Pass the Sun Chips

(Pre-Script: To increase muscle mass in the most flattering way possible while reading this post, you must first go down to the playlist and click on song #50 on the playlist, "Gone," by Switchfoot, then come back and resume reading this post as it plays in the background. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Discipline: The stuff you do because you have forgotten how hard it was the last time you did it. By the time your memory has been re-awakened, it is too late to back out of the thing. Why do human beings do this? Why do we forget all about the pain, but bliss out on the momentary high at the end of the thing? Is the high really that high? Or is the trauma of the pain so traumatic as to block itself out of consciousness memory, because if we could exactly remember the intensity of it, we would be freaky weird people all the time, more freaky and weird than we all already are, jumpy and skittish and startling at the drop of a dime, and we would also never get any of the "real" work done, the stuff that keeps the wheels turning, in our vehicles, lives, and world?

I do the same things every day, with mild variety. I don't always know what day it is. I wish to be wise without having to go through a discipline process to get there. the process usually involves pain, sweat, humiliation, raw nerve endings exposed, being taken to the point of what I can bear, and even beyond. I do not enjoy the process. I endure it. I would often not endure it if I could choose, but I have no choice. Although now that I think about it, if I were already wise, I would choose to endure the process, at least some of the time. And now that I think of it, I guess I have chosen to endure some processes, but it was because I didn't remember the pain at the moment of choosing to endure it, and by the time I remembered, it was too late to change my mind.

Every time I get on the treadmill, for instance, it is because I forget how painful it was last time. I have elevated the previous run in my mind;

"It wasn't that bad,"

I tell myself,

I endured it, and by the time I was done, I only felt the endorphin rush; I felt like a champion. I could hear the champion music in my head, and a crowd of screaming, ecstatic witnesses. I was ready to step up to the podium, accept my large bouquet of fire and ice roses (with blue delphiniums mixed in), and my sash, and give a speech: "Thank you all so much for believing; I'd like to thank the members of the academy for their support. You are all beautiful people..." RAAAAHHHH, I hear from the stands...that RAAAHHHH is accompanied the loud speakers blaring :

"We are the Champions, my friends, and we'll keep on fighting, 'til the end, we are the champions, we are the champions, no time for losing, 'cause we are the champions...of the WORLD!!!"

which becomes the background theme music of the rest of my day.

Then I get on the treadmill two days later. I am pumped about getting back up on that treadmill, until I actually have to start to breathe, which is usually in about no time at all. I look down at the distance I have gone or the calories I have burned in 2 minutes, and I am suddenly plummeting rapidly towards depression and despair. Only now it is too late to get off of the machine, because I am already on it, and I am not even a tenth of the distance I ran last time. I have not even broken a sweat. Kelly Clarkson is not even to her first chorus. Dagnabbit, why did I have to push it so hard the last time I was on this thing?? Now anything less will just be...well, less. And less, is not more, it is not even equal to. The fans in my head do not cheer so loudly on a "less" workout. They may do a soft clap for consideration, a nod in my direction, maybe a couple of them even throw rose pedals...but it's not the same. That's what I get for being a show off to myself.

It was the same with birthing babies. I did it once, forgot about the trauma and pain, the needles and my very great phobia and hatred of them, specifically of having them inserted into my body at various points, forgot all about the fact that a full term baby "in" needs a way to get "out," and there is no pleasant way to get a full term baby "out." and once he or she is "out," he or she leaves all of his or her "luggage" behind...often right on your behind...but I digress.

It is the same every time I decide that today would be a good day to bake a lasagne from scratch, and another one to freeze.

It is the same with cleaning the bathrooms.

Cleaning the kitchen.

Mopping the floor.

Vaccuming.

Oh heck, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.

Tomorrow, I might be too tired to lift a finger. I might not remember if it is April 23rd or May 2nd. But there will have been an as yet imperceptible increase in my muscle strength and endurance, I might not have to look down at the recipe card as often, those dagnabbit stains will be easier to scrub off, and I will know that I was really alive this day, and present...

