Am I Being Selfish?
I am beginning to think my adventure in trying to do a countdown to the age of 50 is really just a cover story for my trying to find my ever elusive “self”. Why do I think I don’t know who my “self” is? I know who I am, but that is not the same as knowing one’s “self”. I think the “I am” is quite simple: I am a woman, I am a mother, I am a daughter, I am a Jew, I am funny, I am insecure, I am married, I am bad at math, I am in love with movies and books and dogs.
The “self” is an entirely different definition. The “self” is not only the soul. Besides, I cannot define what a soul is either, at least not to the point where I feel I truly understand it on a deep soulful level. Trying to define the word soul is like trying to grab steam. I don’t think the word “self” is a synonym for the word soul. It has to encompass so much more than that. Perhaps that is why I am finding that finding my way through life is so confusing. Oh, I know the old words from Psychology classes, ego, id, super ego, super size me whatever. I tried reading the Eckhart Tolle book recommended by Oprah but it did not help. I was struggling to turn the page and follow his thoughts. I know the “self” has something to do with trying to find our “purpose” for “being”. But this is all too existential for me. I need something simpler, more concrete, something more like me.
I think the “self” requires understanding our individual life’s purpose AND finding what we truly desire to accomplish or accumulate. Is that too “selfish”? When an individual finds what he/she WANTS to DO with the rest of their life, does this define true happiness? And what if that changes over time? I have some serious problems with changing anything other than my underwear whether we are talking about a job, a home, a friendship or simply what I eat for dinner (salad every night for 10 years). This could certainly complicate things for me. I guess I will not be going on any Homer like Odysseys.
I need a major theme for my life beyond wanting to go to movies, shop, read, raise children. The eternal question: Is there more than THIS? Why does life feel like such a struggle for some and such an adventure for others? Is it a choice we can make? I need a goal! I once had a goal of finding a Jewish guy, getting married and having children. Check, check, check, done? Now what? I do not want some high pressured job dealing with PEOPLE. In job situations people become annoying, irritating, difficult, frustrating etc. etc. etc.. I am sitting here all alone with a dog and an very loud (talk about annoying) landscaper outside who obviously thinks he is getting paid by the hour because he is taking fucking forever and I can’t stand the noise. Oh, the trials and tribulations of the suburban housewife. Where is my reality TV show? .Should that be my goal, my purpose and will it lead me to finding my “self”? I doubt it. I need to create something other than two human beings. That was so simple. Have sex, pop out baby. Can’t I do better than that? Maybe I could make a giraffe. It isn’t that having the children was not satisfying, it is just that they are in school now, and eventually if I do my job right they will leave and have successful careers and families to fill their days. What am I suppose to do then? Babies are time consuming. Everything is time consuming. Am I just here to consume time? I know we are a society based on consumption but I have this nagging feeling I should be doing something other than consuming/passing time. And I guess if I find my “self” I will finally know what that something is. This must be the adult version of “Hide and Seek.”
So ready or not "self" here I come. I am going to close my eyes, count to 50 and when I open my eyes, I am going to find you!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
304 Days until the Big Five-0
Based on a prompt from the book Branches by Nancy Beckett.
Prompt Number 7:
“Write a description of a person sobbing. Locate the moments before and after the outburst so that the crying is one long leap between the two points. Let us see the body, the hands and the immediate area around them.”
