are still in business (or not in their original forms).


Myself, I posted feverishly for the first six months, and then began trailing off; nowadays I may go two or three weeks between posts, followed by several posts in a single week.

But this place was my first exposure to community blogs, a collecting place for a bunch of friendly, smart people overseen by our Linguistic Denmother, Esbee.

Well, I'm not ready to let go yet!

Here's hoping Wordaholism might experience a

res·ur·rec·tion

n.

1. The act of rising from the dead or returning to life.
2. The state of one who has returned to life.
3. The act of bringing back to practice, notice, or use; revival.

Source: Answers.com / resurrection

every path of progress plugged by a pepperpot

Many years ago I saw an episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus, in which they profiled an entity known as a

Pepperpot, n.
Pepperpot is a term created by Monty Python member Graham Chapman to describe a class of character frequently utilized in the group's comedy sketches.

Pepperpots are middle-aged housewives, usually British, portrayed by a male member of the group dressed as a woman and speaking in falsetto.
Courtesy of Wikipedia

And at the time I thought it was an awkward sketch about how annoying old ladies can be. I mean, they're just old ladies, what's so funny.

But now that I deal in the real world and often take up projects that concern the community or the neighborhood, I find myself vexed by these pepperpots!

To explain further, a pepperpot is a crotchety old lady who doesn't like change, or teenagers, or dogs walking past their lawn for fear that they might poop mid-stride.

The pepperpots of the world prevent progress. They say they liked things better the way they were. They have bad taste. They make it a habit to be a nuisance, probably because otherwise no one would have reason to pay them notice.

And now I realize that the fellows that made up Monty Python were probably thwarted by the same type of women in their young lives. I get it now, I get the sketch, it's funny.

Naked Baby Irony

I saw this on the back windshield of a coworker's car this afternoon:



I guess you can't always see the babies in cars that have this sign on them. My coworker didn't want to be misleading, so she added the doll for illustrative purposes

I just don't know why the baby has to be naked.

there's always that guy

I cannot escape The Letch

letch
n : man with strong sexual desires [syn: satyr, lecher, lech]

It seems The Letch is everywhere.

He's a client/patient/employee at your work, he's a neighbor on your block, he's an attender of your church.

You can't escape The Letch.

The Letch seeks you out if you are, female, relatively young and not severely disfigured.

He wants you to think he's charming, although he's either old or fat. I've yet to meet a Letch who is neither, and often he is both.

If you have the misfortune to be in contact with The Letch on a regular basis, The Letch hugs you. Ugh! Listen Letches, I'm not a hugger in the first place, and frankly I'd rather hug a leper than you. (Sometimes I feel like making a shirt that says, "Jesus loves you, but don't hug me.")

I usually feel common decency pressure to make small talk with The Letch. And although I'm just mostly smiling and nodding, he's hearing "she wants me."

I assure you Letches, we women, all women, do not want you. We might want to wax your back, but we do not want you.

"letch." WordNet® 2.0. Princeton University. 17 Sep. 2006.

I wrote you a letter...

Each year, near the end of the summer, I write a huge entry in my journal with a vivid reflection of my year thus far. I just went back to that entry and read it. Though a lot of the reflection admired my kids and how much fun we had during our summer break, most of it was actually an open letter to my husband. I had no idea at the time, but I seemed to be writing directly to him. Nothing mushy or ridiculous, but my feelings for him were coming off of that page in the purest form of love. I wrote about how we've struggled together, how we've taken care of the family over the years, how we've handled some difficult situations between us and family, and how we're each flawed. The flaws make us human... and quirky! We love and embrace our flaws together. We even make fun of them occassionally! He's a great father... I always knew he would be, but to see it live is just about the sexiest thing and it's not even gift-wrapped!

I've only truly known (personally) two great men in my life; my father and my husband. Sad, but true. While I'm writing my entry for this year tonight, when I look back on it (if I'm drooling about my husband in print), I hope I feel the exact same way I do as I sit here and type this. While I'm trying to live my best life being a wife/mother/daughter/sister/friend, I'm insanely proud that I'm living it with a man of my husband's caliber at my side. I adore him.

pre·cious:
adj

1. Of high cost or worth; valuable.
2. Highly esteemed; cherished.
3. Dear; beloved.