My friends and I were having a discussion over a few cheap beers and we came to this conclusion: Never date a man that wears cargo shorts.
The upstanding man at the table relented that the cargo short was not in his fashion repertoire.
"I didn't even know they still made them," Ali stated with both awe and concern. I like to think of her as Alley because I have to ride my bike down an alleyway as my most direct route to her house. But, I digress.
This is the second unflattering reference to cargo shorts I have had in as many days. While sitting at Mod's on 5th and Boston and waiting for my delicious salmon sesame seed crepe, I was reading the daily funny pages. The cartoon was an old couple talking. It went like this:
Old lady: "Are those cargo shorts?"
Old Man: "Yes. They are amazing. They have all these wonderful pockets where you can keep all your stuff."
Old Lady: "I see. So basically you are wearing a giant purse."
Follow me, dear readers, as I attempt to anthropologize the reasoning behind our newly found dating rule. Let us make a study of the cargo short wearing man:
Cargo's were originally designed for outdoor activities and military needs. The extra pocket space was required to carry items necessary for the wearer's survival and well being. Manly indeed.
But, when you take them out of the war zone and into the arena of your local shopping mall or restaurant they are as the old lady said--nothing but man purses disguised as yuppy fashion.
We pontificated on the type of man who needs a purse but wants to disguise it in such manly camouflage.
This man is nothing more than a pretty boy. He needs the extra pocket room to carry his chap stick, little black book, and extra sand for his ever chaffing vadge.
He has a lot of buddies, but not a lot of friends. Surface is as far as he goes. It is all about paint and polish and glamour for this man-purse wearing fashionisto.
He and his buddies all have nicknames (taken usually from their last names) that they earned at the Frat house in college. When not using their nicknames, they call each other, "dude" or "bro."
Inevitably they date the simple blonde girls. I am a cute little blondey so I have run into more than my fair share of the "dudes." Thankfully they usually run for the hills when they discover that under the trophy wife exterior, I actually have a brain in my head. All it takes is a few moments of conversation and a 3 syllable word.
They'll move along to talk to an actual tropy wife. And, so will I--to someone with whom I can discuss the latest book I have read or art exhibit I have seen. Everybody wins. Everybody is happy in the end.
Sometimes I guess you can judge a book by its cover. Or in this case ... a dude by his man purse.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
It is White Trash Night on St. Louis Street
About 20 minutes ago this old man pulled up and parked his Harley on the sidewalk in front of my neighbor's house across the street. He sat there calling over and over on his phone until what I think is his daughter comes out of the house. Now they are fighting on the sidewalk. And I am shamelessly watching from my front porch.
He's propped up on his bike and screaming almost unintelligibly at his daughter. The gist of it is this ....
"You stabbed me in the back an I give you everything I can! I give all (mutter mutter slur mutter mutter mutter slurrrrrrrr) An you take my granson an tell him lies annnnn you turn him against me! You stab me in the back ann you motherfuckers don't even know!! I give you all. (more slurrrrrs and mutters and grunting yells) I give you everything! I'm unna ... You wooden know the hell you bring on you! You an your mother ain't seen nothing! Michaela!"
I really don't know much of what Michaela said. She wasn't yelling like a redneck. All I heard was "They're telling lies on me, Dad!" and "He is MY son."
I was just minding my business eating my dinner and enjoying the beautiful fall weather. But it's always nice to get dinner AND a show!
He's propped up on his bike and screaming almost unintelligibly at his daughter. The gist of it is this ....
"You stabbed me in the back an I give you everything I can! I give all (mutter mutter slur mutter mutter mutter slurrrrrrrr) An you take my granson an tell him lies annnnn you turn him against me! You stab me in the back ann you motherfuckers don't even know!! I give you all. (more slurrrrrs and mutters and grunting yells) I give you everything! I'm unna ... You wooden know the hell you bring on you! You an your mother ain't seen nothing! Michaela!"
