At least it wasn't obscene...

Remember being an innocent, imaginative child sprawled out on the lawn looking skyward? It's a universal game; what does that cloud remind you of? A bunny, a squirrel, a face, a dragon or, if you were a particularly vibrant child, a laundry hamper filled with jelly beans on fire. Or was I the only one to notice that one?

I've recently returned from a glorious vacation and, as is my custom, I had my camera at the ready to snap away at the sky. Even in these cynical adult years, there's something still magical about being on the same level as clouds, gliding through their marshmallow bodies to find there's truly little substance to their composition. There aren't often many shapes that can be discerned from that height, but sometimes, I get lucky.

What do you see in this cloud?

If by some strange optical deficiency you fail to recognize the Jerry Garcia cloud giving a peace sign, please see your ophthalmologist...

Zaedah Coast to Coast

In 48 hours, I shall find myself on the opposite coast sipping... whatever people who don't drink sip. Yup, this Pennsylvania chick is heading to California, land of sun, sunburn and possibly sun poisoning. Oh, and did I mention NO WORK!!!!

I've secured a neighbor as house watcher and cat feeder. I'll be boarding the dog at her second favorite place on earth. I'm entrusting the newly bush-happy garden to... well, mother nature and leaving the resident bees to fend for themselves.

I'd like to think the furries will miss me but know too well that The Cats shall be drawing up chalkboard plans for my demise, which will go something like this...
I made myself a promise in 2006 that I would travel at every opportunity. Having a condition that may one day borrow my mobility and then play keep-away, it's silly to wait. Thus I've seen Arizona, the FL Everglades and Williamsburg/Jamestown/Yorktowne. This year shall be Fresno/Ataskadero. I don't care if my friend and I do little more than sit in a meadow everyday playing Uno, as long as I'm there.

Of course (with my luck) my arrival with herald the day of destruction, when The Big One separates the state of California from the rest of the country. But hey, that'll just make it my first island trip!

Mommy's Day

Mother's Day was an interesting affair for me.

The brunch hour was spent in the company of women in their 70's, fighting the onslaught of thinning bones, cataracts and crazy young drivers by staunchly adhering to their code of honor: I'm never so old that I can't kick your @$$

The dinner hour was spent cozying up to a host of related and extended family, helping the kiddies cut their pancakes and watching some of my favorite moms (especially my own) enjoy their designated day.

At work last Friday, strangers kept adding the line "Have a great Mother's Day, if you're a mother." I am not, in fact, a mother, unless you count the long list of furries currently eating me out of house and home. But I appreciate the sentiment. At 35 and (still) single, it's unlikely that I ever will be - though the notion seems to sadden the folks. I proceed through the day knowing that I've missed the boat on claiming this holiday for myself.

Still, I always manage to enjoy the day, hobnobbing with family and doling out those additional hugs to mommy. And I'd like to think that the furries bestow upon me a little extra thanks when they meow and bark.

Conversations in the Garden

My neighbor said the oddest thing to me tonight. She said I was graceful.

(Quit laughing, family)
I took a moment to envision myself as a graceful person and came up empty. Even my potent imagination, fed a steady diet of Dr Seuss, couldn't summon the picture. This. Is. Me.

When the doctor handed out an MS diagnosis, his sticky fingers managed to pickpocket my balance. I miss it dearly and found, sadly, that while informercials offer an unholy host of useless items, they've yet to advertise Balance in a Box ($19.99 and your firstborn, plus shipping).

I eventually tuned back into my neighbor's kind and utterly undeserved praise and learned she was speaking about a different sort of grace. Which is good since she herself has witnessed my unusual, unplanned and entirely uncoordinated flailings down the steps. She thinks I have 'the package.' I've got it all together.

