I started this blog with a bang, then I slacked, because that's who I am and that's what I do. I never thought I'd say this, but, I need to write. It's cathartic, it's therapeutic, it's calming. I'm a master at talking people down from their ledges, I fucking suck at listening to my own reason.
This is about taking chances, leaps of faith. You really won't get anywhere or learn anything new if you don't try new things and risk it all once in a while. I don't like living in a stagnant pond. I would much rather live at the bottom of a waterfall, churning, foaming, constantly flowing, dynamic. I get bored, I get burned out. I like new challenges.
If you follow or know me, you know that last year, after 10 years of employment, my company was swallowed up by a corporate whale and I was Gepetto or Pinnochio. Stuck in the belly of the beast until I was informed I was being laid off, they were blowing me out their blow hole like a giant snot bubble. I took it as a challenge, do something big. I worked out a great opportunity in the middle of an oil boom. Why not? Great experience, great money, definitely a new challenge. Then, 6 weeks later, the oil market tanked. Life in this crazy little town ground to a halt and with it, the money, the opportunity, the promise. Poof, gone. I knew I could tolerate this small town if I was making big money and busy. I'm not and I'm not. My nearest Starbucks is an hour and a half away. Yeah, I'm that chick, I don't fucking care, I want a fucking caramel macchiato and I want it Right. Fucking. Now!!
If I were talking to me, I'd tell me not to be down on myself, I didn't make a mistake, I took a chance. It didn't pan out. You can't win every bet. You're stronger and wiser for it and you've experienced some new things. Now pull yourself up by your bra straps and get back on that fucking horse and pull your wagon to the next stop! Everything happens for a reason, right?
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
James of the Plains
This is not a sad post, though I may be writing it through a few tears. I try to smile when I think about my dad. I got my sense of humor from him. All of us kids got a healthy dose of his sense of humor, much to my mother's chagrin.
I lost my dad February 10, 2010. Yesterday was the 5 yr anniversary. I have found someway to let it slip my mind every year, but I'm never quite right on that day, and I'm never quite sure why until the next day or a couple days later. I had a little melt down last night coupled with a little anxiety attack. I chalked it up to the hormone dragon who guards my ovaries, but it's not even that time. I reached for the wine, I'm not a big wine drinker, but I downed a glass and it hit the spot, you know the spot, we all have it, it's the feels. I don't like the feels. I'm much happier laughing and being ridiculous. The feels suck. I just wanted to be left alone. I stayed up way too late trying to fix my wireless router, choosing something that would aggravate me to no end so that I could blame my annoyance and anxiety on the router. I do this subconsciously.
Today, however, is a new day. I am thinking about my dad, missing him, still trying to do things in my life to make him proud. He was proud of me, he told me often. I should be better about telling my kids how proud I am of them. I suck at those kinds of things.
My dad was an English major, a writer, a reader. I excel at all of those, however, I never much cared for writing. I don't know what has changed the last few years, perhaps it was his death, maybe I feel like I need to carry the torch. I'm finding it rather cathartic, maybe I should have started years ago. My dad was a public speaker, he wrote his speeches, his resumes were works of art to him, he also wrote poetry and a short story or two. He was never published, his poems were homages to friends, family and his adopted hometown. I have them tucked away somewhere. I'll pull them out one day and give them the attention they deserve. Maybe he will be a legend in his afterlife, he was always a legend in his own mind.
I leave you with this, a poem I wrote when my dad passed. He was a cowboy, maybe not the best, or the wisest, but he had heart and passion for the lifestyle. As a kid, I thought it was so hilarious when he'd tell someone that there's 3 things you never do: French kiss a rattlesnake, crochet barbed wire, and (insert whatever stupid thing said person was doing or saying at that moment).
He was a tough ol’ bird
And according to his word
There are 3 things you never do,
French kiss a rattlesnake, crochet barbed wire,
And whatever it is that you’re about to.
Melstone, Montana was his home on the range
There is not a thing he would change
About his days learning to rope and ride
With his best friends by his side.
He’d pay you a visit,
that was but part of the plan
Before he’d left,
you’d have bought something
That was Jim, the salesman.