'Cause I'm quite sure that the muscles of a dead person do not ache like this.

I was meant to live.

Someday I might maybe be wise.

-XOXO,

So I guess the rumors are true, then. Gosh.

(Pre-Script: This post pairs nicely with the song," Superman," #10 on the playlist, so stop whatever you were just doing, including but not limited to, scratching your earlobe, biting a Cheetos, or examining your fingernails, go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and continue reading. I'll wait, right here...) (...still waiting...)

Come closer, my children, and you shall hear

the glorious tale of...

a strung out slightly neurotic girl.

Okay, it's not very glorious, actually.

By "Strung Out Slightly Neurotic Girl," I mean myself.

By "Myself," I mean me.

Ahem.

You may be shocked to learn that I am not a Superhero, and have never possessed any Super Powers, unless you concider my ability to turn white socks, tshirts, and underwear pink in the wash to be a super power. I have always thought of it more as a character trait than a super power...but I digress.

Sometimes I am too intense.

By "Too intense," I mean that I am too intense for other people. I have a tendency to be Overzealous, Over Energized, a Whip Quick Thinker, switching tracks and bridging the gap between my left and right brain, in a "Can't we all just get along" sort of dialog within myself,

running ahead, leaving everyone else in the dust.

I get very sweaty in the process.

Booyah, what?

Where did you all go?

OH, you're still on the couch scratching your heads?

I apologize.

I was too busy lambasting you to notice.

I was too busy bombarding you with words,

just a small sampling of my moment by moment deep, analytical, and/or totally superficial, cliched, hysterical thoughts,

to notice.

Ahem.

Maybe I should clarify:

I have in times past (and by "In times past," I mean "The entire duration of my life, up to the second in which you are reading this") had a tendency to be too intense for other people;

I am not too intense for myself.

"...but Michelle, excuse me, Michelle?"

I hear my invisible imaginary reader interrupting,

"Michelle, if that's true, then why is your toe throbbing?"

Gentle reader, how did you know about the toe?

"...I"m just saying, I find it interesting that your toe started throbbing 12 hours after you took your Aleve this morning...right when the Aleve would have worn off."

Gentle reader, I will have you know, I ran over 14 miles today, and...

"You were limping all evening."

As I said, Precious Gentle Reader, over 14 miles. Uphill. Does that even mean anything to you??

"Michelle, you should have stopped at 13."

Drat. Dagnabbit, gumblasted, Gentle Reader, you could be on to something. Possibly.

Ahem.

Y'all, I'd like to amend my previous statement:

Sometimes I am too intense even for myself. Sometimes.

Can I get a witness?

Yes, in the form of a non-specified throbbing toe. I will not specify which, but it is attached to my body, of that I have never been more sure. WHOLLY THROBBING DIGIT FULL OF NERVE ENDINGS...but I digress. Again.

Ahem.

So the question is, can you keep up?

Anyone?

Hello??

Ah, Dern. Shelly might just have to learn to

(sometimes)

(Just barely slightly)

(on occasion)

(And twice on Sunday)

sloooooowww dooowwnnnn....

Blink.

Um, yeah,

Like I said, DagNabbit.

Ahem.

-XOXO,

Sometimes the egg must crack

(Pre-Script: This post pairs best with the song," The Story," #42 on the playlist. click it on, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting.)
Sometimes the shell of egg will crack
(it's actually quite thin)
clear to whitish murky mess will drip out
and yellow yolk.

