Hot

It’s a beautiful day out. The sun is shining. The air is crisp, but calm. There’s the occasional color of flowers in bloom, and the birds are busy flying around and chirping—almost like a spring day—except it’s the middle of winter. Days like this, I think global warming might not be all bad.

Since before Thanksgiving, I’ve had something going on every weekend. It’s been tons of fun, but I think my body has been trying to tell me that I need to slow my roll. I know my house has been neglected, and even though I finally got the Christmas tree out of the living room, the boxes of ornaments and wrapping paper are still in stacks waiting patiently to go to the garage.

Last weekend, I noticed a decent-sized lump on my back. After I let my wild imagination run through the fear of cancer (I had an aunt who died of cancer, which they first discovered when she found lumps on her back), I thought it might be one of those hard, beneath-the-surface zits. But, the thing started to get bigger, harder, and more painful. I had my son look at it, and he said it looked like a bug bite. Fair enough. On Monday, one of my friends looked at it and said it looked like maybe a spider bit me twice. It was about 3-4 inches long, oval-shaped, and warm to the touch. I made an appointment with my doctor for the next morning.

I figured that my doctor would probably lance the thing, but I had no idea what the thing was or what the treatment would involve.  She told me it is an abscess, and she not only lanced it, but she had to scrape it out, and stuff it with gauze. GRRRR-OOOO-SSSS! If you aren't familiar with abscesses or how you get them, you can join my club, because this is my first experience with them. My doctor said that they are caused by bacteria on the skin and are kind of like an ingrown hair. What. The. Hell? Apparently, showering daily and wearing clean clothes daily isn't enough to ensure this won't happen. The doc also said it's not really uncommon. "It is for me," I told her.

The first visit, she numbed the area, so it didn’t start hurting until the local anesthesia wore off. The second visit, when she pulled out the gauze and restuffed—yes, she literally stuffed gauze in the wound with the stick end of a long cotton swab—she didn’t numb it. She’s lucky I like her, because my instinct was to punch her, because that shit hurt worse than pushing Kane’s big-ass baby nugget out of me nearly 18 years ago. And, I still have to get "repacked" at least one more time. Uggg.

So, with the gauze-packed wound, the inflammation and accompanying pain, the antibiotics, which I usually hate to take, and my restriction from the gym until the beast within departs the premises, I’m not feeling like my usual spunky, chirpy, fiery, sassy self. In fact, I’ve been feeling kind of blah, and on top of that, I’ve got not one, but two cold sores, which I only get when I’m stressed or sick. I really think my body’s been trying to tell me, “Girl, you ain’t the yougen’ you think you are, and you better slow your roll, or I’m gonna make you slow it.”

Being the clown that I am, and figuring that I can’t control life, I try to roll with it and find the humor in what I can. At work, we’ve been cutting jokes that I’m growing a twin, which we’ve affectionately named Millicent. We’ve discussed the idea of me writing a book titled,  “Angela and Millicent’s Day at the Park.” I’ve also told some people that it’s the renegade tooth, chewing its way out of me.

So, this weekend, I am on house arrest. I’m chillin’ at the pad, thinkin’ about all the chores I could be doing, and trying to muster the umph to get ‘em done. Right about now, I'm wishing I was Samantha on "Bewitched" and that thinkin’ ‘bout those chores and a little twitch of the nose would magically get them accomplished. No such luck. All my twitching just makes me look like I suffer from Tourette Syndrome. It’s time to get busy. Lord knows, I’m dressed for it, because it’s just one of those days.

Yeah, I even went to the Co-op in this get up—which happens to be my PJs, and to complete the stylish look, I even have crazy mad-scientist-looking hair—and those lovely cold sores. Yeah, I’m lookin’ sooo hot. I'm not sure if it’s more hot babe or hot mess, but I know it’s H.O.T.!

Happy Saturday, y’all!

Tired

I’m tired, and I want to go to sleep. Tomorrow is Friday, and it’s my favorite day to go to the gym. If I go around 7:30ish, the place is like a ghost town, and I get to feel like Michael Jackson at Disneyland. After having a week-long bout of stomach nastiness, I’m slowly feeling better, but still not back to my old self. I want to make sure I’m rested so I can kick some ninja butt tomorrow at the gym.

On that note, I’m going to brush my teeth—including the new toof to replace the one I swallowed. But I just thought I’d share. Actually I got the new chopper only a couple of days after I swallowed the old one. In fact, I probably got it at about the time the old one vacated the premises, but I will never know for sure, and I wasn’t curious enough to check.

