The dog days are over

Two years since my last post.

The dog days are over ... no more running away from happiness.



Blog hibernation is over. Watch this space!

Boundaries. Latecomers are a b*tch.

"It is our choices that define us, far more than our abilities."
- J.K. Rowling

You're born to a family that puts the fun in dysfuntional. Let's face it: we all are.

You learn not to need. You learn to please. You succeed to please.

Fast forward decades and you learn at a professional workshop that your key conflict resolution methods are avoidance and accommodation. You are not surprised.

You spend years in a relationship with the kindest person you've ever met. You have needs, but are schooled to subvert them. He has needs, but is schooled to not voice them. You part.

You date. You meet compelling people. You learn. What you want. What you don't. What is compatible. What isn't. That it's a triple-punch of intellectual, physical, and emotional attraction (for you, in that order) that resonates with Clive Staples Lewis' idea: "What! You, too? Thought I was the only one."

You get distracted. The intellectual attraction is the bite. The physical attraction is the hook. But the emotional attraction? Continues to elude.

You get lost in the first two at the expense of the last. But the cost of the loss of that kindest person is the reminder you need. That if the collapse of that emotional attraction boundary was worth it, for anyone, it would have been for that kindest person.

You have intellectual and emotional chemistry with your peeps. You just don't want to jump their bones. You hope. That finding the attraction trif*ckta is possible. Until then, solace. With the peeps. Whose bones may not be jumpable, but whose hearts are unyieldingly authentic.

"There is good. And there is evil. Right, and wrong. Heroes, and villains. And if we're blessed with wisdom, then there are glimpses between the cracks of each, where light streams through. We wait in silence for these times, when sense can be made; when meaningless existence comes into focus, and our purpose presents itself.

And if we have the strength to be honest, then what we find there, staring back at us, is our own reflection bearing witness to the duality of life. That each one of us is capable of both the dark and the light - good, and evil - of either; of all.

And destiny, while marching ever in our direction, can be re-routed by the choices we make; by the love we hold on to; and the promises we keep." - Heroes, 15-Dec-2008

Thanks, Sheena

You cannot know how much your post, read today, touched me. Incredibly timely, and very relevant.

So much so that I have to share the same song. And hope its message is heard.



I know your fear, Sheena. I share it. But I also have faith, that we will have that happiness and peacefulness again. In fact, we already have it. If not in the arms of another, then in the hearts of friends.

Holding On

From Mark Tonra's James

I'm not just some chick

From Married to the Sea

But I am indeed "just some chick", who happens to blog. I'm not yet struggling with the "why am I here" question as Cap'n Noise is wont to do. It's an occasional ponder, yes.

I read about the couple - Pat and Cat - who shirked the possession thing and biked around the world. What Pat had to say has stuck with me:

"Pat says that, more than anything, biking around the world has changed what he values in life. Pat admits that when he was in his 30s his philosophy could be summed up as, "The one that dies with the most money wins." But, once he started making money, he realized he had to find a way to spend it. By the time he reached his 40s, his philosophy had become, "The one that dies with the most toys wins."

"So, I had the cars and the things," Pat explains, "and then, about that time, I took off out into the world on my own for a bike ride, and decided it was experiences; the one that dies with the most experiences wins."

As Pat was preparing for his trip with Catherine, he turned 60. He calls that birthday, and the change in mindset it brought, "a biggie." His philosophy became, "The one that dies with the most friends wins."

"I'm realizing what it's going to be in my 70s, and that's different. It will be 'The one with the most memories wins.' "

Whoa. Profound and simple stuff, here.

The one that dies with the most money wins.
Have never cottoned to this, nor like those who do.

The one that dies with the most toys wins.
Ok, I may like a few toys, but it's not my idea of "winning".

The one that dies with the most experiences wins.
I know a few who roll this way, and I roll with them occasionally.

The one that dies with the most friends wins.
I've been here for a while. Do I win points for figgering it out way before 60?

The one that dies with the most memories wins.
Too many studies verify this. Do things to keep your brain engaged, and participate in the world, and you're less at risk for many health problems. The friends, the experiences, the toys - they collude to bring the stuff of life.

It Can't Get Any Freer Than *This*, Baby

From Toothpaste for Dinner

Time, time, time. What's become of me?