(Stop snorting, family)

Naturally, I had to scoff, pointing out the bad teeth, severe scoliosis and that pesky MS, (plus the early gray, the lack of mate, offspring or desirable... endowments) Yup. I've got it together. Yet this doesn't deter her from elevating me to pageant queen status. Because I appear to be satisfied, she tells me. I have problems, like everyone else on the planet, but they don't seem to get me down. And seemingly lend me a floating, Zen-like movement that even the constant stumbling can't ruin. She envies me.

Yikes. But in the end (and after much consideration) I suppose there's something to it. Despite all the woes, I am rather content. And apparently it shows up as grace. It means quite a lot that someone who doesn't know me well finds in the outer appearance something that speaks to the inner pieces. It makes me glad to know I'm conveying positivity without opening my mouth.

Maybe I can be a ballerina yet!

The point of a weekend...

Lesson number 12 on the point of a weekend. Pencils ready...

The point of a weekend is to spend more money on pet food than your own life-sustaining groceries.

The point of a weekend is to pay $14 a ticket to view a 3D movie (remake) with little 3D while they smash your childhood gorgon memories to bits. Poor Perseus.

The point of a weekend is to spend most of your tax refund on... wait for it... bills.

The point of a weekend is to help your father buy a printer that does not (I repeat does NOT) come with the necessary cables to actually hook it up. Said cable costs more than the printer.

The point of a weekend is to listen to said father speak on our proud heritage and be impressed that the fairly shy man can stand before a room and win it over. Every time.

The point of a weekend is to buy a round trip ticket from Philly to Fresno because... well, because I CAN!!!

The preceding is the incomplete list of one weekend's events. Do not attempt without proper safety gear.

My name is Pollen and I'm a Registered Sneeze Offender

Above is a secret Pollen Anonymous therapy session in progress.

Pollen is a group of lonely spores who really need a date. Fortunately, all the pollen in the charted galaxy have chosen my backyard to accumulate, propagate and disperse. This saves the rest of humanity from the ill-effects of having the party and band gazebo shoved up one's nose. I'm taking the hit for all of you.

Applause not required.

I'd advise the populace to buy stock in Advil and Kleenex, as I'm personally cleaning store shelves of said items and arming myself for battle...

The Dates That Matter-ish

It's either a sign of spinsterhood or muddled near-middle age when today is a memorable day in the mental calendar in my head.

I struggle mightily to maintain a clear record of birthdays in my family. Having eight nieces and nephews is a challenge worthy of Einstein's impressive brain. Even my own birthday has been known to sneak up on me (which has NOTHING to do with the fact that additional digits are less welcome... much). But, this is the ultimate sign that a cat chick can become a crazy ol' cat lady with the speed of one simple memory skill;

Today is Zazu's fifteenth birthday.

The moment my rebellious eyes opened this morning, I congratulated him on another year of life, hand-feeding him treats at six am (because I'm dedicated) and serving up exquisite moist food for dinner (not that I've sampled it to know its quality). I remembered, before the sun rose no less, that today was meaningful. Zazu himself opted not to weigh in on his advanced age. Or mine, as forgetting dates is now part of the daily cycle.

Of course, April Fool's Day isn't difficult to remember when your cat is the feline equivalent of Cujo. The day was made for him. Look Zaedah, here's an eight week old, sweet and fluffy bundle of kitten joy...

AAAAHHHHHH.... who bites and scratches and hisses and has been known to take on giant dogs without flinching a whisker. Yes, April Fools indeed. The miracle is not that he's still healthy, but that he hasn't eaten me alive yet. Nonetheless, Happy Birthday Zazu. You may be sinister but I wouldn't change a thing.

Rampant Sinister Bunnies...

Why do people not turn their highlights on in the rain? Unless you drive a glow in the dark car, I fail to comprehend how you've arrived at the notion that being rear-ended is an additive to your cool factor.

How did Jamie Lee Curtis become an expert on what my personal digestive track requires? Did she get a PhD in Zaedah-health? If so, can she cure the odd dry spot on my left palm via commercial?

