Will I or Won’t I? (Just Write)

Have you ever been told something that seemed impossible to believe?

So, you sock it away and don’t think on it….because that can’t be true….can it?

But then, you are told it again, and ASSURED this is going to happen. And the worst thing happens to your heart….you get your hopes up. Way up.

Then, they get to come CRASHING down when the thing you got your hopes up for doesn’t happen……um…..yet…..?

See, I was told a few months ago that everyone at the office was moving home. Yes, work in your jammies from home.


It didn’t happen.

I SWORE I wouldn’t get my hopes up again. Most especially, I would not think of all the wonderful benefits that working from home would produce in my life.

No more driving thirty minutes each way (or more), running late, waiting at lights, and other mad rages of the road. In other words, getting to work ALREADY stressed.

No I wouldn’t miss that commute.

I wouldn’t miss leaving my Zumba bag at home whilst running late to work, and having to spend my entire lunch hour to run home and get it (or other forgotten thing – like Zumba shoes).

But I am NOT getting my hopes up about this.


Not when I heard the moving company giving quotes to the regional manager yesterday. Not when I overheard all the paperwork was in order now that the new leasers had signed. Not when the auditor from headquarters showed up to do final inventory of all the office items. Not when the regional VP stands at my cubicle and says, “Well, it’s happening. Maybe a little later than we thought, but we are getting there.”


Not gonna do it.

Not until my rear is in a chair at home on my work computer…..I will not believe that I will be working from home soon…..Will I?

Participating in JUST WRITE. I know it’s not a specific moment, or thing happening around me, but these are the thoughts dominant in my head right now (and I had to get them OUT). All around me this week things are being moved and listed. It’s all I can do NOT to get my hopes up…..which is kinda dumb. Duh. Our office is closing…..isn’t it?

And because I can’t leave you without a photo……I have a Facebook photography group called, Chics Who Click. Every Monday I post a photo challenge. This week is PETS. It is such a blast seeing all the wonderful photos. I took a few of a pet at Clark Gardens. BEAUTIFUL DOG with beautiful eyes. Here is one of them.

Isn’t she gorgeous?

Happy Tuesday!

I Shoudn’t be Alive: The Narcissistic Praying Mantis

She lives for the mirror. Her quest is to find one at any cost. When she sees one, she can’t resist – HERself. She primps and shines in all her glory. That is how we came to meet our new car totem, affectionately known as “Little M”.

What can I say? She’s a good-looking gal and she knows it. What she doesn’t know….. Her mirror will become a hellish stargate transporting her to a new destination out of her realm. Hopefully, a more abundant place. Certainly closer to more parks (and more prey? or mirrors?). That is, if she can survive the ride. An intensely horrific journey taking her to the edge of her bugmanity. Forty-five mile per hour gale-force winds. Jarring bumps – stops and starts – masses of passing metal vortex carriers streaking by. She has the option of jumping off, ensuring certain unpleasant death by windshield, or maybe just some severe road burn (if she is lucky).

We watch our new pet and pray (heh) she manages to forgo the splat. Her tail quivers, her legs strain, and she draws gasps as she changes positions to the top of the mirror.

*Warning, this video may contain disturbing images.*

But she hangs on, willing self-to-self through the glass to go the distance – a terror-filled, limb clinging six miles. And she does it.

Amazingly, her ride ends with her eyes and feelers intact. She shouldn’t be alive, but she is.

Welcome home Little M, welcome home.

On a side note, there is a lot of superstition about the praying mantis. Some believe seeing a praying mantis is a sign of good fortune. In Africa, this creature is worshiped as a God. The praying mantis – preys on other insects and therefore considered a good pest and also where the name preying mantis comes from. It’s not just what the mantis does either, it’s their prayer-like stance that seems to contradict their cannibalism (or maybe they are just thankful for their food).

Other symbols used to describe attributes of the mantis – stillness, awareness, creativity, patience, mindfulness, calmness, balance, and intuition. Maybe she was a “sign” to stay calm and focused in the last 30 days before the wedding. Maybe, she was just along for the ride. Maybe, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe…..she is truly a story of survival.