My mother reached with one hand to the cupboard above her to take the waxed filled glass from the shelf while using her other hand to pull out the drawer at her large waist where she reached in without looking and grabbed a book of matches along with a small book. She opened the book first and then lit a match to the candle within the glass. As she started to recite the words from the small book she began to cry. My mother was not a quiet crier. She poured her whole body which was now quite large into every single sob. I imagined that this is what an earthquake looked like. My mother was lighting a Yahrzeit candle, the tradition of Jewish people who are remembering the anniversary of the death of a loved one. My mother’s sobs were accompanied by her loud screams “Ruthie, my Ruthie, my Ruthie.” She was also rambling in Yiddish. Her arms reached high into the air as if she was going to catch a baby falling from the kitchen ceiling. I wondered why the neighbors upstairs did not come running down to see what was wrong. I watched her the entire time she screamed and cried, frightened and curious. I am convinced she knew I was standing near by since our apartment was rather small and the kitchen, dining room and living room were all open to one another. I had been watching television in the living room only moments earlier when I first heard her talking to herself in the kitchen. I could tell by the tone of her crackling voice she was going to cry. She cried so often and so much, but when she lit the Yahrzeit candle, the crying seemed to fill the entire apartment, and all of us in it. These episodes would increase over the years as my father died, my grandmother, my uncle. The hysterics and the tears never extinguished the small flame from the glass in front of her. My mother’s regular tidal waves of grief eventually caused me to quickly run for cover in the bedroom. At first, they scared me into paralysis, helpless to squash my mother’s agony. Then eventually all the crying simply turned me numb.
The only time I ever cry in front of my young children is if we are watching a sad movie. I would never even think of letting them see me cry. I think it would upset them. I did cry a lot when my first son was born for about one year when his colic drove me into a state of sleep deprivation I am sure the Geneva Convention would categorize as prolonged torture. I go back to that first year of my first child’s life a lot and think how insanely difficult it was. I should use it to motivate myself to great heights. Hell if I survived a year without sleep, I can survive anything. Right, even writing everyday for an entire year until I reach the Golden Anniversary of My Life with My “self”? Or, did I lose my "self" in the ocean of my mother's tears so long ago? And is this exercise in writing a countdown to my 50th Birthday simply an attempt to find a lost soul at sea.
Prompt Number 7:
“Write a description of a person sobbing. Locate the moments before and after the outburst so that the crying is one long leap between the two points. Let us see the body, the hands and the immediate area around them.”
My mother reached with one hand to the cupboard above her to take the waxed filled glass from the shelf while using her other hand to pull out the drawer at her large waist where she reached in without looking and grabbed a book of matches along with a small book. She opened the book first and then lit a match to the candle within the glass. As she started to recite the words from the small book she began to cry. My mother was not a quiet crier. She poured her whole body which was now quite large into every single sob. I imagined that this is what an earthquake looked like. My mother was lighting a Yahrzeit candle, the tradition of Jewish people who are remembering the anniversary of the death of a loved one. My mother’s sobs were accompanied by her loud screams “Ruthie, my Ruthie, my Ruthie.” She was also rambling in Yiddish. Her arms reached high into the air as if she was going to catch a baby falling from the kitchen ceiling. I wondered why the neighbors upstairs did not come running down to see what was wrong. I watched her the entire time she screamed and cried, frightened and curious. I am convinced she knew I was standing near by since our apartment was rather small and the kitchen, dining room and living room were all open to one another. I had been watching television in the living room only moments earlier when I first heard her talking to herself in the kitchen. I could tell by the tone of her crackling voice she was going to cry. She cried so often and so much, but when she lit the Yahrzeit candle, the crying seemed to fill the entire apartment, and all of us in it. These episodes would increase over the years as my father died, my grandmother, my uncle. The hysterics and the tears never extinguished the small flame from the glass in front of her. My mother’s regular tidal waves of grief eventually caused me to quickly run for cover in the bedroom. At first, they scared me into paralysis, helpless to squash my mother’s agony. Then eventually all the crying simply turned me numb.