Who decided that I should receive Viagra e-mails EVERY SINGLE DAY? I may be confused, but I'm fairly sure my parents, friends and medical professionals can't all be wrong when labeling me a girl.

When did the record industry stop churning out the best little nonsense one-hit wonders? Remember Mexican Radio, Fishheads, Future's so bright (I gotta wear shades), One night in Bankok, Turning Japanese, Cars and the perennial favorite, Safety Dance, My meaningless quirk died out with the 80's?

I suppose I'll Wang Chung Tonight in a headlight glow while slurping Activa on a Viagra high.

Oh, To Be Legal... *UPDATED*

This is my car...











And this is the money I will spend today on said shiny little blue guy...










The concept of car inspections is, to my feeble brain, akin to exploding subatomic particles. Or filling out tax forms. Or VCR manuals. And other equally difficult, mind-ripping experiments in human foibles. Who decided my happy, innocent vehicle needs gruff, unwashed hands wandering about his curves, seeking imperfections for which to charge me? Why does someone else have to put a stamp on my transport to declare it fit for duty?

Lil' Neon works just fine, thanks. When he's spitting up fumes and vomiting essential parts, I'll bring him in for service. Yes, I'm aware his check engine light is on. Has been for nearly a year and it hasn't stopped him from zooming down the freeway and shredding through yellow lights with the greatest of ease. Why must I pay an extra $92 for the privilege of knowing that the light is on for no particular reason?

It's a conspiracy. A ploy to take my hard-earned cash for which I slave at a desk for untold hours. See, here's me working terribly hard...


What more proof do you require that I shouldn't have to inspect my car? In protest of this intrusion, I waited two months beyond my expiration date to get my new set of stickers. Because when the state has a sticky hand in my pot, I like to make them work for it!
_________________________
Failed???

So I have to take Lil Neon back in a few days when they have the correct replacement parts for my fuel system leak. Plus two tires were deemed insufficient to handle road duties. Anything else, guys?

The Bombs of Doubt...

You know how you do something brave and inspired and all manner of nifty and then ATTACK!!!!!



Bombs of second thoughts drop from nasty little planes that follow you around all day, pelting your scalp with doubts, true of aim and entirely unpleasant. And then, the Mushroom Cloud of Regret...

Ohhh ahhh... pretty.

But maybe it's just me.

I've completed a very difficult task, one that anyone who's ever met me (which includes those who sadly have) would find unlikely. Namely, I stood up for myself (see dissertation on doormats several posts back to properly appreciate momentous occasion). Yes, gentle readers, I strapped on a bright and shiny pair and went about the reclaiming of something terribly precious to me.

Peace. And quite possibly sanity.

But as with all really great, awesome and otherwise fabulous victories, there's the aftertaste best described as Hmmm... Sure, I secured my peace. Okay, I've got my sanity (such as it is) but were my actions worthy of pride? Did I abide by my own needle-pointed rules of conduct? Did I, in the most general terms, act as a decent person?

I may have to wait until the bombs quit smacking into my head before I can formulate a sufficient answer to that. Until then, my peace has drawn me a bath and I shall go soak in sanity...

Wisdom of Zappa...

Two weeks after the blizzard of 2010 deposited a cushy 17 inches on my poor lawn, we still tromp over the mounds of white stuff. I'm one of those "bring it on" snow-enthusiasts but even I have had enough. I'd like to start a letter campaign to evict Father Winter.

The stuff won't freakin' melt!

Princess Vespa (Spaceballs) had an industrial sized hairdryer that garnered its own luggage. I should very much like to borrow it. For only the power of the mammoth beast of electric fury could turn these stubborn inches of sinister, compactness into sweet little puddles. The problem we're facing now is a bit of unsightly technicolor that has crept into the once-virgin fluffiness.

