Month: January 2007

An Open Letter to my Blog

Dear Blog,

As you may have noticed, I haven’t been as faithful to post as I promised you I would. I know I’ve been telling you that I’ll come here more often and update you on my life….but let’s face it…I hardly have one. You’ve known that from the very beginning. This daily blogging is far too demanding for my current lifestyle.

Look, all I’m saying is it’s not you. It’s me. I’m the one with the problem. I need action, excitement — activity, for crying out loud. Getting out of the house would be a start. That means not being around you every day.

You know how it is…don’t you? It’s not that I don’t love you…I do. And for what it’s worth, I promise that in the future I’ll try harder to keep you fresh and new. Interesting, even. I’ll even enlist the help of my kids…bring back some kid stories…maybe some marriage material…I don’t know….SOMETHING.

All I’m asking for right now is the right to update you. Can I still do that? I don’t mind if other people read you…and I’ll only come around early in the morning or late at night, whichever works for you. If you don’t feel like an update, then maybe we could just hang out…maybe read old posts or something. You know, for old time’s sake?

Take today and think about. I’ll get back with you in a day or so. No pressure from me…I just needed to let you know that although I’m lazy? I still care.

Maybe we could even get back what we used to have…

Yours,
Karen

How to Become Successful in Life

1. Get a Goal
2. Get a Plan
3. Get Started

Yep, it’s that easy.

My goal today?
I will wash 4 loads of laundry and fold them AND put them away.
I will get our tax prep done and ready for the CPA.

My plan?
I will sort the clothes into piles and put them in the washer, one load at a time.
I will get the folder with our tax info out and finish what I started a week ago.

Get started?
Um…that would be now.

Happy Tuesday!

The Perfect Valentine’s Gift

Nothing new from me today. I bring you this delightfully humorous blog courtesy of DeeDee over at It Coulda Been Worse. It had me snorting my coffee…Enjoy!

With Valentines Day fast approaching, I think I’ve found the solution to every husband’s dilemma regarding what to get for the little woman. A Pocket Taser Stun Gun. It’s the perfect gift. In this day and age, we can never be too careful. So, girls, you might want to pass this tidbit along to your husbands. I know I will.

My friend Don, always looking for something special for his wife, gave me the idea, and even found the following testimonial for this most excellent gift idea.

Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife. A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Taser for their anniversary submitted this :

“Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety….
WAY TOO COOL!
Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-a batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I’d get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. Awesome!!!
Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Betty what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave. Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries, right?!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a
second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.
Was I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.
All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries) thinking to myself, “no possible way!” What happened next is almost beyond description,but I’ll do my best…
I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, “don’t do it master,” reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn’t hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!!! I’m pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, “do it again, do it again!”
Note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative.
SON-OF-A-… that hurt like …..!!! A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still
twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom
lip weighed 88 lbs. I’m still looking for my testicles. I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return.”

Career-minded…

(PHOTO REMOVED TO PROTECT THE PRIVACY OF MY CHILDREN!)

I was living in Austin, a divorced mom of one very lively 3 year old. I moved there because I thought I wanted to pursue the career of my dreams and make a lot of money doing it. (I am still in training and development, just on a different level.)

We had only been living there for a week or two and I hadn’t learned my way around the city yet. Katie had already become accustomed to getting lost while driving in the car with me and was quite adept at spotting a place to turn around or an exit we could take to get back on track. She had become my navigator.

It was a dark, rainy night and we were meeting my new boss and his wife for dinner at a local Olive Garden. The wind and rains were so fierce that the power had been knocked out for several city blocks. I was driving at turtle speed with windshield wipers furiously flapping back and forth, my eyes glued on the road, watching for my turn. Katie was safely strapped in her carseat directly behind me, the only sound in the vehicle was the steady swish, swish of the windshield wipers.

Becoming increasingly frustrated at my lack of ability to see anything beyond 2 ft in front of me, I muttered out loud, “I can’t see SQUAT!”

Within a few minutes, I found the restaurant we were meeting my boss at and when I stopped the vehicle, I turned to see Katie with her little nose pressed against her window. When I inquired of her what she was doing, she simply replied, “I’m lookin’ for SQUAT!”

The postman isn’t the only one who shows up for work in the rain.

Coffee with God

A group of alumni, highly established in their careers, got talking at a reunion and decided to go visit their old university professor, now retired. During their visit conversation soon turned into complaints about stress in their work and lives.

Offering his guests coffee, the professor went to the kitchen and returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups – porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain looking, some expensive, some exquisite – telling them to help themselves to the coffee.

When all the alumni had a cup of coffee in hand, the professor said, “Notice that all the nice looking, expensive cups were taken up, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is normal for you to want only the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress.

Be assured that the cup itself adds no quality to the coffee. In most cases it is just more expensive and in some cases even hides what we drink. What all of you really wanted was coffee, not the cup, but you consciously went for the best cups… and then you began eyeing each other’s cups.
Now consider this: Life is the coffee; your job, money and position in society are the cups. They are just tools to hold and contain Life. The type of cup one has does not define, nor change the quality of Life a person lives.

Sometimes, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to enjoy the coffee God has provided us. The happiest people don’t have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything.”

God brews the coffee, not the cups… Enjoy your coffee!

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Spend time with God over your coffee.

The Day the Rabbit Died…

My best friend called me today to tell me she is pregnant. She is exactly 25 days younger than me, which makes her 37. And…she is not all that excited about having a baby when she already has a 16 year old and a 12 year old at home. She thought she was done with the late night feedings and the early morning diaper blowouts.

In a way, I can identify…I cried when I found out I was pregnant with Abby. It wasn’t tears of joy at first. It was tears of “Oh my, what have I gotten myself into now?” Overweight, out of shape, close to middle age tears. It was selfishness on my part…plain unadulterated selfishness. And then I remembered a day five years before when one of my babies went to Heaven.

I snapped out of my self-induced pity party almost instantly. And I wished I could take away those initial feelings of disappointment I had when I found out I was pregnant with Abby.

By the time we hung up, my friend was feeling better, even laughing. After all, middle age pregnancy is quite possible the only time you can wake up with a sleep-induced injury.

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