We bitch. We moan. We beg for more time. We bury our cold noses in this hazy shade of winter.

Well, today's the day we get a whole effing extra day of time. One thousand, four hundred and forty minutes of extra time. What are YOU going to do with it? Get over yourself and *do*.

J.K. Rowling counsels, "It is our choices that define us, far more than our abilities."

As Sheena advised us last year, "February is Free Month". This year, I claim this entire day as free. It's in the black. It's a bonus. If time is money, then this much time wins us all the effing contest. Am hoping to report that I've bought myself a new effing car on my free day. Will advise if such is acquired.

For it's not what you get free. It's how you LOOK when you get free stuff. And lovelies? You. look. mahvelous!

Taped on the wall at the Toyota Dealership (sadly, the Toyota RAV4 did not make the cut list):

Attitude, by Charles Swindell

The longer I live
The more I realize the impact of attitude on life.
Attitude, to me, is more important than the past,
Than education,
Than money,
Than circumstances,
Than failures,
Than success,
Than what other people think or say or do.

It is more important than appearance,
Giftedness or skill.
It will make or break an organization,
A school, a home.

The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day
Regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day.
We cannot change our past.
We cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way.
We cannot change the inevitable.

The only thing we can do
Is play the string we have.
And that is our attitude.

I am convinced that life is 10 percent what happens to me
And 90 percent how I react to it.
And so it is with you.

Why are we here?

"We are here to find meaning. We are here to help other people do the same. Everything else is secondary."
- Hugh MacLeod, gapingvoid.com

Here ucking here!

A blogger (and soldier's) farewell

Found this on fark.com, and it blew me away.

A blogger's farewell after his death in Iraq. Read it. Please.

From Mark Tonra's James

I didn't know Andy Olmsted. Or Sheena's Baba. But I know that the lives they touched were forever changed by the love they gave.

Be Happy. Be New. Be.

From Mark Tonra's James

I did passing fair with last year's resolution, at least until October or so. For this year, I'll keep it even simpler, and shoot for what is illustrated here.

For 2008, my resolution is to be happy. And to be new. Here's wishing the same for all y'all.

Love's Illusions

Well, whitenoise, here's what Hugh MacLeod's had to say on the subject: (From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void)

Vocabulary

Am I a word stealer?

Apparently, it's socially questionable to adopt phrases from outside your native vernacular. By "native", I mean from whence you came, where you live now, or based on your subscriptions to race, religion, and sexual orientation.

But that so ain't me. I lurves me words from all places. I may dither mostly in English words, but I'm an equal opportunity offender, by trade. I usually mean that jokingly, but apparently offend I can.

I was taken aback last weekend when someone was taken aback at my use of "a'ight". The look on his face was clearly one of amused surprise with a hint of, um, dismay? that I'd be so bold as to use a word more commonly associated with his playbook than mine. Apparently, because he's black, and I'm white.

Really? I mean, aren't all the cool kidz saying a'ight? Heck, even the non-cool kidz are saying it. Said taken abacker queried where I got the term, and I mentioned my niece had been saying it for years. He asked who *she* got it from, and I said likely where she lived, or her boyfriend at the time. After a pregnant pause filled with "hmms", he said, "was her boyfriend black?". I affirmed.

Are folks so steeped in their own perspectives that collision of cultural phraseology is *actually* that shocking? Cuz in my neck, personally and professionally, cross-culture flavah-flave is the norm.

Go figger.

Sparks and Flames

Summer’s sultry heat has me languishing. No mint julep sipping on front porches here (Sheena, where are your rosemary mojitos when I need ‘em?). I’m a coward to the heat, running for cover in the shade and the sweet serenity of air conditioning.

The worst summers were those I worked at Kennedy Space Center. Out the door each morning at 6:30 AM, gingerly stepping the twenty feet from the front door to the car in the useless attempt to avoid breaking a sweat.

Dwelling on the negative ain’t my style. So I’ve been pondering the goodness of summer. And what’s come to mind the most are two things: the 4th of July, and fireworks.

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

FloridaDad is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. Most summers find me in his company to acknowledge and raise a glass for the occasion. I think he’s just about forgiven me for getting a permit from the Cape Canaveral fire department to light the candles for his 50th. Good times. Made gooder with the tradition addition in recent years of singing patriotic songs with PJamaMama at Grandma Beach’s as the Ron Jon’s barge launched their sparkly offerings into the sky.