As previously noted, we have three gigantic dogs. In the natural order of things, big dogs leave big... messes. Lets face it folks... if they could flush, local busybodies wouldn't have to post reminders to pick up after your adorable bundle of killer fur. My yard is the glaring reason why clean-up is not only good for visual aesthetics but necessary for the sanctity of one's shoes.

Fortunately, no one wants to picnic in the snow, handy thing since my property looks like we've been using lemon snowcones as weapons. (And don't get me started on the tootsie rolls bullets). Look out my kitchen window and take in the ice formations, majestic cardinal and the splotches of spilled lemonade. Thanks puppies!

I'm reminded of the stirring lyrics of one Frank Zappa... "Watch out where the huskies go and don't you eat that yellow snow."

Yup, they bathe in Blue # 40

If you're like me (and I know we've had that discussion before), you wait until the craze dies down before sneaking through the backdoor into a fad. Call me a Phenomenon Procrastinator but, being one of those anti-establishment types, I'm not waiting at the front of the line to jump on any blockbuster bandwagon. I tend to loiter somewhere in the back where they're selling eight day old hot dogs in soiled newspaper.

Mind you, there are exceptions:

A fascination with Zachary Quinto put me just a scant few paces off the head of the line to see Star Trek. And Lord knows I saw Sherlock Holmes on opening night because, quite frankly, Robert Downey Jr just plain works for me. But a movie about CGI-ed blue people isn't likely to motivate me to brave the after-Christmas crowds, especially at a two-and-a-half hour running time. I mean, have you met my bladder?

So I waited, sitting comfortably away from the tumbling debris of shattered records (though it was a delight to see Titanic sink from # 1). Until today, when the biggest smash of all time (or some such) was no longer in the top spot and I had some chance of getting a decent seat. 3D? Why not. $11.50 a ticket? Ouch.

Okay, fine, whatever... it was good.

A story that reincarnates the age old tale of the white man coming in hoards to steal native land? My Cherokee daddy will be pleased. A tale of living as one with nature and striving for balance? Mother Earth advocates will celebrate. A bunch of buff blue guys scampering about in thongs? Sign me up! That the natives are victorious feels a bit like vengeance against those whom my ancestors could not defeat.

Oops... perhaps I shouldn't have spoiled the ending, but then again, the box office assures me that everyone else on the planet has already see it.

Who's that sickly chick? Oh, wait...

I've recently been blessed with new friends on Facebook... the kind that have never met me, which is generally a good thing for them. The joy of social networking is the chance to learn about the other grasses, greener or otherwise, when the ol' homestead patch gets a little dull. The downside is that the cyber-me is even stranger than the real thing.

I took a little time today to look at the pictures on my page. These are typically there to serve as an overview of that which I hold dear; my family, my furries and the evidence that I do, in fact, leave the house occasionally. Unfortunately, what I found is not necessarily the representation of myself that I'd prefer. Exhibit A:



The last time I saw limbs that stick-like was, well... the last stick I saw. And the fact that this is one of those rare moments when my cane snuck into the shot makes it even worse. (see post several links down for the rant on canes). And then there's this beauty that we shall dub, per acceptable sequential order, Exhibit B:



I look like a cancer patient, which should be offensive to cancer patients everywhere. The eyes are so sunken, they're planning an escape via the back of my head. Those Cherokee cheekbones are sharp enough to slice bread but (from an outside's view) I appear to never eat such things.

Granted, I've always been small. I once reached a staggering 112 pounds but that's been quite a few years (freshman ten and all that). But I can't account for the rest of the issues. In a recent post, I extolled the perils of growing old and I now see the proof that I wasn't just typing Dixie that day. Man, I need an intervention!

This is the image that people who 'friend' me will see; a skinny, gaunt and apparently ill chick in desperate need of a meal and potent medication. But seriously folks, it's not so bad in person... I think?