Narcissistic

I admit it. I’ve become narcissistic. For those of you who think I was already self-absorbed, I’ve fallen even more in love with myself, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about it.

I spent most of my childhood believing I was worthless. I thought I was disgusting, and I couldn’t understand how anyone could love me. Blah, blah, blah. This isn’t a blog to gain anyone’s pity or make anyone fantasize about a warm bath and a razor blade.

Long story short, in time,  with a lot of work, I started to focus on my good attributes. I gradually began to love the good things about myself. I never thought I was a hot babe, but I realized that when I was open to it, I received a healthy amount of attention from the opposite sex, and well, dammit, people liked me. All different people: young, old, men, women, adults, children, nerds, clerics, thugs, you name it. I could make friends with anyone. And when people like us, it’s attractive. Let’s face it. At some point in our lives. I think we’ve all met a hella hottie who lacks personality, and when we learn that they have the personality of road kill, their appeal suddenly starts to plummet. And how many times have we met someone who we wouldn’t give a second look to walking down the street, but once we talk to them or get to know them, they suddenly become absolutely irresistible?  I can tell you that the men I would gawk at on the street look nothing like the men who’ve made my “Top Hotties” list.

About a year and a half ago, I decided to step it up a notch. I wanted to be not only as healthy as I could be emotionally, but I wanted to be as healthy as I could be physically. I was 43, and the health gods had been good to me. I didn’t have to take any medications—well not for any physical ailments. At that time, was still taking my daily mood stabilizer for bipolar disorder, but I had escaped diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and many other curses that have plagued generations of my family. I realized I was playing Russian roulette, and I only had a couple to pulls of the trigger at most before that one bullet took me down. I decided to change my lifestyle. It was a gradual process, but I think it’s proven to be a successful lifestyle change.

After about nine months of my new life, which included months of walking 2 to 6 miles a day, I felt that I was ready to really kick things up and join a gym and work with a personal trainer.

I was feeling confident. Sure, I knew I wasn’t a body builder, but I was walking several miles a day, so I couldn’t be in that bad of shape, right? Wrong. The first time I met with Mike, the trainer, we spent a while talking about my life style and my goals. Then we were ready for him to give me a workout plan. The first thing he did was put me on the Precor AMT machine. Mike told me he wanted me to start with 10 minutes on the machine. Easy peasy I thought. Not! I lasted about 15 to 30 seconds and felt like my legs were going to give out—and they burned like I was walking through hell. I lasted a total of 4 minutes. Yes, only FOUR—and that was with a break every 15 to 30 seconds, and I couldn’t walk for three days afterward. However, I stuck with it, and within six weeks, I was up to 60 minutes on that machine. Once I achieved that goal, I increased the resistance, which goes from 1 to 20. Within about four months, I was not only doing 60 minutes a day on that machine, but I was doing it on resistance 20, half as stairs and half as a jog, clocking just over 7 miles during each 60-minute session.

That felt good. It especially felt good, because I felt that I had finally conquered that machine that took me down hard the first time we met.

Around the holidays, I took my sister to my gym as a guest. I had been trying to talk her into joining so we could be workout buddies. At some point, she made the comment, “Sis, you’re getting cakey.” If you aren’t sure what that means, it means someone has a booty. It caught me off guard, because my whole life, I was always Flat-Booty Judy. I had a pancake ass, a tuck butt—like tucking the sheets into your bed. I never had to worry about bumping into anyone or anything with my derrière, because it wasn’t there. This baby did NOT have back.

Just before Christmas, Mike had me stop working on the Precor AMT. He said my body had gotten too used to it and that I should wait about a month before I start doing it again. That’s when he had me start doing the SkiErg. That thing is no joke. It doesn’t look that tough, but it’s hardcore. It works your whole damn body: arms, core, and legs. When I first started, I lasted about 5 or 6 minutes (without a break this time), but I stuck with it, and now I’m up to about 45 minutes.

So how come the narcissism? I still don’t have the kind of body that would trigger insecurity in any of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models. However, I am now the proud owner of an ass—and I don’t mean a donkey. I mean a booty…cakes. Baby finally got back. Sure, I still ain’t got nothing on J-Lo or Kim Kardashian, but it’s mine—all mine, and it isn’t airbrushed or lifted—and, I LOVE looking at it. Hey, I’ve worked hard for it. It’s my baby, and I know that with the right dedication, it’s going to just get better and better.

It’s my body, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks of it, because I like it in all its imperfect glory!