This summer’s sparks came from different sources. Canada Day – oops, sorry, Sheenada Weekend – was my first serving of fireworks, as shown in Sheena’s vid capture:

From what I could see, they trumped the Ron Jon’s offerings. But they paled in comparison to Kimplicated’s faves at Lenox Square in Atlanta. She’d long championed them, but this year was my virgin attendance, up front and in the ash-ridden fallout zone.

Spanks to Kimplicated for this snap.

Big. Bang. Boom. Sparkly goodness and chest reverb. They took my breath away. They do that. Fireworks surprise. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly. You hear the “whomph” of their release, perhaps a trailing light as they catch fire streaking up the sky when you first notice their path. They’re intense. They burn and shine, lighting up the dark where you could hardly see before. The blues are always my favorites.

My last offering was the aforementioned Gatineau competition spied from an Ottawa balcony. Distanced fiery jewels in the setting sun sky, with the launch release again heralding performance. Reminded me of dashing outside after the Shuttle’s sonic boom to watch the ascent’s remainder. Fireworks’ sparks and the Shuttle’s launch: both steal your breath for an amazing few minutes, and then they’re gone. Over. Only smoke ghosts hint of their scene-stealing performance moments before.

I enjoyed these sparks and their passionate colors, but they were too brief. You can’t have fireworks e'yday, after all. Unless you’re on vacation at Disney World. So while I enjoyed them, they have me missing the longer lasting sparkly colors found in a wood burning fire.

I yearn for the cooler weather. For PJamaMama and her squire to once again play WoodFairies and set me up with oak and hickory. To enjoy the strangely satisfying sound of shoveling ash to make way for the next long, slow burn. To carefully layer fire’s trappings: newspaper, kindling, and wood (and ok, some of the “cheater” fire starter dupers). To tend the nascent flames as they inexorably build, their snap-crackle-hiss-pop cadence a soothing, perfect fall evening’s soundtrack. At the apex of intensity, the blue flame is my favorite. Continued tending as the flames take their time to wane, re-sparking as logs shift through the grate into hot red embers, slowly gasping into ash soon again satisfyingly shoveled.

So perhaps I’m not a coward to the heat after all. Mayhap I’m just particular about its form. Fires are more of an investment in time. Summer's fireworks have their place, but I’d rather lose myself in the heat of sultry, slow-made fire sparks in cooler seasons. It’s not a bad thing, being particular. After all, I *am* the Concubine of the Mountain Ash.

Coldplay's Sparks

Being Present

James, by Mark Tonra

Being present is a tough row to hoe for me. Knowing that giving anyone or anything my singular, focused attention is an unusal feat, I've been trying to accomplish it more often. And have been looking for ways to enable better success.

“Everyday living is too fast, too busy, too complicated. More than at any time in history, it’s important to have good information on just about every aspect of life. And, there is more information available than ever before. Too much in fact. There is simply no time for people to gather and absorb the information they need.”
- Britton Hadden, Time Magazine co-founder, quoted in 1929.

And he thought THEY had it bad!

Hugh MacLeod had a great post a couple weeks back on Gaping Void entitled "Human attention does not obey Moore's Law".

If you aren't like me and gifted with natural ADD, you've received the gift 4400-style thanks to technology. HP did a whitepaper a couple years back on InfoMania detailing results from a study by the London School of Psychiatry. That study found that the attention of a computer-using knowledge worker shifted every 3 minutes.

EVERY 3 MINUTES.

Go ahead. Respond to that IM. Answer that phone. Read that e-mail. View that YouTube vid. This post will be waiting for you to continue reading.

The HP study found that addiction to e-mail and other "always on" mediums can lower a person's IQ by 10 points - more than twice the amount of the effects of smoking pot, and more than going without a night's sleep. Trade pubs wrote about the study under the headline "Stoned On E-mail". (HP's Guide to Avoiding InfoMania seems to be archived from their site, but I can send you a copy if you're curious.)

A fantastic thing happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I arrived on St. George Island to discover zilch cell phone coverage and wireless internet access for Mac use was inconsistent and piss-poor, at best. Initially vexed at the lack of connection to the wankosphere, each day found me happily unthwarted at being forced to be present in my vacation.

