A New Year, A New Me?

It happens every year right around this time. I take an assessment of the damages inflicted upon my physical appearance by too much holiday celebration. The toll this yule season has been extreme. I'm actually afraid to step on a scale. We're not talking about a weight gain of a couple of pounds here. I've packed on an extra 15 to 20 pounds that have settled on my hips, thighs and stomach. I feel wretched. I fear I have lost control. When I look in the mirror, a stranger gazes back at me. I must make a change.

I am addicted to Adam Lambert. There. I've admitted it. I've sort of been in denial as to the extent of my dependence on seeing or hearing anything related to him. I have been known to chase down the most fragmentary bit of gossip about him with great fervor. I spend hours surfing the web hoping to find just a crumb of some mention of him. I follow him on Twitter and positively delight in his often pithy and insightful tidbits of thought. I vote for his music videos on VH1 at the end of each day when I find I have nothing else I have to or wish to do.

Why should you care? Well, I write this as a sort of warning to those of you who have not yet succumbed to Adam's charm, wit and vocal ability to sing the bajeezus out of every song that flows from his vocal chords. But, I have managed to get ahead of myself. Perhaps, although this is an extremely remote possibility, you have no idea who Adam Lambert is. If this is the case, then I want to know what planet you have been on and whether or not there is intelligent life out there in space.

Adam Lambert is a singer. An extraordinary singer. A future legendary singer. An unforgettable singer. An energetic, talented, extreme, gorgeous, humble, intelligent, risk-taking singer. I could go on and on because his positive traits go on and on. But, above all, he is himself, without apology, and with great dignity and pride. And, that is the quality in him that I find so irresistible. He is unafraid to be a human being and he embraces life regardless of the imperfections it offers. I get the vibe that his tolerance and acceptance of diversity is sincere and heart-felt.

Anyway, if you haven't yet listened to him sing, you really should. There are many, many videos on YouTube that feature him. Just remember, all it takes is one small sample of the totally delicious Adam Lambert to develop an addiction.

What To Do? What To Do?

I have so much to do, I do not know where to begin. So, using what little wisdom I've managed to acquire over the years, I am going to avoid a confrontation with the disorder in my life. At least for now. I know I am supposed to prioritize, to do the most important things first, and to expect and to accept less than perfection. But, I am overwhelmed and find myself wishing that someone else would take over being me just for a little while.

Maybe you would like to trade places and live in my skin for awhile. It's not hard to be me, but it isn't exactly easy either. This is all you would have to do:

1. wake up at 7:00 a.m., 2. drink 3 cups of coffee with cream, 3.complain about how beastly hot it is, 4. go outside and admire my garden, 5. pet my dog and scratch the top of her head, 6. cuddle my cat, 7. make and drink a yogurt smoothie, 8. throw a load of laundry into the washing machine, 9.check Etsy listings and prepare outbound orders, 10. chain self to computer and edit existing Etsy listings or scan pictures and create new ones, 11. get ready for work (involves facing reality of reflection in mirror--never a surprise, always a disappointment) 12. go to work at a retail establishment, 13. lament to yourself how woefully underemployed you are, 14. deal with the public and all its types of people, and 15. do your best job without making your fellow employees look bad.

What do you think? Are you up for it? I am.

Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe

Maybe you are familiar with an old traditional nursery rhyme that starts: Monday's child is fair of face..... The poem continues to assign characteristics for the children born on each of the various days. Well, I decided to end the in-utero experience mid-week on a Wednesday morning and, accordingly, I am "full of woe" if the little ditty is correct. (Some people who know me might agree that I am full of something, but they would say it was something other than woe.)
I try hard to be cheerful, but I must admit, I have a rather damp disposition. Even on a beautiful day such as it is today with sunshine spilling across the sidewalks and a boisterous breeze wrapping flags around their poles, I am more on the sullen side of life. Many acquaintances I've had over the years have expressed the opinion that I think too much. (I think that in the end a balance is struck--my seriousness and inclination to ponder cancel out those people in life who never think.)

Be It Ever So Humble.....

There's no place like home. Or, so some would say. My thoughts diverge from the maudlin notion of home being some sort of blessed refuge. This probably puts me smack dab in the midst of a very small and unpopular minority. But, I make no apologies. I can write only of that which I have experienced, and I've never known "home" to be a source of comfort.
I'm not even sure where my home is anymore. Is home where you live, or is it where you came from? Is it the space you occupy or is it the space that welcomes you?
I am most "at home" when I am in the forest. That's where I feel most confident and most alive. I lose all self-consciousness surrounded by the beauty of the trees. It's strange, but when I am in the woods I feel as though I am as ancient as the mossy earth and it seems that I have been alive forever. If I sit motionless in a shadowy glade I can practically decipher messages written by the wind. I can feel myself becoming one with nature, as though I have been absorbed into the humus beneath my feet. I feel as though I have found the place where I truly belong.

Happy Birthday, Robert

The day after tomorrow, April 28, is my oldest son's birthday. He will be 28. The approach of this day fills me with melancholy as it has for the past 12 years. You see, my son has informed me he wants no part of me in his life. It's a long story, but let me assure you that I am no monster and my only crime against Robert has been loving him unconditionally. I envy those among you who can bake a cake for your son or daughter and celebrate the anniversary of his or her birth. You don't know how lucky you are.

The Last Peep

Sitting in front of me, resting comfortably in the snug confines of a lightweight cardboard carton partially shaded by clear cellophane, within easy reach of my quick and agile fingers, glittering in all its green sugary goodness, awaiting its certain demise is a marshmallow in roughly the shape of a chick, the last of my Easter Peeps.

I do not recall paying this much attention to the other 9 Peeps that crowded this box. They found their way to my mouth without too much effort on my part and with no resistance on theirs. (I should hate to be as mindless and as lacking in self-direction as a Peep.) I'm quite sure I did, in fact, ingest these petite confectionery delights. No one else in the household has developed a taste for them; that is to say that their palates have not evolved to a point that allows them to appreciate the abundance of sweetness and gooiness that is the essence of a Peep.

Dear reader, please tell me what occasion would merit the ceremonious consumption of this, my final Peep? I cannot find it in my heart to put it out of existence in one greedy gulp just because it would taste so yummy. Give me a reason.