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These past few weeks have been an exercise in cravings, delayed satisfaction, impulsive choice making, setting aside, procrastination, misplacing my mojo, re-discovering my mojo, percolating, marinading, and popcorning ideas, thoughts, theories, plain silliness, deep convoluted thinking meanderings and missing my blog. 

What I have been up to and the revolving re-occuring topics in my head have included, but have not been limited, to:

the hour and minute combination of 11:11 and the significance I have ascribed to this time


Spring Fever, which morphed into Sunshine Fever, which changed to Restless Life Syndrome


loving my job, total dissatisfication with the same job, searching for new job, applying for new jobs


retirement preparedness, freaking out that I have failed, as in utterly, to formulate any such plan,

vesting, vacillating between commitment to stay for 3+ years to wear this retirement vest, back

to freaking out at the thought of such a long term commitment


health issues, tipping over, milestones in sleeping upright, off low sodium plan, back on,

yo-yo eating plan


poor body image, hating, shameful feelings, attempts to embrace my physical self


vacations, destinations, monetary commitment toward vacations, gratitude for abundance


Setting aside, walking through, moving around, navigating life’s detritus, waking up, being amazed,

feeling flummoxed, groaning disappointment, side-splitting hilarity, tears of pain and surrender,

loving and receiving affection

Man alive!  No wonder I have been absent.  That there is whole hella lot of living. 

Yes, indeed. 

Do you remember those little label guns?  The kind with the revolving alphabet and the colorful strips of label tape?  You would spin the alphabet to the desired letter and then press the trigger, which would cause the letter to be stamped onto the tape.  The letters would be raised and felt all bumpy when running your fingers over the finished product.  Once you had spun and punched out the desired word or words, you would pump the trigger a couple of times to make the tape long enough to cut without spoiling your last letter. 

Then came another part, the part of peeling the backing from the tape, leaving the adhesive so you could then position the label wherever your heart desired and then press it into place where the label would live happily ever after.  Or until you decided to replace it with another label or somebody rubbed the bumpy little ridges too much and dislodged the brightly colored identifier. 

That is when the fun would come to a screeching halt or if that sounds a little too dramatic when discussing the life of a label, that’s when the adhesive hell would begin.  The hell of removing the sticky white-ish adhesive residue crap that the once merry and useful label left behind.  You see that is when the polish remover would come galloping in to the rescue to make the world right again or at least less sticky. 

This morning I was thinking about labels.  That human need to categorize most anything and everything that comes down the pike, around the bend, over the hill and in our dales.  I think naming, labeling and categorizing serves to help make sense of our lives, our worlds so to speak and in making sense then we feel safer, less vulnerable to the largeness of life. 

What I am pondering today is whether the labels I have chosen ~ spelled, punched and stuck to the walls of my psyche ~ whether they are helpful or harmful, clarifying or stigmatizing.  What labels might need to be re-named, revised or simply done away with.  The worst that could happen would be some sticky residue left behind, right?  And I know where I keep my polish remover.  Truth be known, I always had a little crush on the label gun and those bumpy little letters so even if the revised label ends up not fitting, there can be as many do-overs as needed.

Human life on this planet requires general maintenance, of all kinds and assorted varieties.  Whether one is a city or country dweller, financially independent or living paycheck-to-paycheck, brown or white, Southern Baptist or Hasidic Jew, tall short or in between, mature or an infant, able or other bodied, LGBTQQ or undeclared, living within four walls or without a home, multilingual or mute, plain or gorgeously beautiful, argumentative or passive, a red head or bald.  It just simply does not matter.  Because in all cases, life requires general maintenance.  This general maintenance is also a requirement for our non-human friends and best buddies. 

Yesterday my car, Buster Blue, finally broke through my resistance and procrastination by chanting in an increasingly deep and manly voice, Feed Me Feed Me, Change My Oil, Bathe Me.  Anyone who doubts that cars talk to their human companions, are simply not putting on their listening ears and/or are living lives of extreme denial.  Buster Blue had had enough or in his case, not enough tender loving care.  He let me know, loud and clear and repetitively that his general maintance was overdue.  Long overdue.  So off to the car restaurant (aka gas station) and spa (aka carwash) we drove.  We ended Buster’s day of pampering with a trip to the internist (aka Jiffy Lube) for a total check of his fluid levels as well as checking his shoes (aka tires) for continued good fit (aka air pressure). 

Today, Buster Blue, is a happy dude.  I can hear him whistling a little tune from his warm room (aka garage). 

Buster reminds me that some things in life can be made all better with simple acts of attention and care, also-known-as general maintenance. 


November 2019
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