Resistant

Do things differently. Do things differently. DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY.

As I said in an earlier post , I am trying to do things differently. Actually, I’ve been trying to do things differently for much of my life, but as I’ve gotten older, and especially the last year or two, I’ve gotten more serious about it and expanded my horizon of just what I can do differently. Some days though, it’s tough. Good god, can it be tough.

For those of you who have any belief or interest in astrology, I’m a cusp baby. My birthday decided to sit it’s sweet little baby ass right on the border of Pisces and Aries. Most charts say I’m a ram girl, but many say that I am a fish baby. If you don’t believe in astrology or you think it’s a bunch of crap, you’re entitled to your opinion, but this is my blog, and you aren’t the boss of me, so you can either stop reading now, or you can open your mind to a different view of life, because I’m not going to stop talking about the planets and stars—at least not yet. I’ve come to realize that my public self tends to be more Aries, and my private self tends to be more Pisces. Now this is only taking into account my sun sign, and none of the other planetary placements.

In keeping with my true Arian (not Aryan, although my fellow word geeks know that Aryan is actually derived from Sanskrit) nature, I have a tendency to be very childlike in many ways. I can be impatient, vocal, boisterous, spontaneous, and adventurous. Fortunately, I have time on my side, and as I’ve aged and I’ve worked to do things differently, I’ve learned to try to let my Pisces blood take over when it’s needed—kind of like split personalities, which, incidentally, I do not have pedigree papers for.

My son is a full-on Pisces. I think my being born on the cusp was part of the Universe’s great plan, because sometimes my Aries nature is so challenged by his dreamy, deeply sensitive ways, and if I didn’t have my own Piscean blood running through me, I don’t think I’d have been able to make it through parenting. Fortunately, I’ve been somewhat successful at flipping the switch when I need to see life from a fire perspective or water perspective.

Recently, I feel like my life has been bombarded with wishy-washy people. Fools who can’t make up their mind. People who don’t have the backbone to say what they want. Weak people who would rather avoid a topic or issue than face it and say what they want or what they are thinking. This is unfathomable for me. Even during my childhood I usually had no problem saying what I wanted or needed—at least most of the time, and especially when people asked. That’s part of being honest: answering a question, and answering it truthfully. Heck, I remember being a kid and my mom scolding me for being “too honest.” She once said, “Angela, people don’t want to hear the truth.”

“I do.”

“Yes, but most people don’t. Many people find the truth to be hurtful.”

“Then they shouldn’t ask me to tell them the truth if they don’t want to hear the truth. How am I supposed to know if they really want the truth if they say they want the truth but they don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m just telling you, most people don’t want to hear the truth.”

“But you always told me not to lie.”

“Yes, you shouldn’t lie, but that doesn’t mean that everyone wants to hear the truth.”

No wonder people think I’m crazy. I spent many years of my life trying to play by their nonsensical rules!

So, when I encounter these wishy-washy people, my Arian personality wants to curse them out. Tell them to get with it. Man up. Give it to me straight. I may not like what I hear, but I’m going to have a hell of a lot more respect for you for having the balls to say what you want to say. Ducking and dodging a topic or problem is not the way to be viewed as strong or confident. Sure, you might think you are being a nice person, but you’re not. It’s a form of manipulation, and most people find wishy-washy people maddening. Don’t be afraid to say what you want or need. If the other person doesn’t like it, and they are at all a decent person, they are either going to respect your request or work toward  a healthy, mutual solution. And, if you can’t tell people what you want or need, you are not a good communicator. Being a good communicator spans far beyond making small talk or cutting jokes. You can wear the “good communicator” hat when you are able to talk about the things you don’t want to talk about. Until then, you are still a novice.

Yeah, several of these annoying folks have been parading through my life lately. Because I’m doing things differently—or at least trying to—I’m looking at it as a message from the Universe that I need to learn how to deal with these fools. I need to learn how to either encourage them to respond effectively, or I need to learn how to manage myself so they don’t get under my skin and drive me crazy. Easier said than done—especially if you are forced to deal with them such as a family member or co-worker—or if you are like me and you generally have no problem saying what’s on your mind, how you’re feeling, or what you want.

But, I’m trying—the Arian part of me is resisting the urge to curse them out and it’s also resisting the need to let the Piscean part take over, but I’ve made a promise to do things differently, and a promise made is a debt unpaid in the code of the frozen north.

It’s their issue, not mine—unless I allow it to be.