The yellow yolk
does not always stay
together in one round yellow piece-

Sometimes the yolk breaks too.
The hard shell
only needs to be banged a time or two
on anything, really
and it will crack and out will spill
the insides
so have a bowl or frying pan handy

to catch the egg now dripping from the shell

(which seems firm and together on the outside,

but is actually quite thin)

4/26/09

-XOXO,

Pepper Hughes

(Pre-script: This post goes down nicely with a cold hit of "Where I Stood*, by Missy Higgins, # 46 on the playlist, be careful to change the lyrics to the chorus to the way I have re-written it in the post script below the post. Go down to the playlist, click on that page, then come back and resume reading...I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Every time I check out of Safeway, the Ever Efficient Checker pulls my receipt out of the cash register, looks down at it, and says "Thank you, Miss Hughes," and sometimes, "You saved 17.50 in club card sales." and sometimes, the Ever Efficient Checker even takes a pen and circles the amount of money I saved in club card sales. This is good, because maybe I am more of a visual learner than an auditory learner. In which case, just hearing "You saved 17.50." would confuse the daylights out of me. I mean, hypothetically, if I were a visual learner, and not at all auditory.
So after I am called "Miss Hughes," I usually just smile, say thanks, and walk out. I used to say "My last name is not "Hughes," and the checker would look at me with a concerned expression and say "Oh, it's not? Well, you can call the number on the back of your card and get that fixed. Oh wait, hold on, let me get a manager."

Like I want to wait around for a manager.

I just want to go home and get my ice cream into the freezer while it is still perfectly soft, but not totally melted already.

Ahem.

I never did call and fix the name apparently associated with my club card, because who cares. If I get the discount, why do I care if they call me "Miss Hughes?" It's not a bad name. I wonder what her first name is. I guess I can make one up. I will think about that, and get back to you...

Okay, I thought, and I came up with Pepper. So now in my mind, once I enter Safeway's doors, I now am a girl named Pepper Hughes, who totally knows all the words to every muzak song played over the sound system for the enjoyment of her grocery shopping experience. She also knows all the current celebrity drama and trauma from the covers of the magazines near the check out. One of these days, she just might apply for a Safeway club card. She is not at all self conscious when the checker announces to the entire line just exactly how much she saved on groceries today, down to the cent, not at all tempted to shout out, "Now that's getting personal!" When Ever Efficient Checker makes this announcent. Michelle might have felt that way, and be tempted to call the checker out on it, but not Pepper. Michelle might have asked for help unloading her grocery bags into her car, but not Pepper. Pepper does not need a bagger to help unloading the groceries, because she herself does not have to unload them; once she leaves the store, she is instantly Michelle again, and it's Michelle's job to unload the groceries...why should Pepper care? She shouldn't. Michelle doesn't mind it either, because loading and unloading the groceries is good for "the guns."

Booyah.
Now a funny thing happened last Sunday as I was checking out at Safeway. The Ever Efficient Checker pulled out my receipt, looked down at it, did a double take, then said something like, "Oh, that's odd, there is no name on your receipt." I said something like that it was okay, that I could handle it. I said "Is that what they teach you in Safeway training, to read the people's names before they leave?" (Because I know they don't teach them the proper way to give the customer back his or her change. You only need to shop at a grocery store anywhere to know that they never teach them how to properly give back change, or that the checkers, as a rule, fail to commit that part of the lesson to memory.) He said "Yes, it's supposed to add a personal touch." I said "That's interesting; it does nothing for my shopping experience to have my name called out. Have a nice afternoon...Tony."
Then Pepper walked out the automatic doors...and Michelle pushed the cart to the car and unloaded the groceries into it. I think she had saved 30.59.

-XOXO,

*"Cause I don't know who I am, who I am at Safeway; all I know is that I should. And I don't know if I can stand another hand upon my...Safeway Club Card, all I know is that I should...'cause she will rock it, and not take things personally, more than I could, she who dares to stand where I stood."

-Booyah!

what you hold in your hand

Remember that what you are holding in your hand is precious

It is precious

it is precious

and you are holding it

in your hand.

What rings bind your fingers

or bracelet your wrists

need not

poke it,

stab it,

dig in to it uncomfortably, painfully,

and be careful of clenching, squeezing,

and be careful to be soft

to touch, be gentle

to feel because

what you are holding in your hand is precious

is priceless

is the only thing,

and you can never

make it stay or

get it back.

