Life at 3 miles an Hour

I feel like I'm talking to myself again. That's probably because I am. Aimless thoughts and rambling, but I remind myself that it is therapy. I write for myself, although anyone is free to listen in. It's not like a personal diary or anything. I'm thinking I could have found a more private way to express myself if secret thoughts were what I was aiming for. So it is like a conversation with myself because it's directed to no one in particular. The frustrating part is the questions. Why do I ask questions when I'm not really expecting an answer? Why did I just ask that question? I can carry on this conversation for pages or until my spell check checks out and I'm perfectly happy. Throw one question in there though and I'm a bit nervous. Nervous about no answers and nervous that sometime, somewhere an answer might actually show up. That changes everything. It's somewhat like my prayer life I guess. I talk and talk and ramble and talk to ...

Most Americans do not sleep well. That's a headline I just read recently. Of course there are many theories that go with that statement. Many hours have been invested and even more dollars have been spent trying to investigate this latest find. There are no shortage of theories on why this might be the case. I have my own theory. We just got a new mattress set and I've not slept so poorly in quite some time. The old set that we had was ridiculous. The box springs were broken, on my side of course. The mattress sagged. It was kind of an embarrassment. Oddly though, I slept very well. I slept so well in fact that I could get away with only four to six hours a sleep at the most. Most days I was wide awake long before my alarm went off at 5. That is five o'clock in the morning for those of you who didn't realize that five o'clock happened more than once a day. I had my quiet time long before anyone else in my house was conscious. My routine was set and a...

It's Friday now, actually it's not just Friday, it's Good Friday. It's not normal Friday, average Friday or even better than average Friday. It's Good Friday. I've never even really understood the concept. Although, growing up on the Catholic East Coast it was a holiday which meant no school. That was always "Good" enough for me. Otherwise, I never really understood the concept. How could something so completely bad be considered in any way good. As far as I know, Good Friday is only referring to the day that Jesus died on the cross. What could be considered good about that. It wasn't a good arrest. It wasn't a good trial. I've seen "The Passion". It certainly wasn't a good treatment of a prisoner. And it certainly wasn't a good way to die. That is why the Romans liked persecution. It sent a message to everyone in the empire. It wasn't even a good message. I've just never been sure how "good" and this day...

view from my rock 

What I want to know is, what's up with irons? Not the ones you hit little white balls around a huge open green area trying to find the tiny little hole. Although I do have issues with those too. I mean the ones you plug in, heat up press a button and blow damp steam onto perfectly dry clothes with. I want to know whose invention that was. Or better yet, what woman first decided that they needed one. That may sound chauvanistic, but the only people I ever meet who give a rip about the location of creases and pleats are women, with a few anal men as exceptions. I mean, really. What wife first looked at her husband and asked that fateful question, "You're not going to wear that are you?" And after asking that question, which was really a biting social commentary, thought "If I just had this flat metal plate that I could plug in and shoot steam out of, the world would be as it should be". What is wrong with wrinkles? I think that wrinkles are the natu...

I need a hobby. It's probably more like I need therapy. I've always been able to write. It just comes naturally. You may not think so after reading the random thought patterns that may be exhibited here. I've been to writing classes and have been asked why I was even taking the class. I could already write. I know that I can write, I just have always wanted to know why, and how and all that mechanical stuff...you know, grammar. "Why do you care?", has always been the response, "just do it". Something happened after the last encounter of this type. I quit writing. I started talking. I never really was a great talker. It didn't come naturally. In fact I had to take a class. I took more than one class and gradually learned to talk. An interesting thing happened though. As I worked hard at talking, I quit working at what came naturally. I quit writing. Well, I still do some from time to time, but I find myself doing much less of it as time goes by. So mu...