Relaxed

I think the hustle and bustle of the holidays and the following exhaustion has finally subsided, and now I’m feeling extra relaxed. Not lazy, but relaxed and peaceful. I just want to curl up with a good book and a cozy blanket. Actually, what I really want to do is go for a walk in the hills, but when I looked out the window and saw how windy it was, I thought about a blanket and book instead.  But, I have plans this evening, and tomorrow I have to take down my Christmas tree. Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s already January 7, but I haven’t been home, and when I have been, I had other things to do. Not only that, but I love my ornaments, and the tree is the only way I can display them, so it doesn’t give me any extra heartburn to leave the tree up. I once left it up until spring. Although that was a flame-retardant fake tree, and this year’s tree was the real deal and it’s looking pretty dry and crusty.

So, I think starting next weekend, I am going to put myself on lockdown. I have a lot of stuff I need to do around the house, and even if I don’t take care of the domestic responsibilities, I can always spend time reading, writing, or crafting. Besides, my bank account can use the break.

This year will bring a lot of changes for me. Among them, is going to be the sale of my house. I’ve decided to sell in late spring or early summer. It’s going to be a huge change for me. Not only have I never lived in an apartment, but I grew up in this house, and this house has been in my family since it was built. This is the house I came home to after I was born, and it’s the house my son came home to after he was born. It’s the house where my father died peacefully in his sleep when he and I were alone, and it’s the place I ran to whenever I needed my grandmother’s comfort.

But, life and growth are about change. My son will be 18 in about two months, and in the summer, I will no longer receive child support. I also will no longer be able to duck or dodge my student loans in  the summer, so basically, the crap is going to hit the fan. Am I freaked out by all of this? Nope, not at all. I would have been 10 years ago, but I know that stressing about it ain’t gonna make it any better. I can either make myself sick with stress, or I can tuck and roll, and do what is within my power. Selling the house and moving into something smaller is within my power. I’ve been wanting to get out of the ghetto for a while now, but the timing wasn’t right, I couldn’t afford it, or I just wasn’t ready. It’s time. Besides, as much as I like being able to do whatever I want in my own home and the somewhat privacy that it offers (realistically, as close as most houses are built, there isn’t a lot of privacy), the truth is, I’m a horrible homeowner. I hate to be bothered with repairs, and while I enjoy gardening, I hate taking care of lawns. A few years ago, I had to have all the gas lines in my house placed. The contractor who did the work didn’t do sheetrock repairs. Fair enough, sheetrock work isn’t that expensive, and it’s not that hard to do, right? Well, guess who still has a huge hole next to her wall heater. The hole extends the entire height of the wall—from floor to ceiling. Yeah, I’m a pretty sucky homeowner. I do, however, love to get busy in the kitchen. The way I see it is that unless I remarry and I marry a man who likes doing home repairs and is okay letting me cook and clean I’m better off being a renter. I’m not saying I’ll never remarry, but I’m certainly not counting on it either. And, the added bonus to being a renter? Now that my son is older, if the wind calls me to some far away location, I’m not tied down to a house.

I’m actually looking forward to living a simpler life, and I’ve always wanted to live downtown. After all, I work downtown, I shop downtown, I dine downtown, and my gym is even downtown. I’ll rarely have to drive, and I can walk most places I go. I’m actually really excited about the whole thing.

The drawback? I have a lot of crap. I mean a lot. Mostly kitchen stuff, books, movies, music, and art and craft supplies. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with all of it. I know, I could have a yard sale, but I don’t know that the hassle of haggling with folks in the ghetto is worth it. Don’t get me wrong. I have no hard feelings toward anyone living in the hood, but I’ve seen how the people in my neighborhood behave, and except for some of my immediate neighbors, I don’t think that the few bucks I’d earn are worth the headache of dealing with the people who are trying to wheel and deal. I’d rather give the stuff away or donate it.

So, this is 2012, a year of change and a relaxed attitude about it. I almost feel like Peter Gibbons in “Office Space” after he visits the hypnotherapist. Well, I’m not trying to embezzle money from my job, but I’m feeling pretty darn relaxed otherwise.

Accomplished

During the last year, and especially the last six months, I’ve done a lot of self-reflection and reflected a lot on my life and the people in it. Tonight was perfect timing when my boss asked me if I was at all concerned about sharing my recent story about my trip to the emergency room with my department’s 20,000 employees. It spurred my blog, Love Me or Leave Me. I originally created the old blogspot to have a public place where I could share some of my academic writing. However, I occasionally added partial journal entries, work editorials, or hybrids of some of my writing. I created this new blog (the one you are reading now) to move away from the old blog that had primarily older writings. So I’m not posting the same writing on two blogs, I am simply leaving the link to the Love Me or Leave Me blog.