Surpassing the Numeric Value

If I were an inventor, I'd spend gazillions of the government's money to build a sci-fi machine. Revolutionizing the global landscape, my gadget (which I'd naturally name after myself), would perform the most significant task ever crafted for something less than God. This creation would be assigned the world-saving job of pinpointing the exact moment when I got old.

Seriously.

It's well known among the people who know me (which includes those who do) that I have more gray hair than should be planted upon the head of anyone so young. Should someone measure out my hair, currently of an appalling fishing-wire texture, with my mother's not-entirely-brown variety, mine would outweigh hers. This seems wrong. And just a bit like punishment.

But it's not just the follicle matter. Remember when our teen-aged purchases always included Stridex, Clearasil and other pimply dohingies? Residing now in my shower stall is a tube of face cleanser marked 'tone and renew.' This product and others like it promise to revive the wicked witch skin and reclaim the once-smooth surface from the angry crows scratching their lines around my eyes.

It seems I skipped a step somewhere. If you were like me (and I pray to holy Jesus you weren't) you couldn't wait for the end of the pubescent pestilence known as zits. We can accept that one day there will be wrinkles and such - in that distant future where we all eat rice pudding in the nursing home - but there's supposed to be a space in between where we all wander the earth with the airbrushed look of fresh-baked supermodels. Apparently, I leapt over that blessing in a single bound. Honestly, I'm TONING AND RENEWING people!!!!

I've always looked younger than my years. A few years ago I got stopped by a cop near my house. He turned one of those sun-in-a-can spotlights on me and then laughed. Laughed! Apparently he thought I was a twelve year old on a joy ride (my family will tell you that Mr Law Enforcer added 'boy' to his description but I've blocked that part out). But now, with the old hag hair color and early eye lines, I fear my looks are surpassing my numeric value. Gettin' old, friends.

But, as daddy would say, at least I'm still gettin'.

New New Year's tradition...

You knows the smoldering ash of age has snuck into your bloodstream when Dick Clark stays up later than you do.

For the last few years, I've sworn off watching the once terribly exciting Times Square ball drop due to encroaching factors beyond my control. Like excessive yawning. And the fact that, really, it's not that exciting. I've never actually gone anywhere on New Year's Eve, an issue born of my staunch 'no drinking' lifestyle and the shameful truth that I've never been a party chick. It ain't me, folks.

It's taken me three decades to buck the trend.

I did, in fact, go out!

My good buddy Dennis and I visited the ancient Keswick Theater outside Philly, an establishment that opened in the rip-roaring year of 1928, when even Dick Clark wasn't alive (debunking the myth that the man's first NYE countdown was done before Moses stopped to ask for directions). According to my butt, the seats and accompanying padding (or lack thereof) are original to the building. We were crammed in with 800 of our closest neighbors to watch a live performance.

I'd like to pause and thank Dennis for introducing me to Mystery Science Theater. You know, that late lamented gem that showed the worst that cinema has to offer while the silhouettes of a host and two robots skewer the plot, characters, dialogue, settings, props and cliches with rapid-fire jokes. They makes Ed Wood films watchable in a way only Prozac and Jack Daniels could before.

Last night, we spent five glorious hours absorbing three stellar films (War of the Insects, Samson and the 7 Miracles and Legacy of Blood) presented live with original riffers standing live on the stage before us. Yes, Locke... we got to suck in the same air as Joel, Crow, TV's Franks, the original Servo and Pearl. While sitting on torture devices (did I mention they need to remodel the seating?)

They paused for champagne (no thanks) before midnight and we counted down, afterward embracing friends, strangers and that guy dressed like Dr Forrester (Okay, maybe we didn't). It beat gazing upon a ball who's only true claim to fame is merely reflecting the principles of gravity or, as has been my custom of late, staring at the backs of my eyelids. The evening was delightful, a first in what I hope will be many more new years starting interestingly. I'm only sad we weren't able to meet the actors after the show. But in their honor, I leave you with the image Dennis and I have come to appreciate as a staple of sanity in a crazy, mixed up world...