No matter what you believe, they are interesting creatures to say the least. I am continually amazed by God’s incredible wonders, great and small. And? I am just happy she will do the dirty work of munching on some unwanted pests. Thanks for the escort M! Enjoy the new digs.

Fear and Loathing at my Duplex

In my duplex.

About my duplex.

If this were a facebook relationship status, it would read “it’s complicated”.

Of course then ALL my friends would comment.

What’s going on? Did duplex do something to you? Can you not commit to duplex? Has duplex been housing a shady tenant on the side? A plugged commode? Can you call the house whisperer? I hate to see a three-year relationship end so badly.

I would assure all the well wishers gossipers it’s not the duplex, it’s me.

I’ve had an affair. An affair with my future husband’s house. The shame of it, because I still LOVE you duplex. I still NEED you. But I’ve slipped in my attentions.

I didn’t tend to the flower pots this year. Nope. I planted pots at the new house, just like last year. And I didn’t make garden beds like I had always hoped, but I did plant in the garden beds at the new house. How disparaging.

This is hard. SO HARD. I love your new duplex smell. I love your embrace when I come home at all hours of the night after spending it with my other place. There is no judging, or weeping. Just a poignant sigh (or maybe that’s me). I love how you are my safe haven when I need it; my quiet sanctuary. I love the roominess, yet compactness. The delights of having an extra bedroom, and a big garage. The tiny but – oh so handy – backyard.

Do you know what I love most? You’re mine. My place.

Just being in your realm brings me great peace and comfort. To leave, to say good-bye it’s….. devastating.

I don’t want to. I don’t. But the upkeep to keep this sweet spot on the side, well, it’s steep. Too rich for my poorness. With four and half months until the wedding, with a lease that’s expiring in three days – what makes sense is to move most things to the new house and lease a last fling apartment for six months.

An apartment. A fling. I know. Sick. It’s not a duplex kind of love. It would be a one bedroom, not three. No yard. No front nook with a mini black lab statue. No extra bathroom. No garage. No empty flower pots. ALL my things would be stored, sold, or moved somewhere. I’d be in limbo. I’d live with a toe in the door there, and a half a body here, an address there, and the rest of my body parts scattered in between.

I’m torn.

I’m sad.

I have to write the thirty-day notice to the master developer today (aka-leasing office). It’s killing me. I want a happy ending for us. I want to remember with gladness how you were there for me during an extremely difficult first year of residence. It was you that heard every tear, every sob, every cry.

You absorbed my pain into your walls. Your heart grieved with mine. You watched me grow as a person. You watched me survive. You watched me heal. You screamed with me when we cleaned yet another puppy accident. You didn’t even complain when Sydney, at age thirteen and bratty, sprayed your walls with silly string (which is still there). You watched with great pride as I snapped a picture of my little girl going to her first day of high school. What memories we have. The many memories of just Sydney and just me. Together, but on our own. To leave is breaking me apart. Breaking us apart.

I have to tell myself you are just a place. Everything we shared is inside of me. New people will come and you will be home once more. You won’t stay vacant. There is a reason and a season – a time for everything – and ours has reached the end. It’s not really the end, just a new beginning. A new home. A new transition for a moment in time.

Truth is, I fear. I fear being without you. *My place* You are my crutch. We’ve been through it all. If I kick your address to the curb, there is no return.

With a heavy heart, I humbly thank you. I am grateful I had you to go to. I’m glad you were my duplex. No other duplex would have made me feel as safe and as loved as you did. But it’s time to move on, write that notice, and fully invest in my new house (with a fling). You are deserving of so much more than me. You deserve a family that spends more time with you.

So, here’s to our last thirty days together, let’s turn the ceiling fans on high, take a last poop scoop of the yard, then run like banshees up and down the hall, while singing off-key and celebrating all of life’s memories as one.

May your walls echo my great joy, for as long as you shall stand.

Country Girl goes Big

Big city that is. Her days in the country being packed away into the back of a horse trailer hitched to a big Dooley truck. Off it would head, south from Oklahoma, straight into the heart of the big city – Dallas, Texas. Nothing could stop her. No one could tell her the risks, the realities, or the brisk way of life. Nope. She was eighteen. She knew what she wanted. She knew better than anyone.

