Do you believe in jinxes and superstition? Do you make wishes at 11:11, eyes closed in deep thought? Or do you believe all this is a bunch of hooey?
Logically, I understand I can't change the world based upon the clothing I choose. However, if you heard a story about a girl who wore a particular Steelers fleece sweatshirt last year for the AFC Wild Card game aganist the Jaguars (which we lost) and who then did not wear that fleece again until Sunday for the match-up with the Giants (yep, another loss) would you think the fleece sweatshirt was cursed? Or merely a cooincidental theme?
It might sound crazy, but today when I went to vote (which we can do early here in NC) I put that fleece sweatshirt on and then debated whether I should wear it while I cast my ever-important vote. What if it really is cursed? Could I bring down the fate of the nation? I thought maybe I should just rip it off and wear something else.
But, I did not. My more rational belief process won out. While I do not fully trust our version of an "electoral system" I don't think my vote will matter more or less due to the clothes on my back.
Gosh, I hope it turns out my way. Or I will forever blame myself and that fleece sweatshirt. As crazy as it sounds, I just can't help it. I don't want to have to wrangle with that idea for the rest of my life - never mind the opposite choice in office for the next four years.
But I'll think twice anyway before I wear it again on gameday. Old habits die hard, I guess - and with the Steelers, any little bit helps.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
I'm Dreaming of a White...Halloween?
It's freakin' freezing down here in the alleged "south." It snowed this morning and the wind is brutal - and all before Halloween. The multitudes of political signs on the roadside even remained snow-covered on my way into work! (I still know at which to wink and at which to scoff, though - I guess I've got them memorized at this point.)
I thought when I moved to North Carolina, the "Carolina" (which in my mind equals sandy beaches, sun, and seagulls) would somehow outweigh the "North" (i.e. snowy snow and snowflakes laced in snow.) But, I guess the mountainous terrain keeps us firmly planted in seasonal changes and days like this remind me more of gray cold Pennsylvania than southern skies.
When I first got here, I routinely became perturbed about this weather. Darn it, I moved south for a reason! But today, while I shivered due to my ridiculous outfit (what the hee was I thinking?) I actually appreciated what nature doled out.
Some gorgeous autumn leaves still hang on the trees, while the rest roll about on the frozen ground. While the temperature is Santa Claus, there are still pumpkins on porches and fall is in full effect. (I do feel a bit bad that Halloween costumes might need altered for this colder spell - boy did I hate having to put a sweater over a carefully calculated outfit for the annual parade. Gah!) The change might be a bit drastic, but it reminds of the shift in time, from summery greens to wintery nights, warmed by fire and love.
There are, of course, good things to be had in all times of the year. I don't think I really took that in as much in my past. In a way, it took this move south for me to truly appreciate all the good things colder days and nights provide.
It just can't be summer forever, you know...
I thought when I moved to North Carolina, the "Carolina" (which in my mind equals sandy beaches, sun, and seagulls) would somehow outweigh the "North" (i.e. snowy snow and snowflakes laced in snow.) But, I guess the mountainous terrain keeps us firmly planted in seasonal changes and days like this remind me more of gray cold Pennsylvania than southern skies.
When I first got here, I routinely became perturbed about this weather. Darn it, I moved south for a reason! But today, while I shivered due to my ridiculous outfit (what the hee was I thinking?) I actually appreciated what nature doled out.
Some gorgeous autumn leaves still hang on the trees, while the rest roll about on the frozen ground. While the temperature is Santa Claus, there are still pumpkins on porches and fall is in full effect. (I do feel a bit bad that Halloween costumes might need altered for this colder spell - boy did I hate having to put a sweater over a carefully calculated outfit for the annual parade. Gah!) The change might be a bit drastic, but it reminds of the shift in time, from summery greens to wintery nights, warmed by fire and love.
There are, of course, good things to be had in all times of the year. I don't think I really took that in as much in my past. In a way, it took this move south for me to truly appreciate all the good things colder days and nights provide.
It just can't be summer forever, you know...
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Come Josephine in Your Psychic Machine
(Sorry in advance for the longer-than-usual post, but a promise is a promise...)
