Are You Living the Faux Life?

If my friend says that she sucks at life, am I to say otherwise?

I like my friend. She is caring and loyal.  However, I am not here to tell you if you suck at life or not.  I know I don’t suck at life but I am always challenged by it.  If you think you suck at life or whatever, then do something about it.  Finish the application, make the dinner plan, read more, schedule the appointment or whatever it is that will potentially make your life better.  However, in this world of information availability, there seems to be a lack of  culture and properly written grammar/spelling.  I am not referring to commas and quotations marks. I am speaking of the difference of their vs there or hoes vs hos.  I’ve learned that language is a living being and changes, surfs and convolutes.  Yet, Shakespeare’s stuff is still correct even to this day

I did hear the story of what prompted this remark.

To say the least, faux is not pronounced fox.


Small Talk

Small talk has become the new big talk.  I’ve recently had a midnight conversation about the annoyance of small talk. We were debating if we should just stay up to 4am to see our friend off to Toronto or should we have him come back to our place and crash for an hour. We opted to stay up and then we were asking for small talk. Many drinks later and the click clack of the hotel bar closing, we were relegated to talking about small talk. The social etiquette of making conversation to strangers or new potential friends that will determine either we go right with the the person or left.  The people successful at small talk parlay it into a story, a connection, an amuse bouche that can lead to an exquisite meal. However, if the other player is devoid of skills then it is a flat souffle, an uncooked hor d’oerve.

One friend scorned small talk.  He is not good at it nor does he like doing it. When he was asked to freely leave, he definitely wanted to stay. After all, the small talk was a debate in itself.

So is it better to have small talk or an uncomfortable silence?  Why is sitting quietly with friends or not friends not allowed?  Is conversation always warranted?

Well, whatever you decide is fine by me as long as you don’t small talk it to me while I’m trying to finish my drink.

We didn’t make it to 4am. Our friend opted to go to sleep on the airport chairs for an hour. I guess even with close friends, he didn’t care for the small talk either.


Even With Many Drinks, Small Talk Kills

Making it Rain Lucky

My week was heart filled.  I am lucky to have friends that love baseball’s spring training. I am very lucky to have friends who live all over the country. I am lucky to know kids. I am lucky to have an impromptu cultural dance occur on a random day out.

As we were having a drink at the bar in the casino, my friend and I walked over to a large, open atrium and suddenly was given a beautiful dance by Native Americans. Through the large glass we saw a spectacle of hoops intertwined between loops and legs of a fit fifteen year old. Unfortunately, we could not here the music accompanied with it. However, the inside bar provided nice jazz which freakishly matched the moves of our prodigy hoop slayer.  Then the chief. The chief appeared. Only if I could hear the bellowing words and foot stomps to feed the energy.

I am truly lucky to live in a time and place where I can go to a baseball game, see a Native American dance, visit a friend and buy his art and then get to two appetizers for for appetizer and entree.  As Ice Cube would say, It was a Good Day.


It’s All Art

Two things and one plan was completed last week.  I was lucky enough to win tickets to a local art show through  They had live music, a fashion show and great artwork on display.  It’s an organization made and run by artists.  I resolved years ago to stop buying big store fake wall art.  The thought of it just ripples my frontal lobe.  Any claimed turf on my walls  were either acquired in another time zone or painted by the an artist I’ve met. The other thing is every Sunday night I anxiously await the newest episode of The Walking Dead.  I enjoy having the bejeezus jump start my work week.  I suggest to anyone to start watching this show.  It’s more than zombies.  It’s about survival.  And every week, sometimes that’s what it becomes, however, not so apocalyptic.

The plan was making the commitment to attend a writers conference in New York.  I haven’t been to New York in a very long time.  For whatever reason, there are a few places aching in my heart to see, which include the Metropolitan Museum and Grand Central Terminal.  With only having a few days and within a two square mile radius, I plan to absorb all the kinetic frenzy of NYC and explode.  Besides, writing is part of my new madness and my madness includes writing and writing is art and art is drawn and drawing is a story and a story is acted and an act is filmed and a film is screened and a screen is shown and the show is The Walking Dead.

And what writer hasn’t experienced that?  Ok maybe, sans zombies.

Here’s the link to the conference:

My new wall art

“The Offering” by Bam  Shopname: Bamink


Giving Myself Permission to be a Hater …….On Occasion

Yes, I double booked two events in one night. A birthday dinner with a new found friend and a dinner get together with friends, including one thats exemplifies the loss of culture.  I went to the get together. In the end, who cares?  I am past the point to not make my birthday a big deal. I rather have a nice birthday dinner where I don’t have to pay the bill.  I texted the birthday girl and told her I owed her one. She responded, “You don’t owe me.”  And you know what?  I don’t.  I am not responsible for her birth nor its celebration.  She’s not one, thirteen, sixteen, twenty-one or hitting a particular decade.  Actually, I don’t mind other people’s birthday but don’t announce my birthday as if you own it.

I dreamt of zombies Sunday night.  Monday, I exercised. Yay me.

Tuesday, work held me to a meeting.  My iphone reminder blinks ‘blog’.  Fed well by the illustrious Biltmore Grand ballroom’s food, I had to endure a bad roast of one of the chief officers of the company. Seated for this poor comedy show, my tailbone announced its presence.  If you haven’t read my previous posts, I injured my tailbone earlier.  It flares up when sitting for prolonged periods of time on hard chairs. They should end this poor attempt of debauchery of this Southern gentleman.  Nonetheless, I made it home and head dove into my bed. My blog. Forgotten.

Today, the universe did not want me to have a lunch.  I forgot mine at home and the drive-thru doesn’t bother to throw the salad dressing into the bag.  Really? How hard is it?  Manager Mary Ellen owes me a salad next time.  Rather just have the salad dressing now.

Cereal for dinner sounds good. Not very epicurean.

I Heart a 3 year old

I took the rose the florist was giving away since Valentine’s day was tomorrow and I would not otherwise get any. So Valentine’s day came and went silently this year. Usually I am ,inadvertently, out of the country during this Hallmark designed holiday. Its not a holiday unless I am off work. Work went well and I was able to smell the roses of my front office worker. I’m not a V-day hater. I smelled them twice. You know why? Because they didn’t have a scent. That’s right. A dozen roses looking regal and scentless. Who knows how much the hubby spent on them. Cupid’s presence was tethered. Maybe it was just that I wasn’t around any couples at that moment.
The next day passed plainly with a pop of funny at the Louis CK show. Saturday, I restarted my running routine after sleeping in and eating five bowls of cereal. Nonetheless, back on track to my so-called healthy lifestyle splintered with the occasional cake piece, bags of cheez-its and the thin mints I tried hard not to buy.
My mailman must hate me or finds me humorous. He’s kind enough not to send my mail back to the post office when the delinquent recipient, i.e., me, does not pick up the mail for 10 day sabbaticals. He must know I hate getting the mail. Weirdly, he would be the only to know. Then, he also must know that I had a Valentine.
I was not in any particular mood, however, I had a glint of what was to come. My friend emailed me and informed me of my card. Although he ruined the surprise, I was still giddy. I was informed my admirer chose to send my card above all others. These others were grandparents, aunts, cousins, uncles. This admirer wanted to make sure I was her Valentine. My haste was reserved to feel the moment, to let the expected remain unexpected, to let the surprise warm me. With a sharp slither under the envelope seal, I met my admirer.  photo