So...2014 was a bad year.
Well, it was half a bad year.
Oh who are we kidding...it was the worst 1/2 year I've ever had.
Its been very, very quiet here on the blog because...well...I have to be in a good place and in good head space to tell you a story and I haven't been in either of those since June 1, 2014.
For a lot of reasons.
For one really big reason.
For a story that I'll tell you later...when I'm ready...when it doesn't hurt so much.
Cause right now it's too much.
So I'll tell you other stories instead.
Because I know that my happy is still out there...just waiting for me to come back to it.
And I will...but I'm not there yet.
- HistoryDiva
Showing posts with label existential crisis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label existential crisis. Show all posts
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Busy Whining
So far this year has not gone as planned. For example, I was gonna be all 'wordy' and 'update-y' and crowd my blog space with posts stuffed full of deep thoughts and astonishing insights. Instead, I lost my sight and went under the knife...TWICE. *sigh*
See? This is what happens when you attempt to 'have a plan' for the future...no matter how short of a time span that 'future' might be. Say...a year. *another sigh*
So here I sit, in my pajamas in the middle of the day, writing a post about nothing.
You jelly?
See? This is what happens when you attempt to 'have a plan' for the future...no matter how short of a time span that 'future' might be. Say...a year. *another sigh*
So here I sit, in my pajamas in the middle of the day, writing a post about nothing.
You jelly?
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Ring Bell for Service
Thank you, dear readers, for the concern. I’m fine.
No, really. I’m fine.
No, really.
Okay…so I’m not fine…but I’m better than I was.
And now…an update!
No, really. I’m fine.
No, really.
Okay…so I’m not fine…but I’m better than I was.
And now…an update!
Thing One has taken up yoga. 
Thing Two has not.
It was really hot on Monday.
This book comes out on Saturday.
This made me laugh.
And that’s all you get!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Pondering Ponderous Ponderosities
I have a high school class reunion coming up this summer, and at this point I’m really not sure exactly how I feel about that.
What you have to understand is that I hated high school. Sure, as a teacher’s kid I was basically guaranteed an easy ride, but high school is a battlefield complete with land mines of clichéd self doubt and cliquish loathing. When I left high school I had a 3.95 GPA, I was goal oriented and ambitious, and I had plans and dreams and fantastically high hopes for my future. Unfortunately, and unknown me at that time, I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of actually succeeding in college (a very long story that I’m not going to share with you…EVER). Let’s just say that my educational short comings were quick to reveal themselves.
So how can I describe my high school to you, my intrepid reader? Constructed rather like a rabbit warren, my high school was a sprawling web of color-coded hallways. Yes, you read that correctly…color-coded hallways. The school board, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the students who would attend my high school would be too stupid to remember that their lit class was on the English/Literature hallway so they painted a purple stripe on both the walls and called it…prepare yourself for some impending genius…“The Purple Hall.” History was red, math and languages were orange, science was yellow, computers and shop were green, drafting was pink, and occupational classes were light blue. Interestingly enough, the band and chorus rooms were located on “The Band Hall”…I guess they had run out of colors by then. The contractor had decided to cut corners and improve the budget by leaving out the soundproof gasket between the gymnasium and rest of the school…meaning that by my senior year (when the building was only 10 years old) there were huge cracks in the walls all around the gym. The plumbing never functioned properly because the school was built on reclaimed swamp land. There was a marsh on the property just behind the baseball field which meant that the place was always over run with mosquitoes…a little malaria with your algebra today, class? When the fire alarm went off all the doors would automatically slam shut and lock…this included the exit doors. Of course, the device which triggered the automatic reaction was faulty and one well placed hit to the small metal box attached to the door frame could close every door in the place. And (yes, I know you aren’t supposed to start a sentence with AND) don’t even get me started on individual classmates or this post would NEVER end!