The only time I ever cry in front of my young children is if we are watching a sad movie. I would never even think of letting them see me cry. I think it would upset them. I did cry a lot when my first son was born for about one year when his colic drove me into a state of sleep deprivation I am sure the Geneva Convention would categorize as prolonged torture. I go back to that first year of my first child’s life a lot and think how insanely difficult it was. I should use it to motivate myself to great heights. Hell if I survived a year without sleep, I can survive anything. Right, even writing everyday for an entire year until I reach the Golden Anniversary of My Life with My “self”? Or, did I lose my "self" in the ocean of my mother's tears so long ago? And is this exercise in writing a countdown to my 50th Birthday simply an attempt to find a lost soul at sea.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
30Five Days until the Big Five-0
Based on Prompt number 5 from the book Branches by Nancy Beckett
“Describe a wound that you got in a fight, a race, or because you took a wrong step by accident. Describe how this injury impacted the rest of you and how looking at it, dressing it, and focusing on the sore was a source of constant focus. Tell the story.”
The harder it rained, the faster we pedaled. Sammy was in the lead with Bobby right behind him. I was pedaling as fast as I could and keeping my eyes focused on Bobby’s drenched body ahead of me. The traffic along Peterson Avenue was always heavy but the pouring rain made the sound of the cars whipping by a lot scarier. We were riding on a narrow sidewalk. Thankfully we were not on the side of the street as the cemetery on my left. Rosehill Cemetery with its tall green iron poles protruding from the cement block wrapping around it took up a huge chunk of land and a huge chunk and was the main character in many of my childhood nightmares. I often felt my face pressed between the bars looking in on mourners in the middle of the night while I slept in the tiny fold out bed in the corner of my parent’s bedroom. I would wake up afraid wondering who had died. The rain ran off my bare legs and filled my shoes soaking my socks and making each turn of my bicycles wheels harder and harder to push through. I wondered if our daily searching for stickers from car dealers and gas stations all along Western, Peterson and California Avenues was really worth it.
Sammy had the best collection by far, but he had help from his dad who owned the one of the coolest cars in the neighborhood, a 1957 Chevy. And even though the car was only 12 years old, 3 years older than us, it looked like a toy when it came strolling down Rosemont up to big red and white brick building Sammy lived in with his dad, his younger brother and a maid who came in the mornings and left after dinner. Sammy’s mom was in a sanitarium somewhere. They had to put there when we were in first grade because she could not take care of herself let alone, two little boys. Their apartment, on the first floor had a porch that faced an alley where the screen door to their kitchen sat facing someone else’s kitchen door. We would take our shoe boxes filled with stickers from STP, Z Frank, and Purple Martin, to Sammy’s back porch and look at them. We never traded. We just looked at each others collection. Sammy was our leader at the time. I guess the need for a leader is something we are all born with. Someone has to take charge of alley, the playground, the neighborhood, and eventually the schools.
We had made it all the way to Ravenswood which was pretty far down from where we all lived on Rockwell. I am sure my mother had no idea where I was. I knew where she was, either in the basement doing laundry or in the back hallway washing down stairs from the 3rd floor down. Early that morning Sammy and Bobby rode their bikes up to my kitchen window facing the alley and yelled my name. The summer was just starting and there were a lot of adventures we would need to create in the next two months before we headed to Fourth Grade. I was not looking forward to Fourth Grade. Just before school let out we were told who our teacher for the next year was going to be, and I had definitely gotten the worst out of the three choices. Sammy was going to get a new teacher, something unheard of at DeWitt Clinton School where all the teachers were old. The big brown brick building with the enormous playground was built in 1917 and I knew that because the numbers were etched above the doors of the entrance on the side of the building. I once made a bunch of kids laugh when I looked up at the date as we waited for the bell to ring so we could enter by saying I thought some of the teachers were born in the same year the school was built. That sunny morning Sammy rode right up to the window and knocked while yelling my name. Everyone knocked on our kitchen window like it was a door. The door to the back hallway leading to our kitchen door was always locked because we kept our bikes in the little alcove between the stairs and our apartment. I came running as fast as I could out of my bedroom. Sammy asked if I wanted to go riding to look for stickers and it looked beautiful outside so it seemed like a perfect way to spend the day. We started out by going up Rosemont to California to our favorite Shell Station where Rick always looked annoyed but had a lot of stickers from a ton of different places. It was not just a gas station, they a big garage and parking lot where mechanics worked in blue shirts with the Shell Logo on the pocket. They all looked dirty to me, especially Rick. He was stingy. We knew he had a lot of stickers from oil companies, car makers and a bunch of other companies that made things for cars because when he opened the top drawer of his metal desk we could see them spread all over. He would always give us each one per visit and if we came two days in a row he would turn us down on the second day. Sammy’s dad took his car to Rick for maintenance and Sammy always got the best sticker. I knew it was the best one because Sammy said it was.
