life

Like Dinos for Ponies

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A few weeks back I made this big stink about writing more frequently and yet since that time I have wound up writing less than ever.

I haven’t cooked anything new.

I’m still in the office a million hours a week.

And now I’ve taken on a second job, albeit a small one at one night a week, as a Quiz Master.

So, I’m writing today, dammit.

I’m trying to find meaning and balance in my life. I say “meaning”, maybe that’s a bit harsh. I am an adult now, which is easy to claim on the basis of age, but much harder to grasp in terms of…everything else. I have no children because they are expensive. Also, they smell, but I could probably get over that. I do not feel settled in my career because when you’re a child there is only the want to be. To be an astronaut, a veterinarian, a doctor, a teacher, a lion wrangler, something definitive, something viewed as great, and you’re blissfully unaware in youth of the lesser positions, such office administration, personal assisting, the horrible world that is retail, etc. You think everything is fair, that you work 8:30am to 5pm, at which point you’re allowed to have a life and holidays off. And for working those hours you earn enough cash to afford said life, a vacation once a year, medical bills, the surprise of a car breaking down. The world has changed, however. And I am cranky for it.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. Maybe the world hasn’t changed.

Adulthood – Something I’ve sparred with more than once on here. It’s hard to view one’s self as a true adult as I base my idea of an adult on my parents, who I viewed most while a child in the 1980’s. Also, at its core my life is one of learning, of being excited for art, history, the beauty, destruction, and evolution of our past. This blurs the lines of being an adult personally because one is supposed to let go of the loves you have as a child as you grow into maturity. As a child I loved learning, I loved museums. And I will not let go of those.

Speaking of cores, we all have an inner voice within us. If we didn’t we wouldn’t be able to read silently. Boom. Inner voice. As we grow, mature, and learn this inner voices matures with us, is us, defines our rationals and decision making processes. Every once in a while, however, my inner voice isn’t me.

That sounds bizarre and creepy. Scratch that.

What I mean to say is that every once in a while my inner child speaks for my inner voice.

This morning I read an article about a new “Alien Horned” dinosaur discovered in Canada recently. It’s called an “Alien” based on it’s scientific name (Xenoceratops), Xeno of course being latin for Alien. Yeah, no, stop thinking Scientology. I mean, their use of Xenu isn’t exactly wrong, but it’s also not real. Dinosaurs were real (unless of course that offends you, but if it does then you probably wouldn’t be reading my blog).

The point is the new dino didn’t look all that different. He’s instantly recognizable as a close relation to the Triceratops.

Ole’ Xeno himself. (Photo Credit Yahoo News)

So, I see the headline of a new dinosaur discovery and I can’t click fast enough out of childlike wonder and excitement, only for my eyes to rest on a rather familiar-though-slightly-different face. And my inner child’s inner voice takes over and says to me:

“That’s not new. That’s the dinosaur I’d ride like a horse if I lived back then.”

And that’s my first thought on this matter. Not “My, a new relation of a classic. How interesting!”, not “A new discovery! How delightful!”, not “Oh, joy, something new! The World as we know it is astounding!” Nope.

My first thought is that this is boring, because I would ride a triceratops and all of his or her kin like wild ponies of the Cretaceous Period.

WHY is that my first thought looking at poor Xeno Horn over here? First of all, no I wouldn’t have. In the improbable event of finding myself stuck back a few dozens of millions of years ago in the Earth’s beginnings, I would not be saddling up great monsters. Trampled to death? Maybe. Stung by a giant, horrifying insect of yore and left for dead? Most likely. Tour around on a Xenoceratops? Absolutely not. Not only did my inner child hop a ride on a Jules Verne or H.G. Wells premise, but I also came up with the girliest, most childish thought:

Big beast. I ride. He my friend. I call him “Friendy”.

I say “girliest” because though I spent much of my youth working on farms just so I could ride horses, I would have much rather had a dinosaur or pterosaur as a trusty stead; ponies were just practice. This was me at my girliest.

I love history, I respect history, I learn from history. Apparently, however, I will not grow out of my periodic inner child no matter how immature she may forever be.

I don’t think I mind this, though. It’s that childishness that keeps me enthusiastic over the interesting things I love, and I find that joy to be easily contagious to those around me. Maybe it will even make me a good parent, if ever I decide to embark on that experience. I know it certainly made my father a good dad, albeit a pretty corny one.

On Being 30

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This isn’t for you. It’s for me.

This is me, prior to turning 30.

Now I am 30.

I am female.

I like my hair, which is almost black with some gray and a single pink streak.

I live in Austin, Texas.

I like to think one day I will move away and work for America’s Test Kitchen/Cook’s Country.