In honor of the ten-year anniversary this month:
Her name is Josephine and in north central West Virginia her psychic status remains legendary. (She may be dead now, if women of her power ever die…I don't know and would prefer to think of her as alive and kicking, if you don't mind.) For many of my Morgantown years, she remained a theoretical mysticism, only spoken of in third-hand accounts. To add to her intrigue, she had no advertisements for her services and you only got her phone number through personal references.
I'd always heard rumors she did private home readings, so when a brand new friend invited me across the Pennsylvania state line to a "party with Josephine" I breathlessly shared my enthusiasm. We made the trek with several other excited girls only to discover the address and directions led to an empty house, fully furnished but certainly unoccupied on that date. We drove home with a palatable disappointment.
My life went on, of course, always nagged by my unfulfilled psychic visit. Part of my routine became to peruse the pocket books in the supermarket checkout. Each month there would be new installments to decode your dreams and astrologically decipher your life and I ate it up.
One early spring night I visited the all-night grocery with a potential suitor (we'll call him "Dave" because that's his name) who had taken to cooking savory dishes after midnight. I looked at those tiny books along the aisle and wondered out loud at my supernatural fascination. While Dave paid the bill, the customer in front of him looked over at me and mentioned out-of-the-blue, "I just came from Josephine tonight. Do you want her number?" He then pulled out a coupon card from Garfield's restaurant, wrote that long-coveted phone number on the back and handed it to me, dumbfounded, in the check-out line.
Strangely enough, I did not call that number right away. That night I mulled it over with Dave and pondered the reasons I wanted that psychic vision. What did I want to hear? For what did I search? Days and weeks and months later, I still reached for those answers and left the card in my planner, a daily reminder of that for which I both longed and feared.
The spring turned to summer, which flew into fall. The circle of friends I had adored so much had broken into fragments and scattered, not by my choice but certainly to my advantage. Still, my little life started to feel foreign a bit lost.
One night, while under the influence of Molson Golden and pure adrenalin, my new roommate and I decided to finally call Josephine on the phone and make an appointment. Why that time? I can't say, except that whatever Josephine told to me could certainly not disappoint. At this particular low point, you could say I had the most open mind ever.
Josephine answered on the first ring and informed me I would be coming on Monday at 6:00. No negotiations or wrangling. No directions. I'd call one half hour before I left my home on Monday to find out how to get there. I'd bring someone with me, of course. I hadn't told her the appointment was for two.
So, I called her Monday afternoon and got the directions. My roommate and I drove the twenty or so miles to find a small residential home, where we entered a welcome, warm kitchen. It smelled like it looked: a grandmother's house, all electric heat and remnants of food and soft surfaces. A middle-aged lady sat at the round kitchen table and told us she had a standing appointment with Josephine every week. Josephine had predicted all the major mine disasters in the town, a neighbor's husband's death, and any births and deaths on the typical horizon. Sit, she told us. We were in for a treat.
Josephine's bedroom door opened and she summoned me inside. She stood barely five feet tall hunched over. She had gray hair in an old-lady frizz on her head and wore a calf-length housecoat and slippers. When I see the Oracle in The Matrix movies, I picture Josephine, with only the ethnicity swapped.
She motioned me toward a card table and metal folding chair. Josephine handed me a deck of playing cards, directed me to sit, and told me to shuffle and place them, face down, into four piles.
I formed my four, fateful piles. Then, she turned card after card after card and began to lay out my life's plan, as she saw it. A half hour later, I left a vastly different girl.
***
The details of her reading intrigue to this day. While on an early date with my eventual husband Scott, I realized he was a "dark, handsome man from my past" just as I'd been warned one would try to contact me. Josephine had told me I'd be married or engaged within a year of that reading, that I'd likely marry someone "a little above me" in terms of money or education (since I do not prefer a "caretaker" role) and that he'd likely be named William, yet use an alternate moniker. So when I became engaged to William Scott less than a year from the psychic visit, it seemed spooky to say the least.