We head over to California and Peterson where there were two stations on the corners opposite the High School where my older brothers went and I would go one day. We scored at only one station and then head up Peterson toward some car dealers. We were so free back then. My children would never know that kind of independence at the age of 9. Sometimes when we would go to the car dealers we would leave our bikes outside and look around the show rooms and inside the shiny new cars. My dad had to buy a used car last year, but it did not matter to me. I was just thrilled my family finally had a car. Back then I thought it was the greatest thing we owned. Sometimes the Salesmen would give us suckers and balloons which we greedily stuck in our pockets along with the stickers that said Pontiac or Chevrolet.
We were going to go Z Frank on Western Avenue next but as we got on our bikes the rain started so we decided to head straight home. We were coming up to a lot of untrimmed bushes on the right, and a wide scathe of tall lush grass on the left. I remember thinking I did not want the bushes hitting me in the face as I rode by so I tried to hug the sidewalk as close to the lawn lining my left without falling into the crevice between the sidewalk and the wet grass when my wheel slid in and I fell. I screamed but I don’t know if Sammy or Bobby heard me and did not want to stop, or if my yelling was drowned out by the sound of the traffic and rain. I could see the stop light to Western Avenue ahead of me and knew I still had a ways to go. I hopped back on my bike. My left knee was pretty torn up and there was a lot of blood running down my leg mixed in with the cool rain. I started pedaling even faster. I did not care if it hurt or how much I bled. I wanted to get out of the rain. Sammy and Bobby were stopped at the red light at Western and I caught up just as it turned green. They flew across and I followed. We were all on our own at this point. It was every man for him self. I got to Rockwell, turned right and felt like those last three blocks were a million miles away.
I got home, pulled my bike into the hall way and grabbed a towel out of the linen closet before running into my bedroom. I dried off the rain and the blood and found my left knee had hardly any skin left on it. I changed, got some band aids and covered up the mess myself. I was too old by then to need my mom for any of that stuff. I took the three stickers, the green balloon and the tiny sucker out of the pockets of my shorts before throwing the dirty wet shorts into the pink hamper we kept in the bathroom. I stuffed my treasures in the Crawford’s Shoe box under my bed, and went into the kitchen and got something to eat. It was all in a days work for a nine year old on Summer Vacation. What amazes me is 40 years later, both my knees have scars on them, but there were so many more accidents over the course of time there is no way of knowing which ones may have left a permanent mark.
“Describe a wound that you got in a fight, a race, or because you took a wrong step by accident. Describe how this injury impacted the rest of you and how looking at it, dressing it, and focusing on the sore was a source of constant focus. Tell the story.”
The harder it rained, the faster we pedaled. Sammy was in the lead with Bobby right behind him. I was pedaling as fast as I could and keeping my eyes focused on Bobby’s drenched body ahead of me. The traffic along Peterson Avenue was always heavy but the pouring rain made the sound of the cars whipping by a lot scarier. We were riding on a narrow sidewalk. Thankfully we were not on the side of the street as the cemetery on my left. Rosehill Cemetery with its tall green iron poles protruding from the cement block wrapping around it took up a huge chunk of land and a huge chunk and was the main character in many of my childhood nightmares. I often felt my face pressed between the bars looking in on mourners in the middle of the night while I slept in the tiny fold out bed in the corner of my parent’s bedroom. I would wake up afraid wondering who had died. The rain ran off my bare legs and filled my shoes soaking my socks and making each turn of my bicycles wheels harder and harder to push through. I wondered if our daily searching for stickers from car dealers and gas stations all along Western, Peterson and California Avenues was really worth it.
