My Favourite Mantra

I'm not really big on chanting or, oh dear God, meditation.

Yoga makes me swear.

But mantras, for some reason, tickle me pink.

Of course, they have to be my kind of mantra.

Years ago, a good friend inadvertently supplied my favourite one.

He's a few years older than me, not yet at the "You have to be careful" stage, but certainly old enough to start making excuses.

One night, when his wife was away for the weekend, he was invited to a party.  But he was tired and his wife was away, so he begged off. 

As he was getting ready to go to bed at 9:30 that night, he suddenly had the thought:

Oh, you poor old bastard!  Too tired to go to a party on a Saturday night.  Why don't you just give up and die right now?

And he got dressed and went to the party.

He told me the story and I've been repeating that quote to myself ever since.  I've been to so many more parties and other events.  I've had so much more fun and met so many great people.

I've been exhausted, of course, but it's so totally worth it.

How about you?  What's your favourite (non-traditional) mantra?  What do you say to get yourself moving or help life make sense?

 

A New Take on Success - Part 2

(This is part 2 of the excerpt I started in yesterday's post.

So then in the next class, he decides to work on the other end of the food chain and goes on and on about the amoeba and how it never gets anywhere.

Well I couldn’t let that one slide past, either. I mean, amoebas have to be just about perfect. They know what their life is about and they just get on with it. Living and reproducing and living some more. And they do it all in one tiny cell.

It’s perfect.

What do they need with achievement? What’s wrong with being content?

I just can’t stand these business types who feel like they have to leave their mark on the world or their lives haven’t been worth anything. And it’s usually a pretty filthy footprint they leave, too.   And they think everyone should be just like them.  It's ridiculous.

After the third class, he told me not to come back. I guess I was the first person ever to be kicked out of the course. My Dad couldn’t even get his money back.

I think he gave up on me after that, and I’ve been a happy little amoeba ever since.

A Short Story to Keep You Entertained

Life is ticking along fairly regularly here.  It makes for a nice existence, but, let's face it, a fairly boring blog.  Because, while I'm endlessly fascinated by the details of my life, my house, my job, I know I can't expect you all to be.  You have your own lives/houses/jobs to worry about.

Thankfully, there's always fiction to provide some interest.

This is an excerpt from a novel I've been kicking around for the last twenty years or so.

The crazy thing is that I really and truly expect to get it finished up and published one of these days.  Which should go far to assure you that there will be more wacky real-life adventures coming down the pike any day now.

I mean, with delusions like that...

Dad really wishes I would spend my time doing that whole corporate-move- up-the-ladder-of-success thing that I just hate.

It’s done well for my Dad and all. I mean, he’s Vice President in Charge of Something at one of the hospitals here in town. Wears a suit all the time. He and Mum are always going out to  functions and crap.

I’m glad he’s happy. But he can’t see that it’s not the life for me. And he keeps trying to make me try it.

He signed me up for a course awhile back. One of those “Conquer the World in Ten Easy Lessons” things, where they think you’re going to learn anything useful by standing at the front of the room shouting slogans.

First night out, the instructor, this really polished, enthusiastic guy gets up and starts going on and on and on about lions and how great and mighty and strong they are and wouldn’t the world be just peachy if every living thing could just release the lion that’s prowling around inside of them RIGHT NOW!

I told him that the world would come to a major crashing halt the day after tomorrow if that ever happened.

I mean, think about it – what do lions eat? The instructor said raw meat, but it’s better than that. They eat the bloated carcasses of old diseased worn-down gazelles. People always go on and on about how the lions keep the gazelle herds strong, weeding out the weak and the unfit. But that’s a major load of crap.

If it weren’t for the weak and supposedly unfit gazelles, the lions wouldn’t be able to catch anything and they’d starve to death. They need those poor damaged gazelles. Like they’d ever admit it.

I don’t know why anyone would want everybody to release the lion within them, when it’s the weak, the worn out and the basically stupid who have kept the world ticking along for as long as it has.

I mean, the people who have wreaked the greatest havoc on the world have been the strong, lusty “go out and get ‘em” types. Look at the Spanish Inquisition and you see a bunch of guys with only one thing on their minds: career advancement. Sucking up to the Big Boss.

The explorers and all the crap they brought to the places they “found”? Lions one and all. Adolf Hitler? There was nothing laid-back about him. He had a dream and he went for it. And look at the mess he made. The guys who brought us the atom bomb? Over-achievers, one and all.

I mean, Joe Schlepp may never reach his full potential, but at least he won’t bring about the end of life as we know it.

 

 

Bozo Season has Begun

I've spoken before about the difficulties of my hair.

For those of you too tired to click, I have bad hair.  Genetically bad.

When my cousin was visiting in January, we had a breakfast of joyous discovery, sharing the trials and tribulations of what goes on atop our heads.

"Does yours start out with one side curly and one side straight and by the end of the day, they've switched?"

"Yes!"

"ME TOO!!!"

"Does it look great on days you're home alone?"

"Yes, and when I need to go out in public..."

"Total chaos!"

"ME TOO!!!"

On the day of my niece's wedding, she refused to leave the house until it was time to get in the car to go to the church because her hair was actually behaving for once and she didn't want to give it any excuses.

And I understood.  I totally understood.

"Do you have six at the back that stand up at all times?" I asked her.

"Yes!"

"It's like they're looking for another head to move to."

OK, so we share the same hair.

I am on an endless quest to find the product that will bring some order above my ears.  I tried a new one yesterday.  And I really thought I was on to something.  My hair felt silky smooth. 

It was mostly straight.

But I still came home with an entirely different hairstyle than the one I left the house with.

The search and the chaos continues.

Lazy Sunday Links

In honour of Bloomsday on Tuesday, my brother sent me this lovely link to a rare recording of James Joyce reading from Finnegans Wake.

And if that's not enough to thrill your socks off, Michael Bond has written a new Paddington Bear story, in honour of the the International Week of the Refugee.

Go nuts!

The Facebook Police Will Get Her

A friend of mine is thirty-something years old and she's not on Facebook.

I know, I could hardly believe it myself, but there you have it.  I'm worried for her, because, as I understand it, a Facebook page is required for everyone in her demographic.  Like a social insurance number, or sleep deprivation.  There's no choice.

One day the Facebook police will show up at her door.  It'll go a little like this:

Beefy Facebook Police Officer: Ma'am, is it true you have no Facebook page?

Thirty-something: Um, no.  I'm really...

Beefy: Ma'am, you are in violation of the Internet Code.  I'm afraid we're going to have to take away your thirties.

We're bumping you up to 65.  Those kids you like to spend so much time nurturing?  Are now your grandkids.

Thirty-somehting: But...

Beefy:  Your arthritic hip will be delivered in the morning.

It'll be ugly, that's for sure.

Are You Ever Tempted?

I don't know about the rest of you, but I can't delete my spam without taking a quick look at the subject lines first.

And even though I know it wouldn't do any good, I'm tempted to hit reply.

Because I think someone should tell Sebastein Felix that actually?  She really wouldn't like to have her loins ignited.  Ignited loins are what drives any sane woman to the suppository aisle of her local pharmacy at 3:00 A.M.  And if you're the cause of that, you won't be ask back.

And if we're talking literally? Well.  Dude.  That's just illegal.