Monkey See...

Have you seen this? I saw my first episode last night after catching bits of previews from last week that piqued my interest. Bridge Man and I sat in front of the TV and tapped away to see if his urge for nachos and my craving for jelly beans would go away with this acupuncture based technique.

First you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your left cheek bone.

Then you tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap your right collar bone.

Next you'll tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap the side of your hand.

Then you tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap the back of your hands.

And without moving your head, continue tapping the back of your hand while looking left.

Look right.

Now roll your eyes in a counter-clockwise fashion.

Now the other direction, all the while tapping the back of your hand.

Now hum your favorite tune.

(Don't forget to keep tapping.)

Count to five.

Hum again.

And you're done. That's it. You've just saved yourself from inevitable guilt caused by the face-feeding that was about to commence. You (Read: I) crave jelly beans no more. (Or maybe I ate the entire bag. Whatever.)

This morning, Bridge Man came to me:

BM: While I was getting ready to make breakfast I grabbed for the frozen waffles and then thought to myself, do I really want to eat these? So I tapped my face, I tapped my hand, I rolled my eyes, and I hummed a little ditty. When I was done, I thought again, do I really want these waffles? Am I really hungry?

X: And?

BM: Yep, I still want waffles.

I've got a need.. a need for crafty type things

As my long time readers know, I am a crafter. I am a beader. I am a sewer. I am a maker. I've painted a picture or two. (Although they never end up displayed and often never see the light of day.) I've written a song. (Note: one song.) I like for people to notice an original item and ask where it comes from so I can step up on my proud little high horse and say, "Oh, I made that."

Does that make me sound smug? If it does, then please know that I haven't been able to be smug in a long time. Too long. How long has it been since I crafted, you say? One month? Two? Tres? The real, honest to goodness answer is that I don't know how long it's been. Do you feel bad for me yet?

Don't feel too bad because I've been living vicariously through the fabulous crafters on Design*Sponge who create beautiful dog beds from old suitcases, doily bowls, or knitted cozies. Their DIY section is full of things that make me want to hop into Red Betty (That's the name we gave my car after a trip to Baker's Square, but that story is for another time), drive to my local craft friendly store, and go berserk with the oodles and oodles of crafty-type items that are available.

I reccommend that take a look-see with caution. You may develop an irresistable urge to break out the materials needed to get your craft on. And I cannot be held accountable for missed appointments, abandoned children, or lost jobs.

Twenty-Something; The Learning Years

This is something that I've been hearing a lot about lately. Supposedly, when I turn 30 I will look back on the last decade of my life and say, "Hot dog! Glad that's over. Now I can move on to the living years of my life." I will have made all of my mistakes. I will have learned all there will be to learn. The time will have finally come to pass down my wisdom to the next generation and hope that they are able to learn in order to become successful thirty-somethings.

For those of you who don't know, I'm closer to thirty than I care to admit. Not close enough to panic quite yet, but close enough for me to pop a few Tum*s to ease the discomfort. (Just to clear the air: I do not believe that 30 is old. I'm talking mile-markers here people.) Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've met my learning quota per my years as a twenty-something. Or if I've surpassed those in my age bracket and therefore qualify as an honorary thirty-something. (How fabulous would that be?)

I may be a twenty-something with some experiences under my belt, but a buffoon I am not. I am able to admit that I do not have knowledge beyond my years. (Well, I may have some knowledge.) But, generally speaking I'm right where I should be.

I think.

Who am I kidding. I have no idea. I could go back and forth on this all day long.

Case in point:
While a twenty-something, I have learned...

• How much of a nincompoop I was in my teen years.
• That while young and unattached (not including Bridge Man) and have the opportunity to reinvent myself. I am not defined by my degree or my career.
• I'm not too young to have gray hair.

While a twenty-something, I have failed to learn...

• That I don't have to know all of the answers right now. One mistake won't damage me for life.
• How to politely dispose of all the negative people in my life.
• How much of a nincompoop I really am.

Here's hoping that I am able to learn these things, and maybe put them to use so I can successfully graduate into my thirties without making a complete fool of myself. I still have a few good years as a twenty-something left.