I do not believe this is actually true.

I am not thin. The opposite of thin. What’s the word? Fat? Yes: I am fat. That’s not self-deprecating, merely true.

I am self-deprecating.

I never thought I’d have 2 degrees at 26.

I never thought I’d be a home owner at 27.

I have two (2) cats, which I blame on other people.

When my boyfriend exits a room and the cats look longingly after him, I like to tell them “Daddy’s gone for cigarettes and he’s never coming back.”

I do not smoke.

I have two (2) degrees, a BA in history and an MA in Secondary Ed.

I am an Executive Admin. I tell people I administer Executives.

I feel I have no direction.

I have been to Canada and Mexico.

I want to fit in.

I do not have cable, but I watch an incredible amount of television.

I have a very good sense of humor; it is very easy to not take things seriously.

Many times my joking makes people uncomfortable, which deeply amuses me.

I may make people laugh, but no one makes me laugh harder than my loves.

I enjoy cooking and writing.

I have been told that as a child I cried a lot. I do not cry as an adult.

I have had no less than twelve (12) bad hair cuts.

I have had no more than seven (7) good haircuts.

I am rough-and-tumble, and wonder what it’s like to be delicate, in a slightly envious way.

I own no less than eight (8) black t-shirts.

I get off topic quite regularly. Generally because I don’t care about the current topic.

I am horrified by the change in women’s rights that has occurred in 2012 alone.

I have zero children. I have been pregnant once.

I swear like a sailor. I don’t mean to.

I claim to hate people in general. This is not entirely inaccurate.

I hate people who turn down education.

I think baby ostriches are fucking adorable.I think adult ones are crazy as shit and would probably die due to provocation if ever I encountered one. Like ex-dinosaurs, those things.

I like Star Wars. Entirely too much.

I like Star Trek. Entirely to0 much.

I like to play games. I periodically cheated at Monopoly as I child, though I now care only for playing and not ever winning.

I like jazz more than I’ve ever let on.

I am stupidly opinionated. I even dislike me half the time.

I can poach an egg like a fucking champ.

I want constantly. It’s horrible and by far one of the traits I dislike most about myself.

I have never known my father without a mustache. I tell people that baby “pinky” mice live underneath it, the mustache being their protective shelter.

When I was a child my mother had braces, as did my brother.

I have never had braces.

I worry constantly. At night the worries become anxiety.

I amazed and entertained by the fact that some American’s bleach their anuses.

I find writing, especially poor writing, to be the most self-indulgent crap that’s swirling around the interwebs. (I’m looking a you, current post.)

I truly love joy. I find it exciting, and easily the best part of life and laughing.

I am immensely fortunate because, if nothing else, my boyfriend “gets” me. He truly does.

I am 30. And that’s just fine with me. For now.

This is me today. Not much has changed.

You Are Here.

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Many years ago I stepped on a train.

I very consciously, albeit impulsively, made the decision to do so. I have seldom known a personal decision that was not impulsive, but that’s not really the point. I got on this train and off it went, destination unknown, though I had plenty of ideas and dreams where I would have liked it to go. But dreams do not always a destination make.

For a long time the train moved this way and that, bobbing around corners, loping over hills, dipping, swaying, and all the time I sat content, happy just to be moving. Eventually, however, I noticed that the train was gathering speed. I had been carefree for too long. It would now take work and time to stop the train, two things I both dive into and shy away from depending on the day.

To quell my worries of the hastening ride, I would purchase a little something, a snack or a magazine, something to take my mind off the issue at hand. But though those purchases made my anxious journey momentarily more comfortable, they also increased my speed and lengthened the trip. Soon I was partaking in larger and larger escapes to satiate the fear of hurtling through the unknown, a nice dinner, a toy, a computer, a home, a career, all extending my stay, all accelerating the train. And all in desperate attempts to prove that I was merely a passenger,  not the conductor, and therefore was not responsible, or perhaps had more control, over its destination. For if I were just a passenger, I would have a ticket that says precisely when enough is enough. Wouldn’t I?

The train is still moving now, only the determined momentum makes it almost impossible to enjoy the scenery. It’s loops and bobs are frequently swerving, lurching, and sudden drops, catching me off guard and sending me careening clumsily out of my seat. I struggle at times to see what I’ve done, to know that I was never just a passenger.

The thing is that I don’t want to necessarily disembark. I simply want to stop the train and step outside a moment. I want to look at the engine and the cars themselves from the outside. I want to dispose of the excess. I want to climb atop its funnel and see the end of the line, to know where its going. I don’t want to leave it, or for it to leave me. I just want to see it from new angles, and to view it as a whole. After all, it’s part of me.