Sammy had the best collection by far, but he had help from his dad who owned the one of the coolest cars in the neighborhood, a 1957 Chevy. And even though the car was only 12 years old, 3 years older than us, it looked like a toy when it came strolling down Rosemont up to big red and white brick building Sammy lived in with his dad, his younger brother and a maid who came in the mornings and left after dinner. Sammy’s mom was in a sanitarium somewhere. They had to put there when we were in first grade because she could not take care of herself let alone, two little boys. Their apartment, on the first floor had a porch that faced an alley where the screen door to their kitchen sat facing someone else’s kitchen door. We would take our shoe boxes filled with stickers from STP, Z Frank, and Purple Martin, to Sammy’s back porch and look at them. We never traded. We just looked at each others collection. Sammy was our leader at the time. I guess the need for a leader is something we are all born with. Someone has to take charge of alley, the playground, the neighborhood, and eventually the schools.
We had made it all the way to Ravenswood which was pretty far down from where we all lived on Rockwell. I am sure my mother had no idea where I was. I knew where she was, either in the basement doing laundry or in the back hallway washing down stairs from the 3rd floor down. Early that morning Sammy and Bobby rode their bikes up to my kitchen window facing the alley and yelled my name. The summer was just starting and there were a lot of adventures we would need to create in the next two months before we headed to Fourth Grade. I was not looking forward to Fourth Grade. Just before school let out we were told who our teacher for the next year was going to be, and I had definitely gotten the worst out of the three choices. Sammy was going to get a new teacher, something unheard of at DeWitt Clinton School where all the teachers were old. The big brown brick building with the enormous playground was built in 1917 and I knew that because the numbers were etched above the doors of the entrance on the side of the building. I once made a bunch of kids laugh when I looked up at the date as we waited for the bell to ring so we could enter by saying I thought some of the teachers were born in the same year the school was built. That sunny morning Sammy rode right up to the window and knocked while yelling my name. Everyone knocked on our kitchen window like it was a door. The door to the back hallway leading to our kitchen door was always locked because we kept our bikes in the little alcove between the stairs and our apartment. I came running as fast as I could out of my bedroom. Sammy asked if I wanted to go riding to look for stickers and it looked beautiful outside so it seemed like a perfect way to spend the day. We started out by going up Rosemont to California to our favorite Shell Station where Rick always looked annoyed but had a lot of stickers from a ton of different places. It was not just a gas station, they a big garage and parking lot where mechanics worked in blue shirts with the Shell Logo on the pocket. They all looked dirty to me, especially Rick. He was stingy. We knew he had a lot of stickers from oil companies, car makers and a bunch of other companies that made things for cars because when he opened the top drawer of his metal desk we could see them spread all over. He would always give us each one per visit and if we came two days in a row he would turn us down on the second day. Sammy’s dad took his car to Rick for maintenance and Sammy always got the best sticker. I knew it was the best one because Sammy said it was.
We head over to California and Peterson where there were two stations on the corners opposite the High School where my older brothers went and I would go one day. We scored at only one station and then head up Peterson toward some car dealers. We were so free back then. My children would never know that kind of independence at the age of 9. Sometimes when we would go to the car dealers we would leave our bikes outside and look around the show rooms and inside the shiny new cars. My dad had to buy a used car last year, but it did not matter to me. I was just thrilled my family finally had a car. Back then I thought it was the greatest thing we owned. Sometimes the Salesmen would give us suckers and balloons which we greedily stuck in our pockets along with the stickers that said Pontiac or Chevrolet.