-4/22/09

-XOXO,

This Is My Earnest Plea

(Pre-Script: Please read this post as either the song, "How to Save A Life,by the Fray" #35 on the playlist, or "Closer" by Joshua Radin, #32 on the playlist plays in the background. If you choose the song "Closer," pay special attention to the line, "Only get closer to the point where I can take no more," for that nicely expresses the sentiment captured here in this post. Go down to the playlist, click on a song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

So, Where were we? Oh, right, I was at the gym. I don't know where you were. I am often at the gym, and you might have been there, too. If you were there, I hope you were among the "most" of us who wear deodorant when we work out. If you were not among the most of us, then this post is for you, and it is written in love. When I say "love," what I mean is that it is written in total disgust and nauseated feelings. Sometimes love takes that form. The simple message of this post, the simple, earnest plea is, always wear deodorant. No matter who you are. Even you. Yes, you. Even if you are only running into the 7-11 for milk. Even then, my dear children. Even then. It does not take more than a minute, I promise. And it covers over a multitude of...sins. I am sure. Maybe a person thinks "I am going to work out, I am going to sweat anyway." Baby, you should not be wearing your 'just rolled out of bed' funk to the gym. Oh, no, not even you. And yes, if you do nothing to combat "just rolled out of bed funk," then you are still residing in it, for it does not magically disappear on it's own. What I strongly recommend, (and when I say "strongly recommend," I mean "do this or I cannot continue to like you") is that you at least, at least, brush your teeth and apply anti-perspirant/deodorant. If you also apply some sort of body cream of lotion to remove any ashyness or dryness, that will be enjoyable, too. Folks, these are simple things that take almost no time at all. But they are a gift to everyone around you. The people around you will not realize it is a gift, they will not notice what is missing, which is good. If you had not taken these steps, they would have noticed, though.

"...but Michelle,"

My Imaginary Reader interjects at this point,

"...Michelle, what about you, are you being at all hypocritical in this call out post?"

Gentle Reader, Trust me, I do not believe it's a workout unless I am thoroughly drenched. I wear the strongest deodorant I can find. I enter the gym with brushed teeth and lotioned up skin, and maybe even a dab of Vaseline on the lips. No one wants chapping, and when I say "no one," I really mean just me, and I am actually only referring to my own lips. Vaseline is not a gym requirement. It's just sometimes a personal preference. Sometimes. But I digress.
My point is that even with the care I take before a workout, AFTER a workout, I would not recommend that you, you, or any of you sit or stand within a 5 foot radius of me until after I have showered. I am trying to imagine how it would be if I had never deodorized, lotioned, and brushed...and sometimes Vaselined...and I cannot even imagine the potential horror. I think I would pass out and not be able to complete my own workout. I know this is not a pretty thought, my people, but it is a true thought, and I do not mind making myself a humiliating example if it is for your betterment...in this case, at least.
Ahem.
Now, it has come to my attention that there are people in the world who believe that they do not have any body odor whatsoever. When I say "it has come to my attention," I mean that people have actually told me this. When I say "people," I mean that more than one person has told me this. One person told me this about her spouse, "He actually has no body odor and can go without deodorant." I am convinced that he hypnotized her before he proposed and has not waken her up since. Come real close, people, my people, whoever you are: Anyone who makes these claims about not having any body odor is not to be trusted. I do not trust these statements. Ever. I certainly do not need it proven to me. Even if you believe this to be true of yourself, just wear the dagnabbit deodorant, already. When a person starts to make claims in public of, "I am not wearing deodorant because I have no body odor," it makes everyone else nervous. They will feel antsy around you, and jumpy, too, and not want to sit next to you anymore. by "everyone else, " here, I mean, "me," I mean that if I myself was around you and you made such an outlandish claim, I would have to excuse myself to the next room, and I assume this to be true of most other people, as well. Except for maybe your spouse, if you have hypnotised him or her. And besides, I would much rather smell the "Tropical Breeze," "Ocean Mist," or "Spring Bouquet" of your anti perspirant or deodorant of choice than your...natural "no odor" smell. Trust me, a little "toasted coconut" smell is a comfort.
Now, if you are new to the concept of deodorant, and don't know where to start, I will share even more intimate details of my personal life with you. It is painful for me to be so vulnerable in such a public setting, but like I said, if it helps a brother or sister out...
I, Michelle, Oh She Of Extremely Sweaty Workouts, am a long time fan of Secret Deodorant, the particular current make and model in my bathroom cabinet being: "Secret Clinical Strength Sport Marathon Fresh Scent Advanced solid." It's the best I can find, but it does sometimes make my armpits itch.

