Who knew taking a photo a day would be so challenging? I see 1000+ things to take a pic of, but either camera is never nearby, or I’m stuck using my smartphone camera (complete with one broken button and a second completely missing button).
Still. It’s fun to see a tiny pixel of my day.
No, I don’t mean frog-legs, although I have to admit they’re mighty tasty if done properly.
You know when you NEED to do Something, and you know that the Something really isn’t all THAT bad, but yet still you find yourself defrosting the deepfreeze rather than tackling the Something instead?
Yeah. I’ve had a few of those lately.
“Eat a live frog every morning, and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.” -Mark Twain
Do the icky thing first. Get it over with. NOW. The pain of not doing is greater than the pain of doing.
You heard me. So go. Do.
And if you absolutely can’t bear to eat that frog, put ketchup on it and hold your nose.
… but do you really wanna?
You want to lose 10 pounds. You want to learn a new language. You want to be an early riser. You want to eat only locally. You want to save the puppies. You want.
again … but do you REALLY wanna?
Maybe it’s that you want to want to. But you really don’t wanna.
Don’t get it? It’s just like that I want to like peanut butter. But I don’t. (Emphatically, irrevocably, undeniably, DO NOT LIKE.) But it sure would be convenient if I did.
Interesting food for thought from my master yogini goddess sistah gurl.
Something to chew on. And happy Friday, folks. Get out there and do something you REALLY want! (Just keep your peanut butter to yourself.)
It looks lovely, and danged convenient, sure wish I liked it.
Thought for the day:
Please know that just because I’m having fun while doing something doesn’t mean that I’m not serious about it. Seriousness does not have to look frowny, mean or worse yet: boring. Sadly, sometimes people think they go hand in hand.
Now get out there and help me change that.
So there.
Carry on.
There’s a local watering hole bar, perched on the lake. It’s really NOT our favorite spot, but somehow we always end up drawn there, and always have a great time. Usually we’re there pre or post boating, but this particular day was a crisp fall day. Too gorgeous not to get out and enjoy the view of the water. We sure seem to be at this spot often enough that it could easily be moniker’d as one of our favorites. But yet we still don’t label it that way ourselves.
Hmm. Why IS that? The places/things that are NOT your favorites, somehow you’re still drawn to. Heh?
Like that ratty-ass sweatshirt you really (REALLY) should let go of, that you’re not so fond of either for that matter, that still gets way more wear than your absolute mostest favoritest that sits unused and lonely in the closet. By the time you do get around to wearing the favorite one, somewhere along the way it changed on you (gasp!) and now doesn’t fit quite the way you remember, and were the sleeves always like that? In the meantime, you missed out on it when it WAS your favorite, and for what? A crowded closet, and a neglected pristine shirt that is no longer your favorite afterall and is well past its expiration date.
Doesn’t have a dang thing to do with olives, but there ya have it. We enjoyed the day and the maybe-it-is-your-favorite-afterall-but-you-don’t-realize-it bar so much we created a little friend to enjoy it with us. It appears he eventually had a little too much to drink though. Must’ve been tipsy from marinating in the bloody mary for too long, I guess.
Get out there with your favorite (whatever), and wear/use/love the hell out of it. While it still IS your favorite!
PS—Olives are my favoritest garnish on a bloody mary. Who wants one?
Yeah, still here. Where’d I go? Nowhere in particular. Nothing unusually noteworthy to write home about, other than the usual cadre of many wonderful and exciting tiny details of everydayness.
I just went *poof* for a while. No reason.
Very moved and overwhelmed by some terribly kind words here. 
*sniff* (The feeling’s mutual, Izzie Dahling…) And this WILL be passed on.
But not right this minute. Right this minute off to the vet, for more meds for Leeloominai. (I can’t believe she’s tolerating a diaper for her ouchie coochie so well, I doubt I’d be so accommodating.)
Soon though. As in “coming soon to a screen near you”.
If love were a sandwich, it would be this one.
The Melanzane. From Dominics in Waltham, MA.
I think even Lovey wouldn’t kick me outta bed for leaving crumbs, provided he got his own sammich of course. Otherwise there might be a rumble.
For my friend, Delightful. Whose fur-baby, Mercury, I imagine MUST be like this in the mornings. My bat-shit-crazy feline 20 years ago sure was. Then again, we named her Phydeaux. She might’ve been offended, who knows.
Hey Delightful – Make sure you hide the sporting equipment.
(Thanks to Kiki– she found the magic cat guy, I’m merely repurposing it.)
I’m a big nutty nut.
Every. Single. Line. (!) = True. (except one. You have to guess which one though.)
Nutty, indeed. But we knew that already.
(But I still swear I’m just a beginner.)
Speaking of which, I’m off to study with some wicked smaht yoga masters for a week— see all y’all later…
Swaha!
My deliciously quirky Mema had a *thing* for self-help books. Of all kinds. From Nostradomus (sp) stuff, to the pre-Martha (godforbid, insert her trademark here) domestic goddesses of the 50′s, to even a how to please your man pamphlet from the 40′s that I ran across while going through everything before Mother’s Estate sale. (Now THAT, is worthy of a post of it’s own. HI-LAR-ious, I tell you. And kinda creepy. The pamphlet, I mean. But I digress.)
In any case, combine her self-help fetish with a slight passive-aggressive streak, and you’d come home to find various and sundry books, with bookmarks and highlights strategically placed on your bed, car, etc.
Gee, Mema. Trying to tell me somethin’, are ya? *sigh*
The best had to be the little late 80′s Nancy Reagan era Just-Say-No propaganda number she’d scavenged up somewhere. Finding that bugger had to be no easy feat, being that we lived in a town whose population is still to this day smaller than my now current subdivision. (A great place to be, but at the same time it’s a little like living on an island– since everything has to be “brought in” from elsewhere. Except rice.)
It took me about a month to figure out why she thought I needed THAT particular missive. It wasn’t until mother came to me gingerly, wringing her hands, all concerned about some razor blade they’d found in my car.
Um, heh? OHHHH…. Sheesh. Settle down. I scraped the AARP sticker that Mema had on the car window before it became mine. (Tip: An AARP sticker doth not attract the eye of young squires. And if it does, then I’m skeered of dem boyz. Talk about Cubs after some Cougars, yowsa.)
The point of this little trip down memory lane, is that I just fired off a few copies of books to a couple far flung friends.
They weren’t self-help books, nor were any passages highlighted. Each reader can find their own bits that stand out for themselves. The book was merely a choice I enjoyed the hell out of, and I thought they might too– so I wanted to share. I’m cognizant enough to be super grateful that I don’t have to choose between doing that, and buying groceries or paying the light bill.
I even threw in a summer CD mix (confession: or TWO. There were too many good songs, I couldn’t cut back to fit on one CD.), just for grins. Why the hell not?
So I guess I’m channelling Mema a bit.
Minus the passive aggressive streak.
I hope.
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