Healthy and Safe

Have you ever noticed that some people have the strangest things happen in their lives? I'm talking about the you've-got-to-be-kidding-that-doesn't-really-happen kind of stuff. Maybe you know someone like that. If you don't, I'd like to introduce you to one of those people: me. I recently had one of those crazy, almost unbelievable events happen at work, and I can say that I am really glad I work with a team of wonderfully caring people who helped me through it.

Some of you may know that I've been working very hard to be as healthy as I can be. My lifestyle change has not included going on a diet, but rather avoiding processed foods and completely changing my eating habits to include an abundance of color-rich, nutrient-dense whole foods and raw fruits and vegetables. It also includes a lot of exercise—and what would a healthy lifestyle be without vitamins?

On mornings when I wake up late, I take my vitamins at work. One of the vitamins I take is vitamin C, and I take a lot of vitamin C. In fact, the vitamin C pills I take are what my grandmother used to call "horse pills," because of their enormity.

This particular morning, I woke up late and forgot to take my vitamins when I got to work, so at about 4:30 in the afternoon, when I realized I still hadn't taken them, I decided it was time. I placed the horse pill in my mouth, took a swig of coconut water (because I love coconut water, and it's super hydrating), and proceeded to choke. The dry texture of the vitamin C pill seemed to stick to the inside of my throat like Velcro. It felt like a brontosaurus bone was stuck in my throat, and I began to panic. I took more chugs of coconut water and kept trying to swallow. Eventually my throat felt like a pitch fork had been drug across it several times, but I no longer felt my life passing before my eyes. At about the same time, my co-worker asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, my vitamin got stuck in my throat, but I'm okay now," I responded, and as I spoke, I suddenly realized that my tongue was touching my lips—right through the hole where I normally have a tooth. Not any tooth, mind you, but a tooth attached to a partial denture. It took me a few seconds to figure out that my vitamin wasn't the only thing I swallowed, and it probably wasn't what was battling my throat. Knowing full well that what goes up must come down, or in this case, what goes in must come out, I ran to the bathroom to try to get the tooth out through the closest exit. But, thanks to my nonexistent gag reflex, no luck. My mind began racing, and I began to panic. Now it felt like I had a giant lava rock and a bronto bone stuck in my chest. As a mother, many times I've had to find ways to handle bruises, bangs, busted bones, swells, and swallowed items, but this ingested item was out of my realm of expertise. I called my doctor.

"Hi, this is Angela Tillotson. I swallowed my 'toof.'"

"You swallowed your tooth?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't just a toof. It was attached to a partial denture—kind of like a retainer minus the wires. I swallowed the whole thing, and it feels like it's stuck in my chest."

"You swallowed a retainer?"

"Yeah, basically."

"You need to go to the emergency room. We don't have any available appointments before we close, and you will need to have X-rays."

Great, I thought to myself. It's about 4:45 in the afternoon, I have to fight traffic, I've got a thorny alien growing in my throat, and they want me to go to the ER where I'm going to have to spend $50 for a co-pay, and…I'm Toofless Tilly. I decided that I would go to the urgent care clinic instead and save myself $35.

I walked into my manager's office.

"Hi.  Look," I said pointing to the gaping hole in the front of my mouth. "I swallowed my toof and my doctor said I need to go to the ER, but I'm going to urgent care instead, so I need to leave now."

"Oh, my! Are you okay?" my manager asked.

"I feel like it's stuck right here," I said pointing to my chest.

 "Do you want a ride?" she asked, which was nice, because I wasn't very excited about making the one-mile trek to my car, just to sit in traffic for an hour before I got to urgent care. Besides, what if the toof started to grow or migrate to my lung, or what if it decided it wanted to escape out of my eye socket?

We walked to her car, and I pulled out my insurance card to find the nearest urgent care clinic and called them for directions.

"Hi. My boss is driving me to your clinic, because I swallowed my toof that's part of a denture thing, and we need directions to your office."

"You swallowed your tooth?"

"Yeah, but it's attached to a retainer kind of thing."

"You mean you basically swallowed a retainer?"

"Yeah, basically."

"Hold on. I want to make sure we can treat you here."

"Thank you for holding. Yeah, you will need to go to the ER. We could examine you here, but we would need to send you to the ER for X-rays."