I really don't know much of what Michaela said. She wasn't yelling like a redneck. All I heard was "They're telling lies on me, Dad!" and "He is MY son."
I was just minding my business eating my dinner and enjoying the beautiful fall weather. But it's always nice to get dinner AND a show!
Friday, September 17, 2010
eHarmony brought more eHumor than anything else ...
I like dares-- especially the harmless ones where only your ego is in danger of being maimed.
My roommate dared me to put up a profile on eHarmony. He argued that I was too picky and expected too much to get very many matches.
I thought he was crazy. So I accepted the challenge (without knowing the personal novel I was going to have to write to complete the stinkin thing!)
They asked me everything but my mother’s maiden name and how I would rate myself in the bedroom. (By the way eHarmony, you should add the latter question to your survey. I bet people want to be matched on sexual prowess, too.)
So about 300 questions and an hour later I was ready to view my matches.
9 matches.
Seriously! That’s it? HAHAHAHA! Damn the Roomie for being right! Thank goodness the profile crap was free (except for that hour or so of my life I won't ever get back).
So I browse through the matches. (Without pictures. You have to pay to see them so I’ve included pictures of what I think they look like based on their profiles)
Let's see what wonderful men I am matched with!
Who might be my future co-star in the “We met online and now we’re married!” – Happily ever after commercials??? Oh! The suspense!
Well, let me tell ya. I’ll be a spinster for life if those 9 profiles are the best eHarmony has to offer.
The first few weed-outs were easy.
35. Nope. Too old.
35 again. NOPE!
26. Nope. Too young.
Lives in Bartlesville. Nope.
Lives in Fort Smith? Dang how far out did I set my match radius? Nope.
Ok 4 left.
Hmm. 28 in Tulsa. Sounds good. Let’s see …
“I’m a pretentious artsy type that digs European culture and looks down my snooty little nose at my fellow countrymen.”
-- Why are some artistic people so anti-American? Just a thought for you … YOU LIVE IN AMERICA! And in the heartland, no less! Move to the snotty East Coast or Madrid if you are so inclined to despise the people here.
Ok. 32 in Tulsa. Promising ….
“I am an oil worker with lots of tattoos and 2 kids.”
--Oil worker, ok. Tattoos, ok. 2 kids and one is a TEENAGER? Nope. Jeez. I just can’t. She’s half my age.
27 in Tulsa. 3rd time’s a charm …
“I am a super Christian and I never smoke or drink. I have just returned from Africa on a mission trip and am now getting my masters from ORU”
– I don’t mind Christians. I believe in some form of God. I was raised and am now a recovering Catholic. But, I do smoke. And, I do drink. I also get a little panicky around the pew-jumping, bible-thumping, babbling like they are hallucinating type of Christians. I just can’t hang. My faithful upbringing was far too stoic and structured to reconcile myself with a full band, stage lights and people screaming in the isles on Sunday morning.
Oh, and as for missionary. I enjoy it. But I think we are off base in how we define the word.
29 in Tulsa. Well last, but maybe not least …
“I laugh at my own lame jokes lol just want 2 tell u that I forgot how 2 type out full sentences n use punctuation I spelled out exspecially tho u should b proud lol”
– LEAST! Most definitely least!
So those are the fish in my eHarmony Sea. Glad I did that as a dare rather than out of desperation or I would have been seriously depressed.
And if I am a little picky—it’s just because I deserve it.
Have a good weekend everyone. I think I’ll stick to going out and meeting men the old fashioned way!
My roommate dared me to put up a profile on eHarmony. He argued that I was too picky and expected too much to get very many matches.
I thought he was crazy. So I accepted the challenge (without knowing the personal novel I was going to have to write to complete the stinkin thing!)
They asked me everything but my mother’s maiden name and how I would rate myself in the bedroom. (By the way eHarmony, you should add the latter question to your survey. I bet people want to be matched on sexual prowess, too.)
So about 300 questions and an hour later I was ready to view my matches.