They don't just hold shoes together...

Does your wallet look like mine? After a lovely Christmas with family and friends (and Sherlock Holmes and chipmunks), I have scanned my purse and found exactly one piece of lint. Couldn't even afford two!

But cast no worries upon my stubbly shadow... I'll get by. Because along with jujitsu, filleting and slow poisons, I possess the skill of the Shoestring. Not a member of this elite art? Allow me to enlighten you.

Can you fill to bursting three bags of groceries on a mere fifteen dollars? That's Shoestring, baby!

Can you squeeze an extra fifty miles out of a tank flashing the deadly empty warning? That's Shoestring, baby!

Can you pay bills, feed eleven pets, buy presents for nine nieces and nephews and still pay your physician copay without hitting the credit card? All from one paycheck? That's... you get the picture.

Momma's been doing it for years, layering the craft of creative shuffling with the talent of thrift. I learned at the feet of a master. Despite an empty account, a cleaned-out change jar and no further revenue for two weeks (darn you bi-weekly employers!) I am surprisingly comfortable. Because I spent wisely, I have food, gasoline and no impending bills. I have utilized every knotted rainbow Shoestring at my disposal. The trick is not to trip.

I am super-uber-comfy-ish. Which doesn't mean I won't hug the calendar on payday!

Yes, but for 24 hours?

What is it with the holiday season and movies?

I dare say no single day has garnered as many cinema experiments as Christmas. If it isn't in the title, it's weighing down the plot with the thickness of figgy pudding. Santa, elves, reindeer and the occasional grinch are unavoidable today. And, of course, we have 24 back-to-back, unending hours of Ralphie and the Quest for a Dangerous BB Gun.

"It's smiling at me!" (Ralphie's dad and the duck)

I'm not opposed to catching Snoopy and Jack Skelligton as I ramble through channels. Quite the opposite. But how many Santa Clauses does it take to complete Tim Allen's career? And no, I don't want to see Arnold and Sinbad slugging it out in the aisles nor every drawn-out, sap-coated version of Christmas romance that Lifetime can think up (it ain't just 'women in peril' on this day).

And that's just the small screen.

Apparently, the sugar high from too much pie keeps people up Christmas night (that or the spiked egg nog) because throngs of over-stuffed patrons will fill the theater tonight. The mere fact that we've all maxed out our credit cards buying STUFF (see last post) should make movie-going the least viable choice. I mean, $4.00 for a teeny box of Even More Sugar? The cost of a slushy is the equivalent of my electric bill and the smallest popcorn they serve would feed Nebraska. And you must take out a loan to pay for it.

Having said that, I shall be among the... um... fruitcakes.

Yup, as part of my Christmas prezzy from my roomie, we shall traipse merrily to the local big screen to see Sherlock Holmes (my choice). See photo below for a sizable reason for the trek. I hope the movie's as good as Mr Downey looks but regardless folks, it's a night out requiring no down payment from me and therefore I will tug down my santa cap and go. Although, with a 10 pm start time, I should be getting home at right about... tomorrow.

Ode to the White Stuff

Remember when snow was the entire purpose for the blustery winter months? There was a sled in the shed and the promise of a school closing. I'm an old trailer park kid and would descend upon the little field behind my single-wide and play for all I was worth.

Yes mom, I have my mittens.

The pleasure I soon outgrew, as happens to unfortunate young adults who must now learn to drive in the white stuff. If you were me (which I suspect you weren't unless you've manipulated the space/time continuum) you had to drive your father's Oldsmobile with a learner's permit in your hand while the former drill sergeant keeps his hand hovering between the steering wheel and the emergency brake. Suddenly snow is a thing to be cursed.

And of course, there's all that shoveling. Why, I remember one president's day when we received 17 inches of not-so-fluffy molecules. We got a snow day that day, the entirety of which was spent shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling. I'd have rather been at work. This was, in fact, the last snow day I received and it was nothing like the romping gaiety I recall from youth.