We were going to go Z Frank on Western Avenue next but as we got on our bikes the rain started so we decided to head straight home. We were coming up to a lot of untrimmed bushes on the right, and a wide scathe of tall lush grass on the left. I remember thinking I did not want the bushes hitting me in the face as I rode by so I tried to hug the sidewalk as close to the lawn lining my left without falling into the crevice between the sidewalk and the wet grass when my wheel slid in and I fell. I screamed but I don’t know if Sammy or Bobby heard me and did not want to stop, or if my yelling was drowned out by the sound of the traffic and rain. I could see the stop light to Western Avenue ahead of me and knew I still had a ways to go. I hopped back on my bike. My left knee was pretty torn up and there was a lot of blood running down my leg mixed in with the cool rain. I started pedaling even faster. I did not care if it hurt or how much I bled. I wanted to get out of the rain. Sammy and Bobby were stopped at the red light at Western and I caught up just as it turned green. They flew across and I followed. We were all on our own at this point. It was every man for him self. I got to Rockwell, turned right and felt like those last three blocks were a million miles away.
I got home, pulled my bike into the hall way and grabbed a towel out of the linen closet before running into my bedroom. I dried off the rain and the blood and found my left knee had hardly any skin left on it. I changed, got some band aids and covered up the mess myself. I was too old by then to need my mom for any of that stuff. I took the three stickers, the green balloon and the tiny sucker out of the pockets of my shorts before throwing the dirty wet shorts into the pink hamper we kept in the bathroom. I stuffed my treasures in the Crawford’s Shoe box under my bed, and went into the kitchen and got something to eat. It was all in a days work for a nine year old on Summer Vacation. What amazes me is 40 years later, both my knees have scars on them, but there were so many more accidents over the course of time there is no way of knowing which ones may have left a permanent mark.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
306 Days Until the Big Five-0
I was just thinking.....
If a man is ugly but extremely wealthy he still manages to attract a gorgeous woman. If a woman is ugly but extremely wealthy, does she attract a gorgeous man? I doubt it. There is no real sense of fair trade when it comes to attracting a mate. Wealthy ugly men have it made. Wealthy ugly women get a maid.
If a man is ugly but extremely wealthy he still manages to attract a gorgeous woman. If a woman is ugly but extremely wealthy, does she attract a gorgeous man? I doubt it. There is no real sense of fair trade when it comes to attracting a mate. Wealthy ugly men have it made. Wealthy ugly women get a maid.
307 Days Until the Big Five-O
Birth Order
The first is cursed.
They always save the best for last.
If there are any in between
They will struggle to be seen.
The first is cursed.
They always save the best for last.
If there are any in between
They will struggle to be seen.
308 Days Until the Big Five-O
Why?
Why am I writing? In the famous words of one of the greatest writers who ever lived, Bruce Springsteen,
“I ain’t here for business
I am only here for fun.”
I know there will be typos in most of the entries. And, truth be told, I don’t proof read most of what I am writing. I know I “SHOULD” be more careful. I “SHOULD” want to always put my best foot forward. I “SHOULD” live up to my potential (whatever that might be). I “SHOULD” strive for excellence the way I INSTRUCT my children to. (sorry about the dangling preposition at the end of the last sentence).
Am I lazy?
Am I tired?
Am I uninspired?
I “SHOULD” stay up late at night and work diligently to write, re-write, research, outline and set specific goals. But instead I go to sleep, usually very early. I use sleep to avoid things. I always have. It is a really good avoidance device. You just shut the world out by closing your eyes. Upon shutting my eyes the darkness and the dreams envelope me in their cocoon. I don’t use sleep to rest. I use it to escape from hard work and life’s disappointments. So maybe it is laziness? What if I push myself and then get nothing out of it? So I guess I have to figure out what I WANT. I have never been able to do that. I change my mind every second about what it is I think will make me happy. The problem with using sleep to escape is the fatigue feeds on itself and soon I am overly tired and unproductive. Am I avoiding writing because I don’t want to have it be “work?” Or because I don’t think I am good enough? Do I really need to know WHY?