9 matches.
Seriously! That’s it? HAHAHAHA! Damn the Roomie for being right! Thank goodness the profile crap was free (except for that hour or so of my life I won't ever get back).
So I browse through the matches. (Without pictures. You have to pay to see them so I’ve included pictures of what I think they look like based on their profiles)
Let's see what wonderful men I am matched with!
Who might be my future co-star in the “We met online and now we’re married!” – Happily ever after commercials??? Oh! The suspense!
Well, let me tell ya. I’ll be a spinster for life if those 9 profiles are the best eHarmony has to offer.
The first few weed-outs were easy.
35. Nope. Too old.
35 again. NOPE!
26. Nope. Too young.
Lives in Bartlesville. Nope.
Lives in Fort Smith? Dang how far out did I set my match radius? Nope.
Ok 4 left.
Hmm. 28 in Tulsa. Sounds good. Let’s see …
“I’m a pretentious artsy type that digs European culture and looks down my snooty little nose at my fellow countrymen.”
-- Why are some artistic people so anti-American? Just a thought for you … YOU LIVE IN AMERICA! And in the heartland, no less! Move to the snotty East Coast or Madrid if you are so inclined to despise the people here.
Ok. 32 in Tulsa. Promising ….
“I am an oil worker with lots of tattoos and 2 kids.”
--Oil worker, ok. Tattoos, ok. 2 kids and one is a TEENAGER? Nope. Jeez. I just can’t. She’s half my age.
27 in Tulsa. 3rd time’s a charm …
– I don’t mind Christians. I believe in some form of God. I was raised and am now a recovering Catholic. But, I do smoke. And, I do drink. I also get a little panicky around the pew-jumping, bible-thumping, babbling like they are hallucinating type of Christians. I just can’t hang. My faithful upbringing was far too stoic and structured to reconcile myself with a full band, stage lights and people screaming in the isles on Sunday morning.
Oh, and as for missionary. I enjoy it. But I think we are off base in how we define the word.
29 in Tulsa. Well last, but maybe not least …
– LEAST! Most definitely least!
So those are the fish in my eHarmony Sea. Glad I did that as a dare rather than out of desperation or I would have been seriously depressed.
And if I am a little picky—it’s just because I deserve it.
Have a good weekend everyone. I think I’ll stick to going out and meeting men the old fashioned way!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Reincarnated From Myspace. Please Turn me Into Pencils!
A recent conversation with co-workers on death made me think of this blog I wrote years ago. From the depths of Myspace: An oldy but a goodie ...
The New York Times featured and article on the art of death.
It seems there is a grassroots movement to make death more stylish, at least for your loved ones to enjoy.
Lauren Clauson finds comfort in giving her mom a spin every now & then. Her mother's ashes were placed in an urn with a New England fall motif. The urn is mounted on a prayer wheel she can spin when she is thinking of her mother. Basically, its a fancy lazy Susan. No. Her mother's name was not Susan. Yes. I am going to hell.
When I do, I want to be made into pencils. You can really be made into pencils! How cool is that? Pretty damn awesome if you ask me. I would love to bite it and then be manufactured into hundreds of shiny yellow #2s
The reason I am so keen on having my corpse ground into pencil lead is the same reason I love empty journals so much: Infinite possibility. A pencil and a blank piece of paper is a powerful force. Anything a person could imagine is possible: Doodles when you are bored in class. Grocery lists. Love letters. Hate mail. Notes for a final exam. Poems. The great American novel.
I like the idea that I could die and still have the chance to be anything. Even if I end up the knarled stump of a thing whose owner suffers from writers block.
In keeping with the theme, "I have gone completely bonkers and want to be made into pencils," I want my funeral to resemble and 8-year-old's birthday party. The program could look like an invitation
The only difference is there would be kegs of beer and an open bar.