I had three great assistants in my digital dismemberment, in the form of two 3-year olds and one 14-month old. Playing in the sand, sun, surf and pool with them and their mommies found me sharing in their wonder and insouciance. They took me out of my own pointy head and brought me into the moment. Their moments. Their now. Our shared occupations were simple: what will we eat? how will we play? what will we drink? when will we sleep? how will we play some more? where is the sunscreen?

I spend too much time looking backward, looking forward, and not enough time enjoying where I'm at. Where I’m at ain’t bad. I'm going to endeavor to embrace this “present” stuff post-beach bliss. With myself. With others. In life. In work. It won’t be easy or intuitive for me – but I think I’ll be more content. Will be a powerful strong gift from those young urchins and the sea. And it is not unrelated to my new year's resolution.

"The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now."
- Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gifts from the Sea

The Judybats, "Being Simple"

My blag is a horse's ass. Or, Best Stories.

(Apologies to savvy blagger types, as this post is a wee bit “Wankosphere 101”-like to ‘splain our bent to non-blaggers.)

People seem to have a black and white reaction to Scott Adams' blag. They love him or hate him. Haters seem to fail to see that he's a contrarion, witty shit stirrer with a wicked sense of humor. They take him literally. They suck.

His posts of late have been about unfunny things, wittily written. He's recently returned to funny posts peppered with the occasional personal one. This personal, Best Story post last week was awesome.

Hmmm. Best stories. Haven't "made it" yet with my passions (singing and writing). Joining the band could lead to good storytelling, but it’s nascent and simmering n’ stuff. I bidness wrote an article for an industry "white paper" a while back. A trade rag where vendors pay to place 2000 words of (typically) thinly disguised marketing dreck as "vendor neutral, educational" points of view on a topic. After its publication, a college professor in the midwest reached out, saying he'd read the piece and presented it in his bidness class for IT majors as good stuff on customer needs and business reasons for technology use.

That was the bee's effing knees. A lapsed English major with former dreams of teaching, I’d let writing go in the rush to career and paycheck advancement in the tech sector. Segueing from a tech role to a marketing one in ’99, my writing kung fu was slowly reawakened.

I am continually, gut-wrenchingly, knickers-in-a-twist disgusted at the inability of the below average person in bidness today to fail so utterly at writing a complete sentence. That such folk call my bidness writing superlative is not exactly a compliment, based on the source.

But that professor? Saying it was all relevant n’ stuff? That rocked. And it rocked for Sheena, too, as part of my piece included work she’d done. Both of us would happily languish in university obscurity if it didn’t pay so effing poorly.

But still. Bidness writing doesn’t satisfy the creative urge. Any clever wordplay or Cheek-isms were usually beaten out (sorry, Sheena, “edited”) before publication. But Sheena offered another path, and became my blagmother just over a year ago.

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

I’m still in Hugh’s 2005 stage of blag herstory. Posts slacked the last couple of weeks before vacation and catch up ensued last week. Typical Cheek light fare - things observed, things that resonate. Such was the "What Women Want - What Is Sexy" post, with a Gaping Void cartoon for eye candy.

Blaggers vary widely on the eNarcissicist-O-Meter. We use tools to track how often folks look at our blags, how they land there, how much time they spent, what they click to, etc. My "traffic" kung fu is weak - I'm not writing for a popularity contest. But I'm a vigilant sourcer, and Hugh has a creative commons license.

Happened to check traffic last night at the end of the work day, and the hits were high. Curiously strong high. From far off lands. The referrals were coming in from Twitter. Specifically, Hugh's Gaping Void Twitter page. For those of you un-Web 2.0 types, Twitter is MySpace on crack, the ultimate forum for minutiae addicts anonymous to let the wankosphere know what they're doing at every second. Hugh, fortunately, is not a card-carrying MAA member, but instead uses Twitter for the *interesting* tidbits and "random links" that aren't the stuff of "substantive posts".

Hugh must have done a Technorati-like search to feel the love and fell upon my last post with his cartoon. Hugh “random link” mentioned the post on his Twitter page as a “nice article on what is sexy from a woman’s POV”. Day-um if I didn’t have a Sally Field moment.