What I Love About Spring; A Photo Tribute

Yes, I understand that it's not technically spring yet. (Four days and counting!) But it's the little signs that indicate a warmer, happier time for all to enjoy.

Mumbo-jumbo

So I know I've been slightly M.I.A. lately. There are no excuses. And I'll understand if you've moved on to a more entertaining and kept up blog. You see, for me there is this process. A process that includes inspiration, research, revision after revision, and finally a finished product. Unfortunately, there are times when I don't get to that final stage, that finshed product. There are times when my blogs, my words get nothing more than saved as a draft in some folder up on a shelf in internet land. There are various reasons for this. Maybe it's because what I wrote was too personal/contriversial/rediculous. Maybe I realize that I've rambled on for days about the Freudian explination for my absurd fear of feet and I understand that there is the possibility you may not care to know that mine resemble those of Fred Flintstone.

I'm trying to work on this. (The writing thing not the feet thing.)

My goal is to be a better writer. Less for professional reasons than the sheer fact that I enjoy the process. And I know that, in order to become a better writer I should be writing every day, through the night, and in my dreams. I should be writing simple paragraphs, letters, songs- a haiku if I so desire.

And so my dear readers, (all two of you), this is my solem oath to be a bettter blogger. To write more. To share every insignificant notion that pops into my head. (OK, maybe not every notion.) And if what I write is a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, that's OK. Because it's all just a part of the process.

You'll still come visit after I post the lyrics to the song I wrote in the 7th grade about the boy that I was, like, totally crushing on, right?

Conversations with Bridge Man

BM: Tomorrow's Sunday. Do you know what that means?

X: Uhhhh... bacon?

BM: Bacon!

(pause)

BM: And Meet the Press!

What's in a name?

I've been thinking a lot lately about last names and the importance they hold for some people. Traditionally, you are born, assigned a surname, and that is what you live with for the next few decades. That is, of course, until you are wed and take the name of your significant other or randomly decide to change it because you find the name "Banana Hammock" too hilarious to pass up.

My story is a little different. I can still remember that day when my mama taught me and Bear how to spell our new last name while we waited in the terminal for our flight to Okinawa. I was a mere four years old. I had no idea what was going on. For all I knew, people changed their names every couple of years or so for... security reasons or something like that.

It wasn't until we moved back to the states that I realized that this last name thing was going to be a problem. You see, while I had grown accustomed to my new last name, it was never legally changed. On on the first day of the fourth grade they called out my old name I raised my hand and mumbled, "here," and then, when no one would notice, I would head up to the teachers desk to ask her to refer to me by my new name. And every August, I continued this ritual all the way through my senior year of high school.

I knew that my new name wasn't legal. I simply had no desire to walk around sporting the old one. The whole dead-beat-dad thing, but I won't delve into that until we know each other a little better. When I was in junior high, people started to notice that I would, each year, change the last name that I was to go by and they started asking questions. And while I knew the real reason I would play dumb and blame the continued "mistake" on the faculty and staff of the school. Such an elaborate (moronic) facade.

Post high school, I let the whole thing go. College professors didn't get to know their students well enough, or care enough to remember the girl with two last names; one real and one fake. My friends and family still called me by my new name. But any real conversation/application/etc brought me out of my fantasy surname world. Eventually I caved and accepted my fate, the fate of the last name that I had been hiding from for years. I asked friends, family, and, yes, even Bridge Man to use my old last name. People thought it was strange at first but everyone is now used to it.

So after all of that, you'd think that I would jump at the opportunity to change my last name. But now, as this wedding comes closer I've started to rethink the whole deal. Don't get me wrong, I still despise where the name originates. But it is still my name. Yes, I buried it under the new name for so many years. But I always knew it was there. Yes, I hated it because of how much it segregated Bear and me from the family. No one in our family has our last name. But now, instead of it being a source of segregation, it brings me and Bear (and now my nephew) closer than ever. I can't help but feel that the moment I become Mrs. Bridge Man I will have lost that connection.

This fear, I'll admit, is ridiculous. A last name doesn't define who a person is. But, if that is true, why are there people who fight to keep their original surname? Why are there people who judge those who don't change their last name after marriage? If this isn't a big deal... then what's the big deal?