People would sign my guestbook with a crayon or a washable marker. Or, they could use me to sign my guestbook. I probably won't mind since I'll be dead and made into pencils. I want the place to be covered in balloons and streamers. People should feel free to suck helium from the balloons.
My guests would play Duck, Duck Goose! Tiddly Winks & Pin the Tail on the Donkey. There might even be a pinata!
Everyone would get a cupcake. Every cupcake has a candle. Everyone gets a wish.
When it was time to go, everyone would get a party favor bag. Inside of it would be an empty journal/sketchbook, a Shannon pencil, a CD, a bottle of booze and an aphrodisiac.
The icing on the cake of life: good writing, good music, good booze and good sex.
Some of the pencils should be passed out on the streets at random to ensure maximum variety of usage.
All that is left is to decide what gets stamped on the pencil. I'll leave it up to you guys.
Maybe something like this: Irish #2 pencil. Great for writing bullshit.
The New York Times featured and article on the art of death.
It seems there is a grassroots movement to make death more stylish, at least for your loved ones to enjoy.
Lauren Clauson finds comfort in giving her mom a spin every now & then. Her mother's ashes were placed in an urn with a New England fall motif. The urn is mounted on a prayer wheel she can spin when she is thinking of her mother. Basically, its a fancy lazy Susan. No. Her mother's name was not Susan. Yes. I am going to hell.
The reason I am so keen on having my corpse ground into pencil lead is the same reason I love empty journals so much: Infinite possibility. A pencil and a blank piece of paper is a powerful force. Anything a person could imagine is possible: Doodles when you are bored in class. Grocery lists. Love letters. Hate mail. Notes for a final exam. Poems. The great American novel.
I like the idea that I could die and still have the chance to be anything. Even if I end up the knarled stump of a thing whose owner suffers from writers block.
In keeping with the theme, "I have gone completely bonkers and want to be made into pencils," I want my funeral to resemble and 8-year-old's birthday party. The program could look like an invitation
The only difference is there would be kegs of beer and an open bar.
People would sign my guestbook with a crayon or a washable marker. Or, they could use me to sign my guestbook. I probably won't mind since I'll be dead and made into pencils. I want the place to be covered in balloons and streamers. People should feel free to suck helium from the balloons.
My guests would play Duck, Duck Goose! Tiddly Winks & Pin the Tail on the Donkey. There might even be a pinata!
Everyone would get a cupcake. Every cupcake has a candle. Everyone gets a wish.
When it was time to go, everyone would get a party favor bag. Inside of it would be an empty journal/sketchbook, a Shannon pencil, a CD, a bottle of booze and an aphrodisiac.
The icing on the cake of life: good writing, good music, good booze and good sex.
Some of the pencils should be passed out on the streets at random to ensure maximum variety of usage.
All that is left is to decide what gets stamped on the pencil. I'll leave it up to you guys.
Maybe something like this: Irish #2 pencil. Great for writing bullshit.
Friday, August 20, 2010
28 IS GREAT!
In less than a month my entire life will be completely different than what it was even a few weeks ago.
Better home. Dream job. Sexy man. Twenty-eight is going to be a fabulous year. I am floored. Humbled. On my knees thanking the heavens for my good fortune. This has been the best birthday week of my life.
When I look back over the last few years I am still in awe of just how far I’ve managed to climb. To give you all some perspective I am going to lay it bare for you.
The absolute low was the first night I spent alone after I was diagnosed with a brain aneurysm. I had already been diagnosed with a muscle tissue problem so I was overwhelmed (and a little pissed off). All I could think was: “Well, shit. Let’s go ahead and give me cancer, too.”
It was a few days before the exploratory operation to gage the size of the aneurysm and map it for the full surgery. I didn’t find out until later that I wasn’t going to drop dead at any moment or that I would not need the more risky 2nd surgery.
I was sitting there thinking of all the things I wanted to do. All the people I was not done loving. And this image of a jack-in-the-box came to mind. I felt this invisible force winding the leaver round, and round, and round; and there was nothing I could do to stop it. All too soon it would be, POP! Goes the aneurysm!