The long and short of this issue is really about the people with whom I attended high school. To put it simply, I didn’t like them then so why would I like them now? I honestly don’t care what they have done with their lives or made out of themselves. I don’t care who they married, how many children they have, or where they are living. The people who I liked/cared about I am still in contact with, but that list is short and exclusive. The few times that I have encountered someone I went to high school with in a random, public place (like the local Wal-Mart) the reaction has usually been one of “OH, you’re a memory from when my life didn’t suck!! I had such a great life back then!! I hadn’t made all these horrible mistakes!!! Hurray!! We should totally hang out!!!” To be quite frank, that is not what I want to be reduced to for those people.
Do you remember a series of car commercial from several years ago where the person’s past self had popped into the future to see what they had become? One of them involved a mom unloading grocery from her vehicle when her high school self walks up to her and taunts her about driving a minivan. I have the eerie sensation that the reunion would be a very similar situation.
The person I am today would not recognize the girl I was in high school. We are ten years and worlds apart from each other.
What you have to understand is that I hated high school. Sure, as a teacher’s kid I was basically guaranteed an easy ride, but high school is a battlefield complete with land mines of clichéd self doubt and cliquish loathing. When I left high school I had a 3.95 GPA, I was goal oriented and ambitious, and I had plans and dreams and fantastically high hopes for my future. Unfortunately, and unknown me at that time, I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of actually succeeding in college (a very long story that I’m not going to share with you…EVER). Let’s just say that my educational short comings were quick to reveal themselves.
So how can I describe my high school to you, my intrepid reader? Constructed rather like a rabbit warren, my high school was a sprawling web of color-coded hallways. Yes, you read that correctly…color-coded hallways. The school board, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the students who would attend my high school would be too stupid to remember that their lit class was on the English/Literature hallway so they painted a purple stripe on both the walls and called it…prepare yourself for some impending genius…“The Purple Hall.” History was red, math and languages were orange, science was yellow, computers and shop were green, drafting was pink, and occupational classes were light blue. Interestingly enough, the band and chorus rooms were located on “The Band Hall”…I guess they had run out of colors by then. The contractor had decided to cut corners and improve the budget by leaving out the soundproof gasket between the gymnasium and rest of the school…meaning that by my senior year (when the building was only 10 years old) there were huge cracks in the walls all around the gym. The plumbing never functioned properly because the school was built on reclaimed swamp land. There was a marsh on the property just behind the baseball field which meant that the place was always over run with mosquitoes…a little malaria with your algebra today, class? When the fire alarm went off all the doors would automatically slam shut and lock…this included the exit doors. Of course, the device which triggered the automatic reaction was faulty and one well placed hit to the small metal box attached to the door frame could close every door in the place. And (yes, I know you aren’t supposed to start a sentence with AND) don’t even get me started on individual classmates or this post would NEVER end!
The long and short of this issue is really about the people with whom I attended high school. To put it simply, I didn’t like them then so why would I like them now? I honestly don’t care what they have done with their lives or made out of themselves. I don’t care who they married, how many children they have, or where they are living. The people who I liked/cared about I am still in contact with, but that list is short and exclusive. The few times that I have encountered someone I went to high school with in a random, public place (like the local Wal-Mart) the reaction has usually been one of “OH, you’re a memory from when my life didn’t suck!! I had such a great life back then!! I hadn’t made all these horrible mistakes!!! Hurray!! We should totally hang out!!!” To be quite frank, that is not what I want to be reduced to for those people.
Do you remember a series of car commercial from several years ago where the person’s past self had popped into the future to see what they had become? One of them involved a mom unloading grocery from her vehicle when her high school self walks up to her and taunts her about driving a minivan. I have the eerie sensation that the reunion would be a very similar situation.
The person I am today would not recognize the girl I was in high school. We are ten years and worlds apart from each other.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Wrong Number
…no, this isn’t 867-5309 and no, you can’t speak to Jenny.
Due to the recent round of medical drama going on in my family it is safe to say that I have spent much of the previous forty-eight hours somewhat on edge. So when the house phone, an extension of which sits about eighteen inches from the head of my bed, rang this morning at 6:00am I was noticeably alarmed. Once I had peeled myself off the bedroom ceiling (metaphorically of course) I turned a bleary eye toward the caller I.D. just long enough to note that it was a wrong number and hit the mute button so that I could go back to sleep.