Hugh, that was indeed good for me. I’m not a religious type, but “Oh My God!” burst from my mouth a dozen times before I stopped squealing, realizing anyone walking by would think I was having one hell of an orgasm. The blogasm buzz is still in me today. That was the best happy blog anniversary present I could have never imagined receiving. Spanks. And it’s one of my best stories.

Going Home?

Going Home?

North on 85 from Georgia
      where Flannery O’Connor’s mother is still alive
      and a blank space in the family plot
      patiently waits for her
I leave the city and head north into the deeper south
I sweep through Greenville
      and roam on as night falls
      the windshield littered in small winged deaths
I leave the wipers off
      let the bugs rest in peace

I stop in North Carolina for my mother
      relocated to the pace from her childhood
Where men meet every night at the county airport
      to gossip and chew ‘bacca
      argue the success of the Burpee or Rocky Ford
      cantaloupes and lament they still
      can’t beat a Turberville melon

My mother’s husband was born here
The locals call him R.L.
      but she forgets and calls him Bob
      and then hastily corrects herself
Bob’s best friend is Snoot
      whose father worked for Bob’s
But when he calls on the phone
      he is William

My mother and I drive on to Poquoson
      to Little Florida Avenue to visit another generation
Their speech is that of the old and toothless
      even though they have them
Instantly
      unconsciously
      my speech alters
      its cadence slows
      enunciation softens
      reversing the years’ effects since moving
      to Northern Virginia in the middle of fifth grade
      when I purged my drawl
      to quell teasing's talons
I fool no one
      least of all myself
      that I belong here

We drive downtown before leaving and find
      the waterfront altered from my mother’s memory
Not remembering it myself
      I agree with her
      and am struck by the memory of riding in the car with her
      accusing her of running red lights when she made left-hand turns

We are here to ride the carousel from the
      Buckroe Beach Amusement Park
Its original home a ghost long demolished
      replaced by condominiums
      blocking the view to the water
We used to walk to the park
      from my father’s mother’s house on Second Avenue
      steps from the beach
My feet prickle and cramp from the echoes
      of outdoor twilight showers to banish the sand
      gumball landmines unavoidable in the mad dash
      to warm towels from the dryer on the back porch

At the ride’s entrance I pay my fifty cents
The middle-aged woman reminisces with me as she
      hands me my ticket and I select my horse with care
The carousel spins and boisterously croons
      the stallions prance
I cannot remember this from before
      I should
Leaving
      holding my mother's hand
      I keep turning back
      not wanting to go
      or to let go
This feeling
      I remember

We say goodbye to our family
Elder cousins Charlotte
      Freeman and Roma
      Papa and Aunt Jeanette
We stand reluctantly to leave
      their warm
      soft embraces lingering
      beckoning us back and not so long between visits

I return my mother and wend myself back
      to Atlanta and then to school in Tallahassee
I cannot call these places home
      anymore than where I was born

Home is a place I’ve yet to discover

Written in December 1991 with minor updates today.

Letting Go

James, by Mark Tonra.

CountryMouse wrote today on the trials of letting go, as a mother.

I just spent the week at the beach with friends whose 14 month daughter is now boldly walking. Two weeks ago she'd only gingerly step while holding onto a room's perimeter furniture, looking at the big people constantly to validate that a step was safe. No dragons be there.

In a blink of an eye, she shows so fear. She climbs the dishwasher like it's a rock daring her for the challenge. She negotiates steps down with focused determination. She squats to empty shells from a bucket draped on her arm like the latest Prada must-have bag, collects them back into the bucket, and steps ahead to repeat the fun again.

Her mom remarked that she wasn't sure how she was going to adjust to letting her daughter find her own way and not get hurt. What with us childproof-unaware adults leaving our laptops and cords laying around, unzipped beach bags gaping open and inviting curious hands, open bedroom and bathroom doors with dragons lurking a'plenty.

She slipped on the tile at the beach house and did a nose plant, hard, surfacing with that quiet, vortex intake of breath before letting out *the* wail. The one that brings all the adults running. Her nose bloodied, her mom red faced in guilt, not being able to get to her daughter in time and pre-empt the injury. But her mom was realistic in knowing this was but the beginning of her daughter learning her limits, testing her boundaries, and finding her own way in the world. Her bumps, bruises, and scars - internal, external - will become a beautiful, proud legacy of where she's been while serving as a compass to find the path ahead.

