Recently, I decided to go on an adventure. Wait! Let me back up. I was looking at recipes online. One made me think of my coworker. I sent her the link. She asked, "How DO you find all these things?!?!" Simple. I look at a site I know, then I click - "Ooooh, that recipe/link looks good!"
That in mind, I went on my adventure. Instead of following recipe links, I happened to click the lovely icon at the top of this screen, NEXT BLOG. Let me tell you that I'm not sure if I'll adventure down this path again.
I clicked. Bo-RING! This photographer doesn't even have talent. Anyone can take pictures of a grassy field at dusk. Click! Another photographer? Ooooh, you do weddings...I gotcha. CLICK! Oh, my - to my surprise yet another photographer? Good Grief! Are there only photographers out there? Christ people, get some sense - It's a hobby, that few ever carve a career out of. Good luck if you think having a blog is going to help. I'm sure that's not how Annie Leibovitz got her start...
Anyways, I kept clicking. It became more hurried and fanatical. Click, CLick CLICK! click, click, click, click - next and so on and so forth and I started mumbling to myself, "Photographer, mom who HOLY SHIT - she put pictures of her kids up with names, locations, dates - might as well include their social security numbers or invite convicted felons over for dinner...wow, you like yourself huh? Put some clothes on...note to self: Self, never ever visit this blog again. OMG! What are these people doing?!?"
I had to stop. I think I went into a full meltdown mode. While I use this medium for my own enjoyment with the hopes that my friends & family might get a kick out of my incessant moan-holing (that's bitching for any of you who aren't hip to my lingo) and the idea that if I don't put my thoughts to paper my head might just explode - there are a LOT of freaks out there. And not just weirdos, but really bizarre folks. Apparently, they let any old random person walk into a Best Buy and come out with a machine, sporting 8 GB of RAM that can melt retinas and ruin lives in approximately five minutes...let me elaborate.
The fateful click that I think forever scarred me was attested to this woman whom I assumed REALLY liked to take pictures of herself in the buff with what I can only assume are the various plates she owns? At least I hope she owns them. How creepy would that be if she didn't own them? What if you knew her, but didn't know you knew her?!? What if she had been over for a dinner party and that was YOUR plate? God forbid, what if she put it back in the cupboard without washing it and you are currently eating off of it? Gross.
These are the people out there, free to roam your interwebs and prowl the blogospheres. I can tell you now that I will think twice before randomly clicking through blog links again...
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Hoarders Wanted...Inquire Within
I was raised as an only child of a bi-polar. While I have four brothers, the oldest were out of the house while I was still young and the youngest were my father's and lived elsewhere. This situation left quite a few things to be desired in my childhood, but it taught me a few useful things; one of which was the fact that manual labor and a good old fashioned cry is good for the soul. Hand in hand, cleanliness is next to godliness.
When I'm stressed to my limits, I find that I revert to comforting things...the smell of something baking or bleach. The choice to bake or clean is dependent upon my pissedoffedness levels. The angrier I am at my stressors, the more intense my need to clean. Normally, my house is in a general state of "tidy" with random dust or cat hair that would be acceptable to most. Occasionally, my house is clean enough to make Mommy Dearest uber proud. Bring it Faye Dunaway! And rarely, rarely...cleaning my house isn't enough to rid my inner demons. I need a hoarder.
In instances of intense stress, junking items in my own home will no longer do. No longer do I derive satisfaction from ousting my husband's week old receipts. Nevermore will chucking out my kids' stickers while muttering to myself curb this random need.
I yearn to get my hands on a hoarder's mother-load and I see this proposal as a mutually beneficial relationship. Have an Aunt Phyllis who has been pack ratting into her hidey-hole for the last 40 years? I have unresolved rage that needs to be purged. Know Clyde whose collection of trinkets has made it impossible to vacuum? Strangely, in this mode - I enjoy cleaning grout with a toothbrush. What luck!
Every item I can shuck into a garbage bag lifts the burden that weighs on my shoulders. Every bizarre knickknack or 20 year old tube of Neosporin I can trash makes me realize that my stress and current source of discontent is really inconsequential. Ultimately, the literal cleaning meets the figurative and I can let go.
Somewhere between the Pine-sol and the tattered vestiges of my sour attitude, I can just cry it out. In the end I feel loads better and Grandma Millie's kitchen is again usable...So, can I come clean your stuff?
When I'm stressed to my limits, I find that I revert to comforting things...the smell of something baking or bleach. The choice to bake or clean is dependent upon my pissedoffedness levels. The angrier I am at my stressors, the more intense my need to clean. Normally, my house is in a general state of "tidy" with random dust or cat hair that would be acceptable to most. Occasionally, my house is clean enough to make Mommy Dearest uber proud. Bring it Faye Dunaway! And rarely, rarely...cleaning my house isn't enough to rid my inner demons. I need a hoarder.
In instances of intense stress, junking items in my own home will no longer do. No longer do I derive satisfaction from ousting my husband's week old receipts. Nevermore will chucking out my kids' stickers while muttering to myself curb this random need.
I yearn to get my hands on a hoarder's mother-load and I see this proposal as a mutually beneficial relationship. Have an Aunt Phyllis who has been pack ratting into her hidey-hole for the last 40 years? I have unresolved rage that needs to be purged. Know Clyde whose collection of trinkets has made it impossible to vacuum? Strangely, in this mode - I enjoy cleaning grout with a toothbrush. What luck!
Every item I can shuck into a garbage bag lifts the burden that weighs on my shoulders. Every bizarre knickknack or 20 year old tube of Neosporin I can trash makes me realize that my stress and current source of discontent is really inconsequential. Ultimately, the literal cleaning meets the figurative and I can let go.
Somewhere between the Pine-sol and the tattered vestiges of my sour attitude, I can just cry it out. In the end I feel loads better and Grandma Millie's kitchen is again usable...So, can I come clean your stuff?
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