I’ve been listening to this audiobook, The Power of Habit, and it’s not anywhere near the first book that’s inspired me. I’m pretty easy to inspire. Inspiration, for me, is a lot like a random number generator. Or gas. Sometimes it just happens.
-side note, both my speaking and writing “accent” wanders. I’ve been listening to Jenny Lawson’s book too, so my sentence structure is probably going to mirror hers for a while. I do like having an accent that wanders. It’s a conversation piece, like having some totally cool doodad on your coffee table from a faraway land, and sounding just like (or at least a lot like) everyone else around me makes me feel less awkward. I seem to gravitate to “England, no particular area within” as a default setting. I blame the BBC.
-side note, I almost never watch the BBC because I almost never watch television, period, so what I am really blaming is reading massive quantities of BritFic inspired by shows on the BBC. See? Root cause.
So I’ve been listening to this audiobook, The Power of Habit, and it’s not anywhere near the first book to inspire me. It is, however, the first piece of self-improvement inspiration that did not prompt the Nike Response (“just do it”) and that’s notable, because “just do it” has never, ever, EVER worked for me. I can’t even go to the toilet on the first try. Not anything physical, I just get distracted and forget that I have to pee. I will probably procrastinate dying too, accidentally forgetting that I have no pulse. I’ve never forgotten a heartbeat, but I have forgotten to breathe.
I fell asleep at my high school graduation
I started to reply to this post, and then I started to teal deer, and so HERE WE ARE! Hi Internet! I love you!
I fell asleep in my high school graduation. (seriously. My last name starts with A, and so I remember they were in the Fs, and then I remember thinking I should look for one of my friends whose name started with K, and realizing they were in the Ms.) Later one of the family friends who’d come had laughed at me (kindly) and said I was holding reeeeeaally still for a while there…
I did not attend my graduation from community college. I was getting a transfer degree and going on to a four-year university. I didn’t even know when the ceremony was.
[warning: cut for possible triggers: depression, suicide attempts]
Migrating Waffles: Key Qualifications
[Originally posted November 7, 2011, during my grandmother’s final illness and the circus that surrounded it. For extra, unnecessary information, I currently want to date men. I’m starting to think my sexuality is better linked to my chore backlog than to anything else.]
SWF seeks patient, laid-back male who can be her rock: that is, not to move or otherwise do anything unless acted upon by outside forces.
Migrating Waffles: It’s Different When I Travel
You know how when you’re too tired to have enough sense to go to sleep? I get that a lot.
One day soon, my children, I shall entertain you with The Early History of Gum as Applied to Trav (or Trav as Applied to Gum, though, in all accuracy, it is very literally “Trav Applying Gum to Trav”). Instead I give you an unedited post on something else.
It’s Different When I Travel
Migrating Waffles: The day I learned that “adult” does not equal “infallible.”
I lost my belief in the automatic competency of grownups before I actually became one. This was pretty monumental for me, as I persisted in the naive belief that people mostly know what they’re doing and what they’re talking about well into my twenties.
When I was an older child, somewhere from ten to thirteen, I came downstairs for breakfast, and sat at the breakfast bar, and looked up at my parents. Odd, because Daddy was usually at work by the time I got up, or if not at least on his way out the door before I could wake up enough to remember how to talk.
And because my father’s hair was pink.
Migrating Waffles: “Don’t open the oven.”
It’s amazing that you can still sense something burning when you cannot smell. I was at work a few weeks ago when the heat came on for the season, and one after another we kept stopping work to perk up from cubeland like business-attired ground squirrels and look for the source of the odor until word spread around the building that the heat had come on. Not that it would have saved any of us from burning to death if the building HAD been on fire, since none of us were looking all that hard or consistently, and we certainly didn’t LEAVE. Danger, it seems, needs to come with a buzzer these days.
The Parisian Forced March
The first time I went to France I was a teenager who had spent most of her time in French class wandering around the high school campus with the full-size French flag we used as a hall pass, waving it in the breeze, instead of being actually in class.
Unless we had cultural time, because I liked food, coloring, and singing.
Yes, I was a teenager and not eight (except for how, in a way, I am always eight).
Anyway, the point of that is at the end of four years of high school French instructions I could sing “sante nuit,” conjugate irregular verbs, count past the triple digits until I got bored, say and understand (but not correctly spell) “a gauche” (on the left) and “a droit” (on the right), and have a working vocabulary of colors, common animals, months, days of the week, seasons, words that sounded funny, and a huge complement of edible object nouns. After four years of instruction I could tell you “je m’appelle Stephanie et je t’aime frommage” (my name is Stephanie and I love cheese) but not where I came from, what I was studying, or where I was supposed to be.