Posted in Angel of Small Death, Hozier, Inspiration, Life, Living, Love, Lyrics, Meaning of Life, Music, Music Hozier, Musicians, Perspective, Spirituality, Tuesday, Words of Wisdom, Writers, Writing, Writing Inspiration

Dragging You Through the Week

Tuesday, my lifelong nemesis.

Take a few sips of your chosen poison, and kick back with a little Hozier to help drag you through to tomorrow…

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Posted in Andshelaughs, Beauty, Comedy, Creativity, Girl Stuff, Guy Stuff, Humor, Humour, Life, Living, Meaning of Life, Memes, Quotes, Tuesday, Writing

Tuesday – My Perpetual Nemesis

Tuesdays have always been my  Nemesis, always wanting more from me than I have to give. They are a day that even my university roommate dreaded due to the oddities I happened to drag home with me, either in person or in spirit.

Tuesday – you may be a bitch, but I’m far more fabulous and hard-headed than you will ever be!

bagsarechanel

Posted in andshealughs, Beauty, Fearless Living, Feminism, Fitness, Fitness Inspiration, Fitness Motivation, Girls Stuff, Guy Stuff, Health, High School, Life, Living, Meaning of Life, Nostalgia, Women's Issues

Gym Class Flashback

gymclassThere are few things I can recall being worse at than anything to do with High School gym class. I mean, the shorts alone were enough to make me weep, not to mention the knee-socks.

To say I’m not athletic is to say that Harper Lee is a mediocre writer. In other words, I sucked at gym. Other than basketball, and hitting a baseball, I dreaded that class more than anything, and was so thankful that the high-school-credit-gods decided that one was enough.

During gymnastics class I once did a vault and actually knocked my spotter unconscious with my right thigh. The same girl was victim to a line drive when she was pitching to me, which once again rendered her without response. When she offered to stand up in my wedding, I should have known the marriage was doomed.

Tonight, after a two-week hiatus, I took my chubby little buns off to the gym right after work and hit the cardio class. I hate this class. There is no joyful flailing of flab like Zumba or Urban Rhythms. It’s all very practical and ham-string agonizing.

My first clue that something was up should have been the lack of participants in the room. You see, this gym is busy enough that you have to be banded to attend class. It should have been full, but it wasn’t, and then I saw her. A woman who surely was the doppelganger of my High School gym teacher. The one that generations of students and their parents had nicknamed, “Spade-Face”.

Spade-Face inspired fear in the hearts of all girls with breasts. She was like a drill sergeant in purple and gold (our proud school colours) sweats, whistle and baritone bark included. Just looking at her made me pee my pants a little bit.

So, tonight in my mind, it was “Spade-Face” whom I was at the mercy of, with my middle-aged porcelain white thighs and tailored to fit sports bra.  It was a terrible class. She lost count, screwed up, and had the personality of a torn  gusset from a totally used up pair of panties.

But I made it through, without too much gasping or excessive sweating. I actually felt good when I walked out of that studio.

Spandex – the great fashion equalizer. I may wear a suit all day, and provide ‘expertise’, but when we get to the gym, it’s just my glutes and yours darling, and yours win hands-down.

As it turns out, I really wasn’t that bad when it came to athletics. Nope, like most young ladies who were abused, I just had incredibly low self-esteem, and would rather have worn a moo-moo over my svelte 16-year-old body than have anyone see skin.

Years passed, and I shed the skin of victimhood, to find out that I wasn’t such an athletic anomaly as I thought I was. I loved going to the gym, played squash, and even started running when I was in my mid-thirties. I even have a ‘sports’ injury incurred from competitive paddling. Go figure.

So, with this in mind, I have set some new goals for myself after a bit of a lazy go at living. Wish me luck, and I wish you luck too. This getting older may be harder on the ego and bones, but it does wonders for the spirit when we put it all into perspective.

Posted in Advice, Andshelaughs, Art, Artists, bloggers, Blogging, Creativity, Criticism, Free Speech, Free Thinkers, Girl Stuff, Guy Stuff, Leanin In, Life, Living, Meaning of Life, Men's Issues, Occupy, Psychology, Thereapy, Women's Issues, Writers, Writing

A Reason To Keep Writing

decisions todayI read a very short blog entry this morning at kelzbelzphotography about people criticizing the blog, topics and the writer.