So for now, I am “only here for fun”. If there is some greater purpose for me, my life, my writing, hopefully it will show up all on its own. If not, I will stop writing in this blog when I turn FIFTY and look for something else to do with my time.
Why am I writing? In the famous words of one of the greatest writers who ever lived, Bruce Springsteen,
“I ain’t here for business
I am only here for fun.”
I know there will be typos in most of the entries. And, truth be told, I don’t proof read most of what I am writing. I know I “SHOULD” be more careful. I “SHOULD” want to always put my best foot forward. I “SHOULD” live up to my potential (whatever that might be). I “SHOULD” strive for excellence the way I INSTRUCT my children to. (sorry about the dangling preposition at the end of the last sentence).
Am I lazy?
Am I tired?
Am I uninspired?
I “SHOULD” stay up late at night and work diligently to write, re-write, research, outline and set specific goals. But instead I go to sleep, usually very early. I use sleep to avoid things. I always have. It is a really good avoidance device. You just shut the world out by closing your eyes. Upon shutting my eyes the darkness and the dreams envelope me in their cocoon. I don’t use sleep to rest. I use it to escape from hard work and life’s disappointments. So maybe it is laziness? What if I push myself and then get nothing out of it? So I guess I have to figure out what I WANT. I have never been able to do that. I change my mind every second about what it is I think will make me happy. The problem with using sleep to escape is the fatigue feeds on itself and soon I am overly tired and unproductive. Am I avoiding writing because I don’t want to have it be “work?” Or because I don’t think I am good enough? Do I really need to know WHY?
So for now, I am “only here for fun”. If there is some greater purpose for me, my life, my writing, hopefully it will show up all on its own. If not, I will stop writing in this blog when I turn FIFTY and look for something else to do with my time.
309 Days Until the Big Five-0
1 + 1 = 11 or 6
I suck in math. It is like music, it escapes me. I try and try to make sense out of numbers and how they relate to one another and nothing adds up. I decided to pour Elmer’s Glue on the chair in front of my computer and firmly glue my ass to the seat so I could spend the entire day writing for my blog (which means writing for what, for whom? Is anyone out there, besides my sister-in-law?)
I wanted to figure out how many days I missed in my countdown so I could provide a complete and accurate 36Five days worth of entries (even if I missed writing for 3 weeks and then wrote a whole bunch of entries on one day) on July 12, 2010. So in an effort to figure out where I was and where I needed to go before my children re-enter my life at 3:00 p.m. Standard Central Time I checked out my last entry which said 310 days left.
To most people this would mean I have written exactly Fifty Five entries as part of my countdown. I started the blog before the countdown but I think if I included those entries it would be cheating and I would rather fail than cheat (I am patting myself on the back as I type – not an easy thing to do). Okay, so I found a web site that will calculate days between dates.
There are 129 days between July 12, 2009 and November 18, 2009 (today). There are a total of 36Five total days in a calendar year. 36Five Minus 129 days (number of days between my 49th birthday and today) would give me the total number of entries I would need to type if I want to actually catch up to the present time and begin again to try and blog DAILY (not going to happen) or maybe not fall so far behind that when July 12, 2010 rolls around I have a lousy 100 entries and have to admit I lack the will power, the talent and the energy to reach my initial goal.
36Five – 129 = 236. So in “count down” language, cause I am going back wards I should be at 236 Days Left Until the Big Five-O, right??? But I am currently at 310 Days Left which means I need to type 310 – 236 number of entries to bring my blog countdown current! 310-236= 74 entries.
According to the Web Site that calculates for me, there are 236 days left until I turn the Big Five-O So 236 PLUS 74 (total entries missing as of today) should add up to 36Five total days between my 49th and Fiftieth Birthdays. Are you following me? Cause I am so fricken confused right now I might have to lay down.