Fortunately I got this information just before we got on the freeway, and my manager was able to get us going in the right direction to the ER. She must have a GPS brain, because she safely navigated through all the side streets and quickly delivered me to the ER. I walked in and checked in at the front counter.

"Hi, can I help you?" asked the nice man working at the desk.

"Hi. My doctor said I need to come in because I swallowed my toof-denture," I responded.

"You mean you swallowed your partial?" a nurse casually asked.

"Yes, I swallowed my partial. I just need one of you to get some fishing line and a hook and pull it out," I said.

"We will probably have you wait and pass it. It will probably do more damage to your esophagus to pull out than it would to have you pass it."

"WHAT? You want me to wait for that thing to make its grand exit? Do you know what that thing looks like? Do you know how big that thing is or how it's shaped? Come on! Can't you just punch me in the stomach really hard so I cough it up?" I asked.

They all laughed. Obviously they didn't realize I was serious.

My mementos from the ER. Yes, they are going
in the pile o' junk to add to the scrapbook.

"Fill out these papers, and someone will call you in a few minutes," they said as they handed me a clipboard and pen.

One glass of water, one shiny red apple (they wanted to make sure I could still eat and drink without any problems), two trips to the restroom, three X-rays, and nearly four hours later, I was paroled from the ER—with my toof still on its incredible voyage through my body.

The discharge nurse handed me my aftercare papers, which read, "Your child (replace child with yourself) swallowed a foreign body. It will probably pass on through the bowel (gut) without problems…keep babies sitting up to eat…throw away small toys…do not allow children to play with balloons." Great. I've been given aftercare instructions for something that normally only happens to infants and toddlers—and now me.

At some point while I was signing papers, I must have mentioned that I was with my boss.

"Oh, this happened at work?" the attendant asked.

"Yes, it happened at work, but it's not a Workers' Comp issue. My employer does not require me to take vitamins or swallow my teeth. I did that on my own," I responded.

Just then my manager stepped closer and said, "We do, however, encourage our employees to be healthy and safe, which is why we are here."

I believe that there's always a lesson in everything that happens in our lives. So, what did I learn from my toofy ordeal? I mean other than making sure that my fake toof is either firmly in place or completely out of my mouf before I take any vitamins? I learned that proper health and safety practices take teamwork. It was only after my co-worker asked if I was okay was by my side that I realized the renegade tooth was loose in my body. And, my boss stuck by my side and made sure that I got to the ER safely and that I was okay.

So be a team player—not just when it comes to getting projects completed—but at all times. Stay alert to what's going on around you. You never know when someone might be choking on a tooth—or even worse, a partial denture, but if it does happen, you'll know what to do.

Inspired

It’s the beginning of a new year, and I’m excited for the changes this year will bring.  I cannot deny that 2011 presented me with some challenges, but I am proud to say that I came through the battles relatively unscathed and feeling smarter, sassier, and sexier than before I found myself in the trenches.

What better way to start a new year than with a new blog? 

While I’ve started countless blogs—yes, they really are countless, because I can’t even remember how many I’ve started and forgotten—I think this time it’s going to be the real deal.

Since this is my first blog on this blog page, I want to give credit where credit is due for my inspiration and motivation to finally get off my ass (or rather to sit my ass down) and start writing.  Many friends and family members have encouraged me, as have many of the readers of my editorials in my work newsletter.  I want to thank all of them, but especially Marsha, Funky Boney, and C-Diggity.  Each of them recently said something that either totally infiltrated me and took root, or they called me out on my week-ass excuses about why I can’t find time to write.  And, C-Diggity gets the credit for this blog’s title.  I’ll save that story for another time. 

This is a new year, and just like last year, I’m doing things differently.  I’m taking control of my life—or at the least, I’m putting a damn good effort forth to do so.  I’ve never been happier or felt healthier than I did during the last year, but I know that I haven’t reached nirvana, and I know that I still have a lot of learning and growing to do, so with that in mind, I’m going to continue doin’ it differently.  That’s my new mantra: Do it Differently.  Sometimes, I’ve found that differently isn’t necessarily correct, and sometimes the old way was indeed the best way.  But hey, you never know unless you try, right?  And, no one can accuse me of being a wuss if I tried something new.  My actions may not earn me an A, but at least I can get a B for being ballsy enough to take risks and venture into the unknown. 

So here’s to friends who love you enough to encourage you and call you out on your shitty excuses.  Here’s to new beginnings, and most of all, here’s to doin’ it differently.