It’s true, not everyone loves everything we write. I even get nasty comments from people I know, and people who only have the courage to identify as anonymous, the poor feckless arseholes.

I’ve even had a few rather threatening comments, and a few blog-stalkers, of whom I know their identities and whereabouts thanks to my obsession with the statistics page we have access to.

It’s important that we feel safe here, in the blogosphere of free speech that we are damn lucky to have. It’s also important to be brave, courageous, and supportive to other writers we feel a kinship with. For the others, in my case, the bigots, morons and close-minded, I either ignore them, or leave my opinion in a non-threatening way. You know, something delicate like, “Pull your head out of your butt hillbilly.”

You see, in this little space, many of us post our heart’s desires. This is where I come to tap out a few lines because I’m too busy to crack open the notebook on a new novel I’m writing. These few minutes launch me into my day and sate my proclivity to daydreaming and wasting my days away leaving the mundane to pile up like a big wad of anxiety in my mind.

We show you our stories, works of art and poetry. This is where we come to live out our creativity, and as you know baby-cakes, creativity is no mere sixth sense. No, it is the sacred expression of the human spirit.

The weekend blog-posts are written at my little writing desk with the morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and falling on the hearty green leaves of my beloved shamrock. From here I see the world and my future unfold where others might only see a weathered obelisque and the hyacinths beginning to poke their green heads through the grey-brown muck of early spring.

Posted in Andshelaughs, Artists, Buddism, Canadian Writers, Creative Writing, dating, Girls Stuff, Guy Stuff, Inspiration, Life, Love, Meaning of Life, Motivation, Nostalgia, Romance, Storytelling, The Art of STorytelling, Women's Issues, Writing

Memory: The Greatest Storyteller of Our Time

intotheabyss‘Boobs’. That’s all it said. A text message I received today after a  lingering champagne hazed session of reacquainting myself with a long, lost lover and friend.

What made it so funny was that it came from a number I don’t recognize, likely someone I have known quite well, but deleted from my digital Rolodex of potential back-ups.  One of my BFF’s refers to me  as McBoobs, but it wasn’t her. ‘Boobs’. Somewhere out there, someone’s memory brought a story about my assets back to the front line of their mind, and prompted the ridiculous text.

Memory is a funny thing. It’s sly and agile, hiding itself for so long you forget that it’s there, and then suddenly, it floods your mind, heart and soul like a spring rainstorm, leaving turned earth, and a rainbow somewhere, if you remember to look for it.

storm and rainbowDrifting off to sleep after a conversation and a few tipples with a kindred spirit, my memory reminded me how wise some people can be. Stonewalling is my preferred method of detachment and emotional salve after the crumbling wall around my school-girl heart takes a hit. “You’ve been through a lot of hurt in your younger days just like me. It’s natural.” He gets it, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep. Somebody sees it.

Seeing each other; witnessing the life of friends brings meaning to life. Years pass and friendships either fade or strengthen, and the beauty of lasting friendships is that you know someone out there in the big ole’ nasty world of non-stop striving really sees who you are. They know you.

There’s something about someone having stood by while your soul was formed and hardened in the fire of life. When you forget who you are, these are the people who tell your story back to you, and so it is – this is memory – retelling who we are and how we arrived at this place. Right here. Right now, as we are, fully human and  divinely flawed.

Not often do I go back so far in my memory to recall some of the hardest times of my life. That means I’ve forgotten a lot of experiences that were part of reinventing myself as a young adult. Recently I’ve been drawn back to a time I had managed to all-but forget. A memory or two has been salvaged and laid at my doorstep by someone whom I was sure had forgotten me. It was my choice to pick it up and examine it, or kick it aside until it eventually grew over as part of a wild, tangled landscape. I’m curious by nature, so I couldn’t leave a gift like that unopened.

It’s a blessing and a curse this easy forgetting. I do this when things go wrong with people I love. Hurt turns quickly to anger and then I toss it away like a pebble to the bottom of a deep, cold lake that is incapable of giving up her dead.  Something gone forever unless someone else makes the effort to salvage it and lay it as a gift at your feet.

Storytelling is a great gift given to friends and lovers when they’ve forgotten how fabulous they are. It’s a little spark of madness in the melancholic night of adulthood, and a hit of adrenaline to whet your appetite for living.