If Weight was like Stats

There’s something supremely satisfying about watching stats rise on the Internet. Whether it’s followers and views on a blog, Facebook, stuff on Twitter … it’s all kinda neat. Now if only I could translate that somehow to work for weightloss.

Anyone wanna click on my scales?

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It’s My First Blogaversary!

Isabella Morgan has officially been alive for one year. Funny, I don’t feel a day less than 25.

I think about updating this blog every so often, but strangely I can never think of a thing to say when I get here. I intend to hang on to it though. Never know when I’m going to want to lash out over something that I can’t express, using my real name.

Anyhoo, I’m not saying anything here either, other than that I’m amazed it’s been a year. Maybe I should make a resolution to come back here every so often and post what I’m really thinking. Which is usually along the lines of, WHAT THE FUCK?

Happy Blogaversary to me!

Next!

You know how you sometimes read something really fast and you read what’s not really there? Hehe.

Two emails in my inbox, the top one reads “I just went for a job interview”
And the second email reads…. wait for it… “I just got some hand me downs.”

What I read: “I just went for a hand job interview.”

I’m thinking that unless the meetings are scheduled at least half an hour apart, the second interviewee stands to come out rather tired…

What I should have said was…

Are you ever so stunned by the things people do – so taken off-guard – that you don’t say anything?

Yesterday I went to the grocery store to buy some of my favourite pasta and arugula salad from the deli counter. I stood there being ignored for a while by the two ladies behind the counter and was about to give up when a young guy in a baseball cap and t-shirt, with nothing to indicate that he worked there, walked behind the glass-fronted display and asked me if he could help me. Since the ladies didn’t kick him out, I assumed he did in fact work there so I asked for a medium. He scooped my salad into the container with a plastic serving spoon, which was all fine, but then when he saw there were bits of arugula hanging over the side, he shoved them in with his bare hand and put the lid on.

And I didn’t say anything.

Now as I sit here enjoying my questionably diseased salad I feel as though the time has come to get my word in edgewise…

If I turn up dead of the plague, you’ll know who to blame.

Yeah, me.

On the heels of EM the Merciful

I hate the feeling that my goodwill and compassion is being taken advantage of. Without any word of a lie, as much of the time I spend looking after myself, equal to or more time is spent on looking after everyone else. I’m always the first one to say, “don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.” And so I take on everyone else’s burdens. I have a hard time delegating. Especially when I can do most of the things that need to be done faster and more efficiently than those around me can.

I’m exhausted. Both physically and mentally. My frozen shoulder won’t let me sleep during the 5 hours I night I manage to be in bed. The pain is inhuman. When I am awake I’m being pulled in a thousand directions at once: have you done this for me yet? Have you called this doctor for him? That doctor for her? Can you come with me to this or that appointment? Sorry, I’m too busy to help you. Maybe next month… You want the money I owe you? Fuck you.  This is what I listen to every day. And yeah, I allow it. But the truth is, I’m the only one who CAN do three quarters of what I do. It’s why I don’t have a job. Pfft. Like I sit around watching soaps all day.

And then everyone wonders why I go away on vacation alone.

I need a vacation. Again.

Write Away

I want to write away my frustrations – put them down on the screen so I can erase them again. But that doesn’t work, does it? Because until I let them loose send them away on the wind, out into the universe where they can get lost in other people’s thoughts–where they can mingle and be part of something else–they keep coming back. My frustrated writings are like boomerangs that I can only catch with my forehead, or like a cuff around the ear. Ever been hit by a frustrated boomerang? I think they twirl faster than regular ones.

So mingle away, frustrations!

I feel better already.

Real conversations in my house 3/21/15

Chris: Mom, where are you?

Me: (calling) I’m in the washroom.

Chris: (a few seconds later, right outside the door. singing) Do you want to build a snowman?

Me: I’m trying to pee.

Chris: (singing) It doesn’t have to be a snowman…

Me: Go away Chris.

Chris: Okay.

Daily Post – Home is Where the Heart Is

We Built This City –the Daily Post

The Daily Post prompts us to talk about the city we live in. And yes, home is where our family is. But what about the place where our heart resides?

In this life, I have a family. And I wouldn’t leave them for the world. But my heart resides elsewhere. Perhaps it’s my soul. It’s where I believe, somehow, I belong. If I was to trust in the belief in reincarnation, I would say that I don’t belong in the country in which I was born. I’m not “from” here, originally.

I’ve spoken to many many people who feel the same way. People who are inexplicably drawn to countries other than those in which they live or grew up. We dream of these foreign places. When we visit, we feel at home there. Some say we’re crazy, but there are so many… can it be co-incidence?

Are you one of us?

Good help is hard to find

I’m in the grocery store this afternoon waiting in line and the cashier, a young guy in his early twenties, keeps making mistakes. I hear him over and over blaming his ineptness on distractions. Too many distractions all over the place.

So my turn comes and I do everything in my power to stay quiet and not do anything to take his focus off his task. I’m practically invisible and so is everyone else. It was like we were all holding our collective breath, making sure the guy doesn’t screw up. And then…

You know those little plastic dividers they you can put between your order and the next guy’s on the conveyor belt? I watched the cashier come to the end of my order, pick up and move the divider, and start ringing the next customer’s order up with mine.

Whatever distractions that cashier has, they’re all in his noggin.