He loved to cook, he loved his kids
And no one put up with more than Bark did. ("Bark" was his wife, Barb, my son mispronounced it once)
He’d spend hours cooking Jim style
And Barb would choke it down with a smile.
Four grandchildren were his prides and joys
And for them, he shopped for “grampa toys” (farm toys)
His latest love was a pup named Scooby,
He was devoted to dad completely and truly.
Joe and Spunky, and Oakey and Buck
And Lonesome and good ol’ Mouse (All of his favorite horses)
Are upstairs waiting in that great big pasture
Out behind God’s house
They need a brush and a flake of hay
And maybe a ride on a clear big sky day
And from all of us here, Jim’s whole troop
We thank you for coming
He’s finished “The Loop”(an inside joke, a run of errands was always referred to as "making a loop" and if you got caught in the car with him, you were stuck, maybe for hours, while he finished his "loop". He loved the company and would sucker anyone he could into riding with him.)
~Deuces, J
I lost my dad February 10, 2010. Yesterday was the 5 yr anniversary. I have found someway to let it slip my mind every year, but I'm never quite right on that day, and I'm never quite sure why until the next day or a couple days later. I had a little melt down last night coupled with a little anxiety attack. I chalked it up to the hormone dragon who guards my ovaries, but it's not even that time. I reached for the wine, I'm not a big wine drinker, but I downed a glass and it hit the spot, you know the spot, we all have it, it's the feels. I don't like the feels. I'm much happier laughing and being ridiculous. The feels suck. I just wanted to be left alone. I stayed up way too late trying to fix my wireless router, choosing something that would aggravate me to no end so that I could blame my annoyance and anxiety on the router. I do this subconsciously.
Today, however, is a new day. I am thinking about my dad, missing him, still trying to do things in my life to make him proud. He was proud of me, he told me often. I should be better about telling my kids how proud I am of them. I suck at those kinds of things.
My dad was an English major, a writer, a reader. I excel at all of those, however, I never much cared for writing. I don't know what has changed the last few years, perhaps it was his death, maybe I feel like I need to carry the torch. I'm finding it rather cathartic, maybe I should have started years ago. My dad was a public speaker, he wrote his speeches, his resumes were works of art to him, he also wrote poetry and a short story or two. He was never published, his poems were homages to friends, family and his adopted hometown. I have them tucked away somewhere. I'll pull them out one day and give them the attention they deserve. Maybe he will be a legend in his afterlife, he was always a legend in his own mind.
I leave you with this, a poem I wrote when my dad passed. He was a cowboy, maybe not the best, or the wisest, but he had heart and passion for the lifestyle. As a kid, I thought it was so hilarious when he'd tell someone that there's 3 things you never do: French kiss a rattlesnake, crochet barbed wire, and (insert whatever stupid thing said person was doing or saying at that moment).
He was a tough ol’ bird
And according to his word
There are 3 things you never do,
French kiss a rattlesnake, crochet barbed wire,
And whatever it is that you’re about to.
Melstone, Montana was his home on the range
There is not a thing he would change
About his days learning to rope and ride
With his best friends by his side.
He’d pay you a visit,
that was but part of the plan
Before he’d left,
you’d have bought something
That was Jim, the salesman.
He loved to cook, he loved his kids
And no one put up with more than Bark did. ("Bark" was his wife, Barb, my son mispronounced it once)
He’d spend hours cooking Jim style
And Barb would choke it down with a smile.
Four grandchildren were his prides and joys
And for them, he shopped for “grampa toys” (farm toys)
His latest love was a pup named Scooby,
He was devoted to dad completely and truly.
Joe and Spunky, and Oakey and Buck
And Lonesome and good ol’ Mouse (All of his favorite horses)
Are upstairs waiting in that great big pasture
Out behind God’s house
They need a brush and a flake of hay
And maybe a ride on a clear big sky day
And from all of us here, Jim’s whole troop
We thank you for coming
He’s finished “The Loop”(an inside joke, a run of errands was always referred to as "making a loop" and if you got caught in the car with him, you were stuck, maybe for hours, while he finished his "loop". He loved the company and would sucker anyone he could into riding with him.)
~Deuces, J
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