CountryMouse, you've been navigating your letting go path for some time. Beautiful's compass is well made, even if it's only hanging around her neck and not in hand as she swings on that trapeze under life's big top. She sees and feels you cheering her on, your heart in your throat at her willingness to release and catch so high above with no seeming net below. But *you* are the net. It's wrapped around her in an invisible, philotic web of protection. It's elastic. It bends and gives, for both of you.

Trust the net you've built. Trust the compass she's made. Breathe. And climb up the ladder and jump with her - you might like the view!

What Women Want - What is Sexy?

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

No. I don't need what Hugh suggests. Rick posted recently on What Women Want. I employ the fabulosity of Jill Connor Browne's elements on the 5 Men You Must Have In Your Life, as outlined in the Sweet Potato Queen's Book of Love:

1. a man who can fix things
2. a man you can dance with
3. a man you can talk to
4. a man to have great sex with
5. a man who can pay for things

I'm self-reliant for #5 and don't happen to require it. I’d trade it for “a man who can cook”. But the others – those are good ‘uns. Jill advises that if you can find a man that does all 5, that’s a keeper. Else, just make sure there’s a man on call for each of these activities and you’re set. Guess if I found one with all 5, I wouldn’t have to use the power of the promise!

Erin O'Brien recently posted on "what is sexy". Her druthers don't suck. Mine include:

- Confidence is sexy. Not cockiness. Not hubris. Confidence.

- Common courtesy is sexy – and often altogether missing in these here times. Opening the door, carrying the heavy suitcase, holding the elevator, putting the toilet seat down, stopping your car to let someone cross in a parking lot.

- Making eye contact to acknowledge a shared reference in the midst of other happenings is sexy.

- Making eye contact, smiling slowly, and keeping eye contact is sexy.

- Making eye contact and keeping it while talking is sexy. Looking around at everyone and everything but me says you’d rather be elsewhere – go on with your bad self and be elsewhere.

- Being comfortable to be a dork / goof / geek / dweeb / dufus around me is sexy. Accepting my dufusness in reciprocal measure – also sexy. As CountryMouse put it: "a man who isn't afraid to be foolish to make me laugh" is sexy. (Read more here.)

- Groomed facial hair is sexy. Unkempt growth is not.

- Direct, frank communication is sexy. Say what you mean, mean what you say.

- Vulnerability is sexy.

- Added Monday 25-Jun-2007: Cerebral technology marketeer artist type whose work I digg muchly giving an unsolicited Twitter shout - now *that* is sexy as fuck all and has me wet with legs shaking. Spanks, Hugh! Erin, you've got commentgasm competition! Er, Twittergasm? Blogasm? Whatever. I'm 'gasm-ing and can't think straight. I need a cold shower.

Sheena's additions, promoted from comments:

Humour is the sexiest of all. Witty evil verbally adroit humour with a heavy dose of the double entendre makes Sheena wet beyond any thing else.

Other stuff:

- Ability to remember the humble roots from whence one has come.
- Never ending curiosity.
- A strong sense of play.
- Willingness to put money where one's mouth is.
- Willingness to slip the can of tuna as needed to show a girl he cares.

And from CountryMouse:

. . . a guy who truly loves women is sexy. I don't mean a philanderer or a genuine pig--I mean a guy who gets what women are about and loves all the different packages we come in. Oooooh--sexy!

R.T.L.B.: Don't be an asshole

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

This Rule to Live By (R.T.L.B.) is actually Erin's Commandment, boiled down from the original 10.

This resonates. There's no cheek factor in using sexually derogatory words - asshole is an equal opportunity offender. Like the other rules, it's impossible not to break this one upon occasion. I can be sorely tempted to return assholiness with assholiness, but I don't like assholes. I try to shut that mess down on the quickfast, as I'm not into self-loathing as a sport.


Now a classhole, I could stand behind. They're often the life of the party.

From xkcd.com.

R.T.L.B.: No Whining

From Richard Bach's Illusions:

"There is no such thing as a problem
without a gift for you in its hands.
You seek problems because you need their gifts."

"Argue for your limitations,
and sure enough, they're yours."

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

R.T.L.B.: Be Particular

"Take care to get what you like
or you will be forced to like what you get."
- George Bernard Shaw

Jill Connor Browne nailed it with her admonition in The Sweet Potato Queen's Book of Love:

Be Particular!

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void