And I would be gone.
I kept saying the same thing over and over. I’m not done yet. But, I’m not done yet. At first it was just a whisper through the salty tears that had run down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. Then it was a little louder and then I was screaming, “But, I am NOT FUCKING DONE YET!”
Before I really understood what I was doing I tore the house apart. Threw over the coffee tables, ripped pictures off the walls. Punched the door till my knuckles were raw and bloody. And I was screaming like a banshee the whole time.
And then I thought what if I burst the damn thing and kill myself right now by freaking out like this? The thought ripped the scream from my throat and I just wilted to the floor in the hallway. I lay there for quite a while. The music from the jack-in-the-box still taunting me. And all the people I loved flashing through my mind like a slide show.
Mom. Dad. Bryan. Katie. Alex. K’lah. Becky. Aubrey. Coop. The O’Connell’s. The Duke’s. All my friends. Even my dog, Molly.
Eventually the grief and fear faded into a numbness that was awkward but tolerable. I pulled myself off the floor, took a survey of the damage I had caused and then slowly, wearily, I began to pick up the pieces of everything I had shattered.
I didn’t realize at the time I wasn’t just collecting the broken pieces of my living room décor. I was also collecting the broken pieces of myself.
As I cleaned, I resolved that I would find my way. I’d make it. Along the way I’d enjoy every simple pleasure. Every moment. I would relish every little detail of my world. I began to appreciate even the smallest of events: Freshly washed sheets. My favorite candy. Songs I loved. The sun on my skin. The sound of the cicadas on summer nights. Every Sooner touchdown. Every tasty pint of beer.
Bit by bit I learned how to manage my health. The aneurysm is actually not life threatening. They call it more accurately an infendibulum, which has hardly any chance of blowing my brain out of my skull.
I learned that volatile prescription drugs only traded in my symptoms for side-effects. I learned that my diet and vitamin supplements greatly improved my energy levels. I finally learned not to constantly run at 90 miles a minute and that it was ok to slow down. To admit that I wasn’t feeling well and give myself a break when I needed it.
It’s given me my life back. I live today almost as if I did three years ago before all this shit happened. All it takes is humility, grit, determination & patience. I can do that. This I can survive. Fuck you, jack-in-the-box! I’m the one with my hand on the leaver now!
And I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it for anything.
I used to think I wanted to be rich and have the nicest material things money could buy. I wanted to be spoiled rotten.
Well, I am spoiled rotten. But in things that matter so much more to me than any house, car or even …(gasp!) a sweet pair of heels.
I am rich in my amazing family. In my long-time, loyal friends. In meeting a wonderful guy. I have people in my life that truly matter. Amazing people that would do anything for me, and I for them.
I am rich in my luck that what might have killed me made me a stronger, better version of myself. It also provided the lowest of lows so that I could be singing so high in the clouds today!
Today I was offered the job I really, really wanted. It is a chance to get back to my roots in advertising and it moves my career in the direction I really want to go. This was the final piece of the puzzle.
I am in good health. My personal life has been wonderful. Now that my professional life has come together I feel like I could cry. There is too much happiness in my heart to contain it. I shed tears of joy and absolute gratitude for every wonderful, desperate, painful and pleasurable moment of the last three years.
Better home. Dream job. Sexy man. Twenty-eight is going to be a fabulous year. I am floored. Humbled. On my knees thanking the heavens for my good fortune. This has been the best birthday week of my life.
When I look back over the last few years I am still in awe of just how far I’ve managed to climb. To give you all some perspective I am going to lay it bare for you.
The absolute low was the first night I spent alone after I was diagnosed with a brain aneurysm. I had already been diagnosed with a muscle tissue problem so I was overwhelmed (and a little pissed off). All I could think was: “Well, shit. Let’s go ahead and give me cancer, too.”
