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kermitLife confuses me.

Make that people confuse me.

Except myself. I don’t confuse myself.

But I do find myself confusing.

I’m not confused about what confuses me.

Now that we have that straight, we may proceed.

I’m complicated. I know. Everyone is, but some people are not, and most people aren’t very, yet I am very. So I’m unique in that.

I’m what is referred to as a renaissance mind, not to be confused with a renaissance person. Da Vinci was a renaissance person, brilliant in a whole series of categories, or at least able to hold his own with experts in myriad fields of interest. I’m not Da Vinci nor would I wish to be since he is dead. I’m thankfully still flapping my jaws.

No, I’m a renaissance mind. That means that I have grandiose interest in lots of things but the general attention span worthy of no expert. So, I can chat generally on a whole lot of topics but if you look closely you might, just might find that the depth is shall we say, lacking. But let me point out, I still know a heck of a lot about a lot, which is more than I can say for most of my fellow humans.

Which is not to be judgmental in any fashion. For I see no obvious merit in knowing a lot about a lot of things. It’s perfectly fine to know a very lot about a couple of things. As most spiritual guides will tell you, it’s perfectly fine to be as you are and not actively seek nirvana or whatever you call enlightenment. There is no right or wrong here. Just choices.

Where I find myself uncomfortable with me is that I’m always vaguely twitchy. I mean instead of writing, I could be beading, or baking, or reading down the stack of books that never isn’t growing upward and outward. Or gardening. Or meditating. Or getting into that re-organization of my craft room which is fresh with tons of new shelf space and begging to be sorted and prettied. Sometimes I think that where crafts are concerned its more the “setting up” than the doing that fuels my passion. I have three crafts in process, and I spend a few minutes on each a day–hardly an addiction.

Days like today make me even more twitchy. Which is a nicer feeling word than anxious. I don’t like surprises.

I had today all planned out.

It’s all unraveled now.

You see, we were going to the Home and Garden show at the convention center followed by lunch.

It started off right. I took Diego on his walk and noted that I was going to be one very unhappy woman come Monday. Why you ask? I assume you are asking. Because with Daylight savings time going into effect on Sunday, our walk will commence at what is truly 5:00 a.m. as the sun doesn’t rise, and I’ll be back to walking in the light of a flashlight beam. Which is boring first of all, and second, makes animal sounds all the more scary when Diego stops, looks intently into the darkness and growls.

But today was nearing the sunrise over the mountains and the wind was light, and the walk was uneventful. I started the Friday wash, and reminded the Contrarian that we were leaving around 9:30 a.m., and make sure you are dressed in your big-boy clothes.

Being a thoroughly responsible person, I picked up the paper to double-check the TIME, and frowned. “What day is this?” I queried. “The seventh,” he chimed. “OH FREAKIN’ FUCK A DUCK!”

“Whatsa matter?” he bellowed.

The damned House and Garden thingie is not until tomorrow!” I moaned, near tears (no not really, but I thought the effect dramatic).

Now to people who are kinda, laid back, this is puzzling no doubt.

But to ME, it’s a catastrophe, because a host of other chit is based on that schedule.

Tomorrow was to spatchcock a whole chicken on the grill with a soy-based sauce.

Tomorrow was to make a cheesecake.


So, I have to reorganize and I mean NOW!

So here I sit, writing, which I now have time for, and the cheesecake is cooling on a rack, and the laundry is spinning and drying away, and we are still going out to lunch, for not only did I get the day wrong, but the time for tomorrow. It’s at 9 a.m instead of 10 a.m and we won’t be there long enough to eat in town, so it’s pork chops and somethin’ and somethin’ yet to be decided tomorrow, and the chicken can’t possible be ready for today since  I had just taken it from the freezer, and so that recipe is off until next week, Saturday, and who knows about the meatball casserole come Monday?

But I think I have it all straight now.

Meanwhile, since I’m a renaissance mind, I’m grousing fairly frequently as I hear the “speech” given by one major GOP asshole after another. Seriously how do normal looking people get so geeked up by trading lies back and forth in some group masturbatory extravaganza?

Boehner is out this year, and the “other” white Bush just had to be on vacation this year and couldn’t attend which is probably because he is bucking ma-Babs and might take a run at the Presidency anyway and needs to appeal to Independents who are NOT people who know much of anything but DO get a little scared by the rhetoric of a Ted Cruz who they are not yet aware of but will be at least three weeks before the nominations are being decided.

Meanwhile, McConnell came with a rifle to look all teabaggerish in his Charlton Heston mime, which means he is REALLY REALLY SCARED he’s gonna lose. Rickie Santorum has been relegated to day two, since nobody cares. Wayne la Pee Pee  LaPierre, ranted about having a gun in every room, every closet, every vehicle, and perhaps a side holster on the kid’s bike just for extra-sure safety. All because Obama is gonna take your guns ya know.

As if that weren’t enough to make you upchuck your morning coffee, fundamentalists, I find are still the most insanely illogical but perversely self-serving people I know, or rather am forced to know, wishing I’d never met them, let alone spent untold numbers of hours being close to their toxic brains all before they discovered that the “bible interpreted my way” brought much personal satisfaction and the obvious scapegoat for all personal bigotry and selfishness.

I was nearly thrown off my horse this morning (figuratively, though I once owned a fine sorrel quarterhorse named Patty who had good form, a great canter but was afraid of bridges), when I was grousing that I had forgotten to put a pair of slacks in the wash, when the Contrarian offered this gem: “That’s okay babe, I left a pair of my shorts in the garage.”

“Are you changing your clothes in the garage now?” I screeched in an octave above human hearing.

“NO,” he snidely proffered, with that look of contempt that only a man dealing with his wife knows how to do, (similar to the one she has when dealing with him–in fact we might have mirrored that look at that very instant–which could cause a black hole in space I’m told). “I was going to throw them in the washer, and walked out into the garage forgetting,” he snarked.

Don’t get me started on mechanical hands as I call him. His brain short-circuits a lot (and I have the MRI’s to prove it), and when it’s out of mind, it’s out of hand, meaning that when he “forgets” what’s in his hand, it opens and drops said item where ever he may be. I cannot begin to tell you the strange places I  have found “things”.

So, all told it’s been a bad start.

And it’s my turn to pick where we go to lunch.

And I would rather be reading the latest in Scientific American on the “Revolutionary tools that will reveal how thoughts and emotions arise”, since as you can see, I could use some help.

It ain’t easy bein’ me. Seriously.

Laughing through the nonsense.

P.S. why does anyone care what wrong-ways McCain, Bilbo Kristol, Lindsey *Pink* Graham,  or Dick Vadar Cheney HAVE TO SAY ABOUT ANYTHING? Have they ever been right?