A great deal has already materialized in ten years – my move south, my career switch, my additional education, the marriage, an increased financial state. I still think all the time of my visit – me, with my "long, happy lifeline." I wonder if I'll ever meet that third child of whom she spoke (there were three kids in my lifeline, not all of them mine; same with the two marriages; Scott does have two kids from his first marriage, you know…)
Over the years, Scott has grown to worry about my turning right in the rain or mist (because "that is it" she warned) even though he maintains an outward skepticism. Yes, Josephine does play a role to this day.
These past ten years only solidified my belief in her truth. And also in my belief that nothing beats a good story – especially if it's a story about a seemingly truth-telling psychic around Halloween.
So what if it did take me years to get her number? It was well worth it, I'd say.
In honor of the ten-year anniversary this month:
Her name is Josephine and in north central West Virginia her psychic status remains legendary. (She may be dead now, if women of her power ever die…I don't know and would prefer to think of her as alive and kicking, if you don't mind.) For many of my Morgantown years, she remained a theoretical mysticism, only spoken of in third-hand accounts. To add to her intrigue, she had no advertisements for her services and you only got her phone number through personal references.
I'd always heard rumors she did private home readings, so when a brand new friend invited me across the Pennsylvania state line to a "party with Josephine" I breathlessly shared my enthusiasm. We made the trek with several other excited girls only to discover the address and directions led to an empty house, fully furnished but certainly unoccupied on that date. We drove home with a palatable disappointment.
My life went on, of course, always nagged by my unfulfilled psychic visit. Part of my routine became to peruse the pocket books in the supermarket checkout. Each month there would be new installments to decode your dreams and astrologically decipher your life and I ate it up.
One early spring night I visited the all-night grocery with a potential suitor (we'll call him "Dave" because that's his name) who had taken to cooking savory dishes after midnight. I looked at those tiny books along the aisle and wondered out loud at my supernatural fascination. While Dave paid the bill, the customer in front of him looked over at me and mentioned out-of-the-blue, "I just came from Josephine tonight. Do you want her number?" He then pulled out a coupon card from Garfield's restaurant, wrote that long-coveted phone number on the back and handed it to me, dumbfounded, in the check-out line.
Strangely enough, I did not call that number right away. That night I mulled it over with Dave and pondered the reasons I wanted that psychic vision. What did I want to hear? For what did I search? Days and weeks and months later, I still reached for those answers and left the card in my planner, a daily reminder of that for which I both longed and feared.
The spring turned to summer, which flew into fall. The circle of friends I had adored so much had broken into fragments and scattered, not by my choice but certainly to my advantage. Still, my little life started to feel foreign a bit lost.
One night, while under the influence of Molson Golden and pure adrenalin, my new roommate and I decided to finally call Josephine on the phone and make an appointment. Why that time? I can't say, except that whatever Josephine told to me could certainly not disappoint. At this particular low point, you could say I had the most open mind ever.
Josephine answered on the first ring and informed me I would be coming on Monday at 6:00. No negotiations or wrangling. No directions. I'd call one half hour before I left my home on Monday to find out how to get there. I'd bring someone with me, of course. I hadn't told her the appointment was for two.
So, I called her Monday afternoon and got the directions. My roommate and I drove the twenty or so miles to find a small residential home, where we entered a welcome, warm kitchen. It smelled like it looked: a grandmother's house, all electric heat and remnants of food and soft surfaces. A middle-aged lady sat at the round kitchen table and told us she had a standing appointment with Josephine every week. Josephine had predicted all the major mine disasters in the town, a neighbor's husband's death, and any births and deaths on the typical horizon. Sit, she told us. We were in for a treat.
Josephine's bedroom door opened and she summoned me inside. She stood barely five feet tall hunched over. She had gray hair in an old-lady frizz on her head and wore a calf-length housecoat and slippers. When I see the Oracle in The Matrix movies, I picture Josephine, with only the ethnicity swapped.
She motioned me toward a card table and metal folding chair. Josephine handed me a deck of playing cards, directed me to sit, and told me to shuffle and place them, face down, into four piles.
I formed my four, fateful piles. Then, she turned card after card after card and began to lay out my life's plan, as she saw it. A half hour later, I left a vastly different girl.