It was a few days before the exploratory operation to gage the size of the aneurysm and map it for the full surgery. I didn’t find out until later that I wasn’t going to drop dead at any moment or that I would not need the more risky 2nd surgery.
I was sitting there thinking of all the things I wanted to do. All the people I was not done loving. And this image of a jack-in-the-box came to mind. I felt this invisible force winding the leaver round, and round, and round; and there was nothing I could do to stop it. All too soon it would be, POP! Goes the aneurysm!
And I would be gone.
I kept saying the same thing over and over. I’m not done yet. But, I’m not done yet. At first it was just a whisper through the salty tears that had run down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth. Then it was a little louder and then I was screaming, “But, I am NOT FUCKING DONE YET!”
Before I really understood what I was doing I tore the house apart. Threw over the coffee tables, ripped pictures off the walls. Punched the door till my knuckles were raw and bloody. And I was screaming like a banshee the whole time.
And then I thought what if I burst the damn thing and kill myself right now by freaking out like this? The thought ripped the scream from my throat and I just wilted to the floor in the hallway. I lay there for quite a while. The music from the jack-in-the-box still taunting me. And all the people I loved flashing through my mind like a slide show.
Mom. Dad. Bryan. Katie. Alex. K’lah. Becky. Aubrey. Coop. The O’Connell’s. The Duke’s. All my friends. Even my dog, Molly.
Eventually the grief and fear faded into a numbness that was awkward but tolerable. I pulled myself off the floor, took a survey of the damage I had caused and then slowly, wearily, I began to pick up the pieces of everything I had shattered.
I didn’t realize at the time I wasn’t just collecting the broken pieces of my living room décor. I was also collecting the broken pieces of myself.
As I cleaned, I resolved that I would find my way. I’d make it. Along the way I’d enjoy every simple pleasure. Every moment. I would relish every little detail of my world. I began to appreciate even the smallest of events: Freshly washed sheets. My favorite candy. Songs I loved. The sun on my skin. The sound of the cicadas on summer nights. Every Sooner touchdown. Every tasty pint of beer.
Bit by bit I learned how to manage my health. The aneurysm is actually not life threatening. They call it more accurately an infendibulum, which has hardly any chance of blowing my brain out of my skull.
I learned that volatile prescription drugs only traded in my symptoms for side-effects. I learned that my diet and vitamin supplements greatly improved my energy levels. I finally learned not to constantly run at 90 miles a minute and that it was ok to slow down. To admit that I wasn’t feeling well and give myself a break when I needed it.
It’s given me my life back. I live today almost as if I did three years ago before all this shit happened. All it takes is humility, grit, determination & patience. I can do that. This I can survive. Fuck you, jack-in-the-box! I’m the one with my hand on the leaver now!
And I wouldn’t trade a single moment of it for anything.
I used to think I wanted to be rich and have the nicest material things money could buy. I wanted to be spoiled rotten.
Well, I am spoiled rotten. But in things that matter so much more to me than any house, car or even …(gasp!) a sweet pair of heels.
I am rich in my amazing family. In my long-time, loyal friends. In meeting a wonderful guy. I have people in my life that truly matter. Amazing people that would do anything for me, and I for them.
I am rich in my luck that what might have killed me made me a stronger, better version of myself. It also provided the lowest of lows so that I could be singing so high in the clouds today!
Today I was offered the job I really, really wanted. It is a chance to get back to my roots in advertising and it moves my career in the direction I really want to go. This was the final piece of the puzzle.
I am in good health. My personal life has been wonderful. Now that my professional life has come together I feel like I could cry. There is too much happiness in my heart to contain it. I shed tears of joy and absolute gratitude for every wonderful, desperate, painful and pleasurable moment of the last three years.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I Hold These Truths to be Self-Evident
I'd like to preface this post with a cautionary word to the wise: I am not responsible for the consequences if you follow my advice considering that I have experienced both great success and epic failure in developing these basic tenants of my womanhood.