Since age thirteen, she wanted to beat a path to the city. The bigger the better. Her one horse town, without even a stop light, just wasn’t cutting it. Where was the excitement? The interesting jobs? The interesting people? Where? In the city, that’s where. In this dusty place, she would find the same ol’ dreary life as everyone else. Her jaw set, her chin pointed up, and there was grit in her eye. She was MOVING. Moving to the city. She would survive it and no, she wasn’t coming back. Ever.

It didn’t take long to pack up her stuff. Her childhood bed. Her one dresser, nightstand, and desk. Even her classic lingerie chest. Yes, she had a lingerie chest – skinny and tall. The furniture was a gift from her Aunt Lizzie when she was a small child. Antiques is what her mom called them, whatever that means. It would do until she could buy more contemporary stuff. Stuff city folk would use in their rooms.

She had purchased a couch. Wisely, she chose one with a pull-out bed, since the apartment was one bedroom. Unfortunately, it was heavier than Pappa’s old gun safe. Also unfortunate? Being carried up a flight of stairs to her second floor newly rented apartment – in the city, mind you. Her dishes were a gift from her mother. Her TV a hand me down. Luckily the apartment had a fridge and a washer and dryer already.

After the long five-hour drive, and too many tanks of gas pulling a horse trailer, she arrived. The young girl from outside a plain Oklahoma town of twenty thousand, smack dab in the – everythings bigger -Texas, where she shared her air with several million others. What a rush.

Her first day wasn’t hard. She gathered all her furniture in place. No parents. No big sister. No big brothers. No authority. Just her and HER place. She twirled. She skipped. She bounced on the couch. Finally, she was on her own. Yahoooooo!

Finding her way around, without getting creamed proved the most difficult part. There were many highways with loops and exits. Following an exit ramp to what they called an access road just confused her. Was the yield sign to her, or to them? She always used caution and yielded, but still – confusing. Another tiny drawback, her job required that in case of emergency, she was back up delivery runner to the back up delivery runner. Yeah, seemed far-fetched, but guess what happened her first day.

In this year of 1990, the best way to navigate was to consult a map. Specifically map books, called Mapscos, for the Dallas, and surrounding areas. Looking up an address required finding it in the index, then it gave a page number, and a graph matrix code. Following the code and page number to your destination, which was only on one page. To access the entire route required investigating the pages it directed, as the before or after page, depending on which direction you coming from, or heading to. Huh? It was not easy.

As a country girl she knew landmarks; not street signs, not numbered routes, tollways, looped turnarounds, one-way lanes and certainly not all printed out on pages. Which way was North anyhow? But her first delivery. The pressure.

She hopped in the delivery car. Sure of her direction, sure of her map skills. Ignorantly confident. Important urgent document in hand to deliver as soon as possible. It was only twenty minutes away. No way could she get lost, at least that’s what the boss said.

She got lost. Hopelessly lost. Nothing matched the road maps. Nothing went the way it seemed. Each turn she thought was right – wrong. She was entirely off the map. The only thing she could find was the airport. AN HOUR went by. She cried, but refused to give up. TWO went by. Stubborn, and torn she called in. Shame burned. Country girl ruined. Beaten by the city. This was the life she chose?

Finally, the directions from the company she was delivering to led her there, she delivered and actually made it back without a problem. Facing her boss, however, would be. She was scared to death.

Rent. Furniture. Bills. A life started, and dreams potentially shattered, what would happen? Two and half hours it took her to take one item. Who in their right mind would keep, a bumbling bumpkin, like her on staff? She tucked her humiliation away, swallowed hard, and went to face the music. She entered into her bosses office head held high. But he just laughed at her and promised better directions next time.

Country girl vowed to never get lost on a delivery again. The city life was hers for the taking, and thus it began. A new beginning from open land to paved roadways. From empty spaces to shopping malls. From hometown girl to city slicker.

Success is never final, failure is never fatal. It’s courage that counts” -John Wooden

Photos by-Angelia Sims

*previously posted on Real Bloggers United*