***
The details of her reading intrigue to this day. While on an early date with my eventual husband Scott, I realized he was a "dark, handsome man from my past" just as I'd been warned one would try to contact me. Josephine had told me I'd be married or engaged within a year of that reading, that I'd likely marry someone "a little above me" in terms of money or education (since I do not prefer a "caretaker" role) and that he'd likely be named William, yet use an alternate moniker. So when I became engaged to William Scott less than a year from the psychic visit, it seemed spooky to say the least.
A great deal has already materialized in ten years – my move south, my career switch, my additional education, the marriage, an increased financial state. I still think all the time of my visit – me, with my "long, happy lifeline." I wonder if I'll ever meet that third child of whom she spoke (there were three kids in my lifeline, not all of them mine; same with the two marriages; Scott does have two kids from his first marriage, you know…)
Over the years, Scott has grown to worry about my turning right in the rain or mist (because "that is it" she warned) even though he maintains an outward skepticism. Yes, Josephine does play a role to this day.
These past ten years only solidified my belief in her truth. And also in my belief that nothing beats a good story – especially if it's a story about a seemingly truth-telling psychic around Halloween.
So what if it did take me years to get her number? It was well worth it, I'd say.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Deja What?
Since Halloween is near, I post the following. (Not my original idea, as you will soon find out...)
I began to write about my spooky experience with The Psychic. A few sentences in, I made a decision to save that idea and use it for tomorrow night's edition of Eve's Night Out, the women's writing bonanza I try so hard to attend each month.
So, I opened a new window to copy my already-started post and had a stronger-than-usual sense of deja vu - right down to what little Mike Greenberg blathered on about on "Mike and Mike in the Morning." Cooincidence? Maybe. But when it surrounds The Psychic story, one can not be sure.
My deja vu happens at least five times a week, no joke. It is a powerful phenomenon which I find so fascinating and exhilerating, I hope it never diminishes. (I am also quite creeped out by it, but my curiosity trumps my fear. Maybe in this case only.) It's happened several times as I've dealt one way or another with The Psychic story, so I've convinced myself there is an otherworldly connection.
I wish I could be dialed in with the supernatural, ala John Edward, to tap into these ideas and access the other layers of consciousness. I don't seem to have that gift. Sure, there are times I can predict the phone will ring and who will call and the like - but I chalk it up to energy forces and not true psychic ability, the same idea as those boardwalk beach ladies who overcharge you on vacation. True psychic visions are rare and beautiful to me and I will forever be in awe of those with such talent.
All I can do is repeat the personal glimpses I've had in my life. I feel blessed to have even that to share.
Scary? You bet. Worth it? Absolutely.
I began to write about my spooky experience with The Psychic. A few sentences in, I made a decision to save that idea and use it for tomorrow night's edition of Eve's Night Out, the women's writing bonanza I try so hard to attend each month.
So, I opened a new window to copy my already-started post and had a stronger-than-usual sense of deja vu - right down to what little Mike Greenberg blathered on about on "Mike and Mike in the Morning." Cooincidence? Maybe. But when it surrounds The Psychic story, one can not be sure.
My deja vu happens at least five times a week, no joke. It is a powerful phenomenon which I find so fascinating and exhilerating, I hope it never diminishes. (I am also quite creeped out by it, but my curiosity trumps my fear. Maybe in this case only.) It's happened several times as I've dealt one way or another with The Psychic story, so I've convinced myself there is an otherworldly connection.
I wish I could be dialed in with the supernatural, ala John Edward, to tap into these ideas and access the other layers of consciousness. I don't seem to have that gift. Sure, there are times I can predict the phone will ring and who will call and the like - but I chalk it up to energy forces and not true psychic ability, the same idea as those boardwalk beach ladies who overcharge you on vacation. True psychic visions are rare and beautiful to me and I will forever be in awe of those with such talent.
All I can do is repeat the personal glimpses I've had in my life. I feel blessed to have even that to share.
Scary? You bet. Worth it? Absolutely.