Without further ado: The Female Lover's Bill of Rights ....
I am entitled to steal your clothes. I may wash them and give them back. Or, more realistically I may keep them for an undetermined period of time. As consolation for your dwindling wardrobe just know that I'll probably think of you 93 times a day while wearing your shirt, boxers, sweatpants etc. Actually, I'll probably think of you 93 times anyway.
The post-coital cuddle is part of the experience. It is my right to snuggle up to you and thank you for your glorious performance.
You must appreciate that I am a woman. As such, I have estrogen saturating my blood stream. At times this will make me forget all logic and reason. I will do my best to tame that craziness in exchange for your promise not to make any sudden movements when you see my eyes glowing red with hormonal rage.
The toilet seat should always remain down. No lady likes to get stuck in the ca mode at 4am.
Opening the car door or offering me a hand up/down is always noted and appreciated.
It's probably best to feed me drinks and take me dancing if the Sooners loose. Unless I am distracted I am going to be a mopey little brat for the remainder of the evening. I am allowed to be a brat until I wake up Sunday morning. If it is the Texas game, I get all day Sunday, too.
I should be your last call of the day.
You must always appear to like my haircut, my cooking and my mother. Unless I bitch about the sub-par haircut or cooking first, save your negative comments for boys night. On the other hand there is no circumstance on this planet in which you are allowed to talk shit about my momma.
I am entitled to affection, flattery and thoughtful gestures. Just like you are entitled to lingerie and other naughty surprises.
I know you are stronger than I am. But you should usually let me win when we wrestle.
Goodnight All,
Shay
Without further ado: The Female Lover's Bill of Rights ....
I am entitled to steal your clothes. I may wash them and give them back. Or, more realistically I may keep them for an undetermined period of time. As consolation for your dwindling wardrobe just know that I'll probably think of you 93 times a day while wearing your shirt, boxers, sweatpants etc. Actually, I'll probably think of you 93 times anyway.
The post-coital cuddle is part of the experience. It is my right to snuggle up to you and thank you for your glorious performance.
You must appreciate that I am a woman. As such, I have estrogen saturating my blood stream. At times this will make me forget all logic and reason. I will do my best to tame that craziness in exchange for your promise not to make any sudden movements when you see my eyes glowing red with hormonal rage.
The toilet seat should always remain down. No lady likes to get stuck in the ca mode at 4am.
Opening the car door or offering me a hand up/down is always noted and appreciated.
It's probably best to feed me drinks and take me dancing if the Sooners loose. Unless I am distracted I am going to be a mopey little brat for the remainder of the evening. I am allowed to be a brat until I wake up Sunday morning. If it is the Texas game, I get all day Sunday, too.
I should be your last call of the day.
You must always appear to like my haircut, my cooking and my mother. Unless I bitch about the sub-par haircut or cooking first, save your negative comments for boys night. On the other hand there is no circumstance on this planet in which you are allowed to talk shit about my momma.
I am entitled to affection, flattery and thoughtful gestures. Just like you are entitled to lingerie and other naughty surprises.
I know you are stronger than I am. But you should usually let me win when we wrestle.
Goodnight All,
Shay
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Happy is a Verb
True happiness does not happen by itself. It takes effort. Action on your part to work towards the goals you set for your life. To become the best version of yourself.
I also believe that happiness requires a certain amount of gratitude and relaxation. The trick to being happy is the ability to stop. To take a deep breath and appreciate the fact that you have achieved something you worked hard for. To relax and enjoy that moment of triumph no matter how big or how small.
People who never take a moment to appreciate what they have may end up very successful, but they may never be happy. There is a reason for the saying money can't buy happiness.
So what makes me happy?
PEOPLE
1) Family - Laughing around the dinner table with my family is one of the most rewarding ways I can spend an evening. It swells my heart to bursting.
2) Friends - Spending time with my closest friends is like spending time with family.
3) Love - I am a passionate creature.
