Oh, lord, I’ve been griping about work a lot lately. Stress, stress, stress. Projects hounding me, too much to do. Me – pulling my hair out and wishing I could be doing something different. And what should come along, but a big, fat reminder that it’s my own damn fault. A friend has put out a post on one of my favorite blogs, Squidlog and darn if he isn’t talking to me.
Blog
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In The Old Country…
My five year old son is swimming in the pool as I sit here at the patio table working on my laptop. It’s 9pm on a Saturday night on the outskirts of Phoenix and still 90 degrees outside. My five year old has a wild, creative imagination and says the funniest things. He’s a babbler so while he’s swimming he’s talking to me non-stop, making it a little difficult to concentrate but he’s so entertaining.
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Under Pressure
Chatting with my parents the other night, I mentioned how much work was knocking me flat. One project is eating me alive and a plate-full of others are screaming for attention. New ones are popping out of the woodwork. I haven’t felt this much stress in quite some time. I can feel it in my shoulders and my neck and it’s not just from sitting here humped over my laptop for hours each night.
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Sticky Like a Website
As a wife and working mother of three boys – 15, 11, and 5 – it’s difficult to meet all the needs of the people in my life. Because I sometimes travel for work, I’ve missed some pretty important events – a couple of birthdays, an anniversary, and some band recitals come to mind. During one trip to New Mexico, I remember receiving a call on my cell phone from the childrens’ school that my 11 year old had thrown up and was in the nurse’s office. Could I come pick him up? This wasn’t the first time I’d received a call like that when I was hundreds or thousands of miles away and it surely won’t be the last. “Ummmm….” is my standard response, quickly followed by “did you try his father?” I don’t even know why I’ve listed myself as a contact on the school’s paperwork at all sometimes.
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Smell of Old Spice
My mind is wandering, a thing it often does when I’m sitting in front of a blank, gaping page. I’m trying to force it down a certain path – find a topic, I’m saying to myself. Find something serious, current…what’s happened recently that I can write about? It won’t listen, though, my mind. My mind has a mind of its own, I suppose. It has continued to wander back to my childhood like a stubborn child who sees a new toy in the grocery store and with sudden, unexpected strength, grabs hold of the attending adult and drags the parent towards the toy. Write about this, it tells me. I don’t know why it wants to write about this foggy, childhood memory. It is nothing extraordinary, just a snippet of time and a glimpse I cannot even guarantee is true. Regardless, it demands to be released.