Because 236 + 74 = 300 and there are 36Five days in a year (aka between any two given birthdays (no Leap Years involved – THANK G-D!) Yet, I am at 310 days left but should be at 236 days left. If I type 74 new entries today and keep counting DOWN I should be at 310-74=236 days until my Big Five, which is exactly right but I have no fricken idea how I just got here. I am dizzy.
So now you know why I got an 11 in the Math Portion of my ACT test, which is why I always say 1 + 1 = 11 I am pretty sure I only got two answers correct. Luckily I scored relatively well on the other three sections (not too difficult to do) so my Average Score (which I could never figure out how they go that one either) was not so terrible. My synapses must be crossed all over the damn place. No wonder I cannot create and follow a story line. I can’t get from Point A to Point B for the life of me. This explains a lot. I think I just had an epiphany. You really do need math skills for EVERYTHING, even writing. A teacher once explained that every good story must have an “Arc”. Isn’t that a Math Term???
I suck in math. It is like music, it escapes me. I try and try to make sense out of numbers and how they relate to one another and nothing adds up. I decided to pour Elmer’s Glue on the chair in front of my computer and firmly glue my ass to the seat so I could spend the entire day writing for my blog (which means writing for what, for whom? Is anyone out there, besides my sister-in-law?)
I wanted to figure out how many days I missed in my countdown so I could provide a complete and accurate 36Five days worth of entries (even if I missed writing for 3 weeks and then wrote a whole bunch of entries on one day) on July 12, 2010. So in an effort to figure out where I was and where I needed to go before my children re-enter my life at 3:00 p.m. Standard Central Time I checked out my last entry which said 310 days left.
To most people this would mean I have written exactly Fifty Five entries as part of my countdown. I started the blog before the countdown but I think if I included those entries it would be cheating and I would rather fail than cheat (I am patting myself on the back as I type – not an easy thing to do). Okay, so I found a web site that will calculate days between dates.
There are 129 days between July 12, 2009 and November 18, 2009 (today). There are a total of 36Five total days in a calendar year. 36Five Minus 129 days (number of days between my 49th birthday and today) would give me the total number of entries I would need to type if I want to actually catch up to the present time and begin again to try and blog DAILY (not going to happen) or maybe not fall so far behind that when July 12, 2010 rolls around I have a lousy 100 entries and have to admit I lack the will power, the talent and the energy to reach my initial goal.
36Five – 129 = 236. So in “count down” language, cause I am going back wards I should be at 236 Days Left Until the Big Five-O, right??? But I am currently at 310 Days Left which means I need to type 310 – 236 number of entries to bring my blog countdown current! 310-236= 74 entries.
According to the Web Site that calculates for me, there are 236 days left until I turn the Big Five-O So 236 PLUS 74 (total entries missing as of today) should add up to 36Five total days between my 49th and Fiftieth Birthdays. Are you following me? Cause I am so fricken confused right now I might have to lay down.
Because 236 + 74 = 300 and there are 36Five days in a year (aka between any two given birthdays (no Leap Years involved – THANK G-D!) Yet, I am at 310 days left but should be at 236 days left. If I type 74 new entries today and keep counting DOWN I should be at 310-74=236 days until my Big Five, which is exactly right but I have no fricken idea how I just got here. I am dizzy.
So now you know why I got an 11 in the Math Portion of my ACT test, which is why I always say 1 + 1 = 11 I am pretty sure I only got two answers correct. Luckily I scored relatively well on the other three sections (not too difficult to do) so my Average Score (which I could never figure out how they go that one either) was not so terrible. My synapses must be crossed all over the damn place. No wonder I cannot create and follow a story line. I can’t get from Point A to Point B for the life of me. This explains a lot. I think I just had an epiphany. You really do need math skills for EVERYTHING, even writing. A teacher once explained that every good story must have an “Arc”. Isn’t that a Math Term???
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