Hey look its a daily blog that didn’t have two months of posts…
Woops.
Tom Jones is wailing What’s Up Pussycat in my head right now. Thought you might want to know.
See, I knew this blogging gig had an aggressive goal with an outcome unlikely to meet my original expectations, but I rather like aggressive goals.
I’m currently in the middle of writing up a list of questions for Ro. I don’t know if he’s my happily ever after. He is incredibly daft. I take offense when older & wiser women tell me men are stupid (but not ALL men surely). Then I meet one, who is just so good in so many ways and yet dafty duck kind of daft.
I’m working with him. He knows and is trying and it opens my heart to watch. I too am a WIP. As are we all. I don’t hold his inability to be attentive against him as a character flaw, because it’s not. I know better. My desire for easy perfection is in itself unrealistic. I know this.
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I listen to NPR nearly every morning. I’m aware of politics at this point, but I actually wish there were more of a balance with local news. There is no reporting by my local station on things local during the morning commute hours.
I cannot listen during the day – so anything on 91.9 KVCR (shoutout!) after 8:30 am is lost to me. Also, I can’t find where the station publishes those day-time programs in the app. To be fair, I’ve been too lazy to go to KVCR’s website directly to find such things.
NPR is currently playing Christmas music as part of a story that says you are less productive when you listen to it – it’s November 8th. Thanksgiving is the 23rd this year… come on people – this upcoming, less money-worthy holiday is part of my favorite time of year.
When I grow up – you know when I have kids – I refuse to do any Christmas things until 5 days after thanksgiving – basically December 1. No shortchanging my fall.
Nope. Unacceptable.
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So earlier this year, I dated this guy – exceptionally briefly. He opened my eyes a bit.
To set the scene – before I met him, in March, I met another man in passing, Joe, who I am still social media friends with. He was incredible with the depth of how he lived his convictions (this is of course based on a few hours of interaction). Some of those around me will know who I’m talking about because I came home bowled over. Metalsmithing and woodworking, historical re-creation of pieces that were entirely handmade — bees, chickens, art. I was floored by his incredible simple complexity. I still am in many ways.
Joe made me realize that the relationship I ended with H had made my life and my dreams so small. That I could have an apiary and (ugh, live silly phrases like) live with intention and wonder. It doesn’t sound so bad. It sounds, hopeful… as cliche as that might be.
Fast forward two months. I met another man on a dating site. He was such a blip that he doesn’t get a name here, but I want to explain why he matters.
This man on our first date told me he didn’t keep pets like cats or dogs but had 48 chickens. My ears perked up. Hey fresh eggs. On our first date we went to Costco where this man told me he lived on an acre of land. I had no concept of where such parcels existed in our Suburban area. His acre was situated two and half hours from his job in downtown LA. He had taken that acre and planted squares of fruit trees and vegetables. He built rolling chicken coups. He wanted to live on a working mini-farm and was partway there.
I visited that farm the following weekend and reveled in the barn and the space and finding another human who wanted to grow their own food and I marveled in the anomaly of meeting someone who not only shared my twinkle-eyed dream but who actually did the work to create that dream.
I am the kind who dreams but hasn’t ever actually tilled land. To be fair, I had no concept of how much land an acre actually was until I saw that guy’s farm.
That man turned out to be a highly functional child. Which makes a bunch of sense looking back on some of those first conversations.
But – seeing the farm will stick with me.
I am intensely short sighted. Achieving dreams like having my own land take a backseat to my six dollar Holiday Spice Flat White at Starbucks. I’m not ashamed to tell you I ordered one of those yesterday. I ordered it with sugarfree cinnamon dolce sweetener and coconut milk.
There is free coffee at work. This is why my dreams stay dreams. My mom, if she ever reads this will facepalm. She spent my entire childhood attempting to ingrain her thriftiness. I’m a little slippery and I feel like she was throwing these lessons at me and I was deftly shaking them off. For a myriad of reasons, which I will save for another post.
The dream:
I will have a mini-farm. An acre is a bit much – maybe .75, with a smallish house – no bigger than 2000 square feet I think.
Plots of land, rotations to prevent overworking, two rescued dogs – one has to be a pit mix because they are so lovely and misunderstood, a duck or two, three chickens, my bunnies Pebble and Bun bun going at it and making babies like crazy. Maybe a tortoise. All the cats. A pair of Korats for luck…
I have a piggy bank somewhere. I’m going to go stick a dollar in it.
Sidenote: where are all the details on this white affluent millionaire sniper in Vegas? WHY did he do it? All this time (it’s been a month) and we still don’t know?
I feel like there was a point. Why is the point being kept from us? Where does hate like that come from?
The Forces Underlying 