Roughly two minutes later the phone rang again. Noting that it was the same wrong number I snatched the handset from the cradle and hit the talk button. I wasn’t just awake now, I was awake and pissed.
Me: “YES??”
Caller: “Who is speaking?”
*what I wanted to say was “ITS SIX A. M. AND YOU HAVE A WRONG NUMBER WHERE DO YOU GET OFF ASKING WHO THIS IS? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”*
But what I said was:
Me: ‘Who are you calling?”
Caller: (something in a thick Indian accent)
Me: “YOU HAVE A WRONG NUMBER!” and I hung up
*Sigh*
What a way to start a Thursday, huh?
Sadly, this is only the most recent in what has been a long string of strange phone calls since I acquired a land line under my own name from the phone company. Clearly the number they assigned to me has changed hands many, many, many, MANY times. We get calls for an insurance agency, a woman named Maria, a woman named Gertrude, and a guy named Dave. We get calls from collection agencies, Bank of America (whom neither I nor my roommate bank with), lots of toll free numbers (usually wanting Maria), and one guy who had an entire conversation with dead air after our answering machine clicked on (he even left us his social security number…not the best idea really)! The annoying part is that we can’t seem to make the calls stop no matter how often we tell people that “This isn’t Maria’s number anymore.”
So I have dutifully registered my number on the National Do Not Call list and eagerly await the day that someone calls my home number looking for me.
Due to the recent round of medical drama going on in my family it is safe to say that I have spent much of the previous forty-eight hours somewhat on edge. So when the house phone, an extension of which sits about eighteen inches from the head of my bed, rang this morning at 6:00am I was noticeably alarmed. Once I had peeled myself off the bedroom ceiling (metaphorically of course) I turned a bleary eye toward the caller I.D. just long enough to note that it was a wrong number and hit the mute button so that I could go back to sleep.
Roughly two minutes later the phone rang again. Noting that it was the same wrong number I snatched the handset from the cradle and hit the talk button. I wasn’t just awake now, I was awake and pissed.
Me: “YES??”
Caller: “Who is speaking?”
*what I wanted to say was “ITS SIX A. M. AND YOU HAVE A WRONG NUMBER WHERE DO YOU GET OFF ASKING WHO THIS IS? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”*
But what I said was:
Me: ‘Who are you calling?”
Caller: (something in a thick Indian accent)
Me: “YOU HAVE A WRONG NUMBER!” and I hung up
*Sigh*
What a way to start a Thursday, huh?
Sadly, this is only the most recent in what has been a long string of strange phone calls since I acquired a land line under my own name from the phone company. Clearly the number they assigned to me has changed hands many, many, many, MANY times. We get calls for an insurance agency, a woman named Maria, a woman named Gertrude, and a guy named Dave. We get calls from collection agencies, Bank of America (whom neither I nor my roommate bank with), lots of toll free numbers (usually wanting Maria), and one guy who had an entire conversation with dead air after our answering machine clicked on (he even left us his social security number…not the best idea really)! The annoying part is that we can’t seem to make the calls stop no matter how often we tell people that “This isn’t Maria’s number anymore.”
So I have dutifully registered my number on the National Do Not Call list and eagerly await the day that someone calls my home number looking for me.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Inevitable Lame First Post
...in which the blogger uses much self gratification and grandstanding to explain why they feel that their own opinions and complaints warrant web space.
My answer is simple, straight forward and honest: peer pressure. Like every other 'internet gateway drug' *coughcoughfacebookcough* once all my friends started doing it clearly it was only a matter of time before I caved as well. So yet another blog is spawned. Will people read it? Will I keep it up? I refuse to make any kind of bold statement declaring my intent one way or the other because that would be far too cliché...hell, even calling it cliché is...yeah, I'm not going to type that word again.
My answer is simple, straight forward and honest: peer pressure. Like every other 'internet gateway drug' *coughcoughfacebookcough* once all my friends started doing it clearly it was only a matter of time before I caved as well. So yet another blog is spawned. Will people read it? Will I keep it up? I refuse to make any kind of bold statement declaring my intent one way or the other because that would be far too cliché...hell, even calling it cliché is...yeah, I'm not going to type that word again.
So here it is world, my blog.
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