Except we have dogs.

Because ( as previously noted) you're not me, you may have kids and therefore have already re-discovered the bliss of deep snow. I, however, have come back to the love through four legged nutcases who think the piling mass of coldness is their personal plaything. Oh, they run and jump and frolic in the grand tradition of any kid in a new snowsuit with a well-oiled sled (none of that plastic nonsense if you please). My gigantic pups have made it fun again because watching and interacting with them shrinks me down to an excited ten year old, which height-wise isn't terribly difficult.

So thank you Zaedah, Mysty and Willow. Turns out that despite adulthood, I still dream of snow days!

Who needs sleep?

A few days ago, my roommate announced that she intended to go kayaking and invited me along. The offer was made with an expectation that I'd say no since I was already in my PJs and curled up in bed (under fleece sheets!) with a thick book.

Not to mention it was seven pm on a Wednesday in the midst of winter and I'd just been chained to my work desk for 10 hours. Naturally, I said yes!

Of course, kayaking means manual labor, because it's not just the paddling, it's the heavy lifting. As those who know me are aware, I top the scales at a staggering 102 pounds. So the breakdown goes like this: Put two kayaks on car, take kayaks off car and into water, paddle like mad, put kayaks back on car and then take off to put away.

I'm not the brightest crayon in the box, huh?

So there we are on a lake that is off-limits after dusk, my spaghetti arms struggling to keep up with my experienced friend as we fight the current of a flooded waterway. We ducked under bridges that would normally be high above our heads and dodged startled Canadian geese who were trying to bed down for the night. Smart creatures.

Did I mention it was cold? And dark?

Along the way we saw two separate flocks of egrets, which glowed silver/white in the moonlight as they migrated. That was a first. We chatted and teased and mocked (as friends do). When we tumble back home at nearly 11:00 pm, I find my devil-cat has peed on my bed and I must now do emergency laundry. And the alarm goes off at 5:45 am so I can enjoy another 10 hour day of working.

It was so totally worth it!

Doormats (or The State of Which)

I was the quiet kid in the back of the class. I was the girl who never winked at a boy. I was the lady who wore the conciliatory nature as though it were virtue. It's not.

I'm a woman now, however fervently my height disagrees. I've done the self-examination thing to the point of boredom. There's much we don't realize about ourselves and more that we do. Often what we don't like within ourselves becomes a sweep-under-the-rug nuisance. Change is and always shall be counter to our instinct. Most humans dwell in that forest of the status quo.

In these questing years, I've come to understand a little of how others view me. I'm the doormat. It's a useful invention, really. We all have one and those that don't mourn its lack. Who doesn't want visitors to wipe their feet? I have lived a wiped feet existence. Oh, not in every aspect, but in the ones that count (meaning the personal matters) I have to shake off the dirt they track in.

Not my family, naturally. No, it's the ones who share no blood with me that seem to see that as an excuse to trample on me. Why? Because I've always let them. And when that brilliant self-examination is through, I see a person within who hates confrontation and wishes to upset no one. So essentially, I'm too nice. Which must explain why I'm still single.

I intended to say something to someone at some time today, a cutting dissection of how I am being treated and how I demand it cease. And let me tell you, I rehearsed all day. It didn't happen. Because though I had the words, I failed to summon the appropriate moxie. I have reached the point of anxiety and cannot open my mouth properly. I want to spare feelings, everyone's except my own.

There's a point when even the most conciliatory person must stand their ground. The one I must correct thinks that I can't do it, can't say it to their face because I'm the quiet kid in the back. I long to prove them wrong. I need to. Because I'm still a person, no matter how short or nice or anxious. I can be conscious of others' feelings while still voicing mine. This is America, folks. I have rights.

So I will get up off the floor, dust myself off and kiss off the status quo.