Monday, October 20, 2008
The Filthiest Towel in the Whole USA
In honor of the Steelers' important win yesterday and to commemorate the fact that the "Curse of the Smokers' Barn" (long story) appears obliterated, my homage to a legend:
All real Steelers fans have at least one Terrible Towel. You hang onto it, take it with you to games and thrash it about in wild enthusiasm when good stuff happens. As a crazed fan at real-life Steelers games, I've walked my ice cold beer past venders hawking bright yellow Terrible Towels, hot off the iron. I've visited the Steelers store many times and marveled at the piles of brand new Terrible Towels, and once even bought one so mighty Myron Cope could autograph it. (That particular version hangs on my wall, never to be used in any other way but decorative.) But as for my own towel, well...
My faithful Terrible Towel is not bright yellow, though it may have once been - I don't know because I haven't known it since its inception. Now, it's more of a dingy mustard color. I received it as a gift and I think my dad might have found it outside good old Three Rivers Stadium years ago. This could also be a family urban legend in itself 'cause no one is for sure. I know it's old and beat up and I've had it for well over ten years. Before that? Your guess. The edges are frayed from being swung and pulled and thrown in frustration, stepped on, forgotten behind at Kegler's to be frantically retrieved, and drug to and 'fro from single apartments to married homes.
There is no discernable smell, though there should be, since I've used it as a bar rag to soak up bar spills, a napkin to wipe beer and hot sauce from my face, and a weapon to ward away rival fans. I've never washed it, out of fear it might fall apart and out of superstition that it could lose some of its magic. It is, then, far and away, the absolute filthiest, most germ-ridden article ever allowed in any of my many abodes. (Some of which, in college, were themselves quite prone to filth and germs.)
And I love it. I'm proud when with fellow revelers that my towel is of the vintage variety - not brand new and pristine. My towel has seen the thrills of victory (the Colts go down on Vanderjagt's "accuracy", the Steelers win the Super Bowl) and the agony of defeat (Super Bowl loss, how many times did the Patirots beat us?) I've had my faithful towel way longer than most boyfriends or any one of my jobs. You can't beat that kind of loyalty with a stick.
So, I drag that dirty old thing to a new generation of Steelers. From Gary Anderson to Jeff Reed, it's with me through thick and thin. Every time I see it, I smile. I've been through a lot in the past fifteen or so years and I'm reminded that my towel has too, albeit in a different sense.
We've been together this long and I know we have many years ahead of us. Here we go, Steelers. Here. We. Go.
All real Steelers fans have at least one Terrible Towel. You hang onto it, take it with you to games and thrash it about in wild enthusiasm when good stuff happens. As a crazed fan at real-life Steelers games, I've walked my ice cold beer past venders hawking bright yellow Terrible Towels, hot off the iron. I've visited the Steelers store many times and marveled at the piles of brand new Terrible Towels, and once even bought one so mighty Myron Cope could autograph it. (That particular version hangs on my wall, never to be used in any other way but decorative.) But as for my own towel, well...
My faithful Terrible Towel is not bright yellow, though it may have once been - I don't know because I haven't known it since its inception. Now, it's more of a dingy mustard color. I received it as a gift and I think my dad might have found it outside good old Three Rivers Stadium years ago. This could also be a family urban legend in itself 'cause no one is for sure. I know it's old and beat up and I've had it for well over ten years. Before that? Your guess. The edges are frayed from being swung and pulled and thrown in frustration, stepped on, forgotten behind at Kegler's to be frantically retrieved, and drug to and 'fro from single apartments to married homes.
There is no discernable smell, though there should be, since I've used it as a bar rag to soak up bar spills, a napkin to wipe beer and hot sauce from my face, and a weapon to ward away rival fans. I've never washed it, out of fear it might fall apart and out of superstition that it could lose some of its magic. It is, then, far and away, the absolute filthiest, most germ-ridden article ever allowed in any of my many abodes. (Some of which, in college, were themselves quite prone to filth and germs.)