-XOXO

Maybe the very nature of its obvious nature is what is confusing.

(Pre-script: To get your money's worth out of this post and allow your mind to marinate in it's juice, I recommend that you first go down to the playlist, click on the song, " Blackbird," #15 on the playlist, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...and this is my best "I am thinking deep thougths" expression.)

"OH! OH! Pick me, pick me!"

I can hear my Imaginary Reader, getting antsy tonight. Okay, Gentle Reader, what seems to be the problem?

"Michelle, I have a question I have been meaning to ask you."

Okay, Gentle Reader, go ahead. You know you can ask me anything, right?

"Yes, Michelle, you have been very gracious with me in this regard. Thank you."

You're welcome. What's the question?

"Well, Michelle, I want to hear you answer the age old question, 'Which came first, the chicken or the egg?'"

Gentle Reader, this is an easy and obvious one.
It was the chicken, of course.

Why does anyone even question this? An egg could never sustain it's own self. Even if it could, a hatched chick could not sustain itself. A chicken was first created. It says so in Genesis, that God created all of the fish and the birds on the 5th day of creation. It was not until after they were created that God told them to multiply.* I am not going to get into a debate right here and now about whether it was a literal or a figurative 5 days as one understands daytime in this day and time. But it does say that God created the birds and the fish...and then told them to mutiply. It does not say that God created fish eggs (aka "caviar") and bird eggs (aka, Mmm, breakfast for the humans who were about to be created on the 6th day.)

Um, no.

Can you imagine, all of those eggs rolling around all over the ground? Folks, an egg cannot sustain itself. An egg alone will die. A dead egg will smell to high heaven. And can you imagine the stench if that dead egg gets stepped on or crushed? Oh mighty...That would not be a pretty smell. All of the most fragrant roses of Sharon in all of the Garden of Eden could not cover over such a mutlitude of stenchiness.

"For lo, the chickens that had been planned for were never seen walking upon the face of the Earth;

They did not survive egg-dom."**

We would now be living in a chickenless world.

Y'all, I have dead egg smell fresh on my mind because it is 5 days past Easter, and the kids dyed hard boiled eggs the day before Easter at their Grandmother's house. 2 days ago, I came home and what to my wandering eyes should appear but two cartons of the eggs the children had dyed that had been left on my front porch by their loving Grandmother. Apparently she just did not want the children to go without. Fortunately, I moved the eggs to my own refrigerator before they could start to rot. Now I am left with the quandry of how to toss the eggs out without also tossing out the hearts of my children, now once again fastened to the eggs they had forgotten all about, and also without causing neighborhood stench. Disposing of old eggs is a process. Adam and Eve did not even have plastic bags in which they could have wrapped smashed rotten eggs. But at that point, there was no sin, no rotten smelly garbage to take out, and I will go out on what seems like a not so shaky branch and theorize that there were probably no eggs...yet.

Think about it, Gentle Reader,

For Lo and Behold, a great many things do actually make a lot of sense thusly when you put your brain power to the work for which it was created.

-XOXO,

*20 And God said, "Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky." 21 So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. 22 God blessed them and said, "Be fruitful and increase in number and fill the water in the seas, and let the birds increase on the earth." 23 And there was evening, and there was morning—the fifth day.

**This is not an actual quote from an actual reliable source anywhere, unless you concider the things I make up and pull out of my own ear to be completely reliable.