PLACES
1) My parent's house - That house is my harbor. Just being there gives me a sense of comfort and security.
2) The Lake - The lakes in Oklahoma are beautiful. I associate the lake with relaxation, playing hard, friends and not a care in the world.
3) Bookstores - My mecca. Filled with every great story ever told! I dream that I will someday have a book on the shelves alongside my favorite authors.
4) Libraries - Same thing.
THINGS
1) My bike, Flicka
2) A new book
3) A cute pair of heels
CIRCUMSTANCES
1) Friday afternoon
2) When the air smells like fresh cut grass and spring rain
3) When the Sooners win a big game
4) When I hear a great song on the radio and I'm driving windows down, singing off-key at the top of my lungs.
5) The few seconds after a 360 on the jet ski. When the water is crashing around me creating a halo of misty rainbows.
6) When I am the center of attention
7) When I am in the middle of reading a really great book for the first time
8) When I am in the middle of reading a really great book for the upteenth time
9) When I go out to my parent's house and discover the pool is uncovered for the first time each summer.
10) When I am lying in bed with my lover. Talking and laughing and cuddling in post-coital bliss.
11) When I finish a big task or catch something before it becomes a problem at work.
12) When I finish a long, hard bike ride and I can barely lift my leg to get off my bike. And I realize I made it through. That I just pushed myself beyond what was possible even the week before.
It is in the little things for me. Those precious moments when the world aligns and I am able to fully enjoy my surroundings. That space in time where I find myself taking in the present with a greatful breath and letting it go again with a giggle. And I realize that something has just tickled my soul.
I urge you all to pay attention to what tickles yours.
Goodnight - ShayMarie
I also believe that happiness requires a certain amount of gratitude and relaxation. The trick to being happy is the ability to stop. To take a deep breath and appreciate the fact that you have achieved something you worked hard for. To relax and enjoy that moment of triumph no matter how big or how small.
People who never take a moment to appreciate what they have may end up very successful, but they may never be happy. There is a reason for the saying money can't buy happiness.
So what makes me happy?
PEOPLE
1) Family - Laughing around the dinner table with my family is one of the most rewarding ways I can spend an evening. It swells my heart to bursting.
2) Friends - Spending time with my closest friends is like spending time with family.
3) Love - I am a passionate creature.
PLACES
1) My parent's house - That house is my harbor. Just being there gives me a sense of comfort and security.
2) The Lake - The lakes in Oklahoma are beautiful. I associate the lake with relaxation, playing hard, friends and not a care in the world.
3) Bookstores - My mecca. Filled with every great story ever told! I dream that I will someday have a book on the shelves alongside my favorite authors.
4) Libraries - Same thing.
THINGS
1) My bike, Flicka
2) A new book
3) A cute pair of heels
CIRCUMSTANCES
1) Friday afternoon
2) When the air smells like fresh cut grass and spring rain
3) When the Sooners win a big game
4) When I hear a great song on the radio and I'm driving windows down, singing off-key at the top of my lungs.
5) The few seconds after a 360 on the jet ski. When the water is crashing around me creating a halo of misty rainbows.
6) When I am the center of attention
7) When I am in the middle of reading a really great book for the first time
8) When I am in the middle of reading a really great book for the upteenth time
9) When I go out to my parent's house and discover the pool is uncovered for the first time each summer.
10) When I am lying in bed with my lover. Talking and laughing and cuddling in post-coital bliss.
11) When I finish a big task or catch something before it becomes a problem at work.
12) When I finish a long, hard bike ride and I can barely lift my leg to get off my bike. And I realize I made it through. That I just pushed myself beyond what was possible even the week before.
It is in the little things for me. Those precious moments when the world aligns and I am able to fully enjoy my surroundings. That space in time where I find myself taking in the present with a greatful breath and letting it go again with a giggle. And I realize that something has just tickled my soul.
I urge you all to pay attention to what tickles yours.
Goodnight - ShayMarie
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