And I love it. I'm proud when with fellow revelers that my towel is of the vintage variety - not brand new and pristine. My towel has seen the thrills of victory (the Colts go down on Vanderjagt's "accuracy", the Steelers win the Super Bowl) and the agony of defeat (Super Bowl loss, how many times did the Patirots beat us?) I've had my faithful towel way longer than most boyfriends or any one of my jobs. You can't beat that kind of loyalty with a stick.
So, I drag that dirty old thing to a new generation of Steelers. From Gary Anderson to Jeff Reed, it's with me through thick and thin. Every time I see it, I smile. I've been through a lot in the past fifteen or so years and I'm reminded that my towel has too, albeit in a different sense.
We've been together this long and I know we have many years ahead of us. Here we go, Steelers. Here. We. Go.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Life's Loveliness
Sometimes life goes so fast and is filled with great excitement and I can't pause to reflect properly. Such is one of those times, apparantly, and you won't hear me complain. The past week and a half has been filled with both fun and insight. The highlights:
I spent one awesome, hot Sunday afternoon on a football field with thousands of my compadres to hear Barack Obama passionately lay out his plan for this country. At the end of his speech, amid the deafening noise, a flock of doves flew across the crisp blue sky and proud emotion overtook me. In that one moment, I truly felt filled with hope. The high has not subsided. (Later that evening, as if it couldn't get better, the Steelers thumped the Jaguars in surprising fashion. Let me tell you, I went to bed one happy camper that night, sunburn and all.)
Scott and Emma and Gracie and I renewed our fall tradition of a weekend at our West Virginia cabin surrounded by the brightest fall hues and smells of autumn. Though West Virginia takes its fair share of hits (some deserved, most definitely not) there is no better place to appreciate nature's glory - particularly at this time of year. Even the shacks along Tucker County's winding roads appear somewhat less sad when surrounded by red and orange brilliance. (To top it off, we listened to the struggling Mountaineers beat Syracuse at WVU's homecoming and our cheers might have been heard across those hills in Morgantown! Go Noel Devine, you little running man!)
Hopefully, these resounding memories will build upon themselves. In reality, I know life is not one beautiful scenario after another. Which makes it all the more lovely when you are handed some goodness.
Thanks, life. Thank you very much.
I spent one awesome, hot Sunday afternoon on a football field with thousands of my compadres to hear Barack Obama passionately lay out his plan for this country. At the end of his speech, amid the deafening noise, a flock of doves flew across the crisp blue sky and proud emotion overtook me. In that one moment, I truly felt filled with hope. The high has not subsided. (Later that evening, as if it couldn't get better, the Steelers thumped the Jaguars in surprising fashion. Let me tell you, I went to bed one happy camper that night, sunburn and all.)
Scott and Emma and Gracie and I renewed our fall tradition of a weekend at our West Virginia cabin surrounded by the brightest fall hues and smells of autumn. Though West Virginia takes its fair share of hits (some deserved, most definitely not) there is no better place to appreciate nature's glory - particularly at this time of year. Even the shacks along Tucker County's winding roads appear somewhat less sad when surrounded by red and orange brilliance. (To top it off, we listened to the struggling Mountaineers beat Syracuse at WVU's homecoming and our cheers might have been heard across those hills in Morgantown! Go Noel Devine, you little running man!)
Hopefully, these resounding memories will build upon themselves. In reality, I know life is not one beautiful scenario after another. Which makes it all the more lovely when you are handed some goodness.
Thanks, life. Thank you very much.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Spread the Love
Technology often scares me. Last night I perused iTunes and found some cool music to add to my playlist and suddenly, a toolbar popped up on the side of the screen informing me of some other music I might like.
Now, I'll gladly take tunes suggestions from my friends or even a random dude on the street if offered, but from a computer program? That is just too creepy for me.
And how could the computer possibly be able to know what I might like? I myself can barely figure that out, which is why Kanye West and Alanis Morisette live harmoniously with Roger Miller, Christina Aguilera, Maroon 5 and scores of showtunes - not to mention Frank Sinatra, JET, and Bobbi Gentry. This is either the most open-minded, inclusive compilation or the most schizophrenic. Either way, it's all genuinely me.
My varied tastes speak to what I believe is my ability to appreciate lots of different cultures and standpoints equally. For example, I might really want to sing along with Reba's "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" (mostly because I want to enthusiastically agree "Don't trust yourself to no backwards Southern lawyer!") A few minutes later I could totally be in the mood for angry old Eminem, then suddenly switch to Billy Joel's "Piano Man."
I don't think this is crazy, just wide open for anything that speaks to me. My diversity is one of my greatest assets and quite possibly the one of which I'm most proud.
There is no way iTunes could read me that deeply.
Now, I'll gladly take tunes suggestions from my friends or even a random dude on the street if offered, but from a computer program? That is just too creepy for me.
And how could the computer possibly be able to know what I might like? I myself can barely figure that out, which is why Kanye West and Alanis Morisette live harmoniously with Roger Miller, Christina Aguilera, Maroon 5 and scores of showtunes - not to mention Frank Sinatra, JET, and Bobbi Gentry. This is either the most open-minded, inclusive compilation or the most schizophrenic. Either way, it's all genuinely me.
My varied tastes speak to what I believe is my ability to appreciate lots of different cultures and standpoints equally. For example, I might really want to sing along with Reba's "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" (mostly because I want to enthusiastically agree "Don't trust yourself to no backwards Southern lawyer!") A few minutes later I could totally be in the mood for angry old Eminem, then suddenly switch to Billy Joel's "Piano Man."
I don't think this is crazy, just wide open for anything that speaks to me. My diversity is one of my greatest assets and quite possibly the one of which I'm most proud.
There is no way iTunes could read me that deeply.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Stress-Sanity
What a stressful week it's been. Never mind the Steelers' inability to put the Monday Night Football game away in a reasonable fashion, forcing an overtime they just didn't need before the match-up in nasty Jacksonville on Sunday night.
Put aside the fact that the Project Runway judges found it somehow reasonable to keep whiny, disrespectful Kenly on my television screen yet one more week (which I hope is the last week of her, though I know better.) And don't get me started on Desperate Housewives - how intrigued I am by this brand new mystery, which I can't keep track of already and it's only been one episode!
Sure, the country is in financial ruin, we don't have any gasoline in this part of the country, and my own personal household has weathered several emotional storms the past few days - and it isn't even Friday yet. I find it nearly impossible to keep track of what makes me anxious half the time, since it could be one of about fifty things I may or may not have made up in my head.
Such is my nemesis in this world: the mangled idea of danger around every turn. I have learned to keep this at bay much of the time - or, at least, hide it in the attempt to "fake it until you make it." I am a walking contradiction: happy, fun, lively, and wrought with anxious paralysis.
I try to take this insight and turn it into the way to help myself - accentuate the positive and downplay the problem areas (as Tim Gunn might advise.) This will not be fixed in a day, but for today, it's my mantra.
Put aside the fact that the Project Runway judges found it somehow reasonable to keep whiny, disrespectful Kenly on my television screen yet one more week (which I hope is the last week of her, though I know better.) And don't get me started on Desperate Housewives - how intrigued I am by this brand new mystery, which I can't keep track of already and it's only been one episode!
Sure, the country is in financial ruin, we don't have any gasoline in this part of the country, and my own personal household has weathered several emotional storms the past few days - and it isn't even Friday yet. I find it nearly impossible to keep track of what makes me anxious half the time, since it could be one of about fifty things I may or may not have made up in my head.
Such is my nemesis in this world: the mangled idea of danger around every turn. I have learned to keep this at bay much of the time - or, at least, hide it in the attempt to "fake it until you make it." I am a walking contradiction: happy, fun, lively, and wrought with anxious paralysis.
I try to take this insight and turn it into the way to help myself - accentuate the positive and downplay the problem areas (as Tim Gunn might advise.) This will not be fixed in a day, but for today, it's my mantra.
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About Me
- Stephanie Stark Poling
- Steph's days are complete with little Franco/Mr. Buddy Pants, Pittsburgh Steelers football, Penguins hockey, all things WVU, cold beverages, new handbags, shoe-shopping, pups, and lots and lots of movies. And, of course, her glorious, nutty family.