I might have a problem with personifying things too much.

Carlito entered the world on a cool summer night; but he was empty, listless. He didn’t have a path or a purpose. He questioned the meaning of his life. What was he here to do? What did his maker will him to accomplish? As he wandered the streets he felt hollow and ashamed, as many of us have while we too experienced crises of faith. He felt called to a greater purpose, but to what? What direction should his paper mache hooves take him? Sometimes he envied his friends. They stuffed themselves full of candy, trying to fill the void that they couldn’t explain. Was it healthy, this lifestyle? Was it right to mask the emptiness with something, anything; as long as they did not have to feel hollow and alone? Most days Carlito would have said yes, as he sought some greater meaning to his life, but on others he would sigh and merely say, “Perhaps.” You see, when he was honest with himself, Carlito envied them their satiation; however empty they truly still were.

One day all of that changed. Carlito saw her. The woman that changed his life. In an instant he knew a love so complete, so enveloping that he would give everything he had to make her smile. He would charge through fire to bring her laughter. He would wade through the world’s oceans a hundred times to bring her even the smallest bit of pleasure. And in that instant he knew, though it shocked him to his very soul, that he would die to give her joy.

The woman, his angel, shared her burdens with him. She filled him to the brim with her hopes and dreams and fears. He bore them for her, even as he bore the precious bottles she had given him to carry. At last he knew completeness. At last he had fulfillment. He knew friendship the likes of which he had not even imagined could have existed before. For too short a time they went everywhere together. They took photos. They visited faraway places. They explored beaches. They dreamed, and they LIVED.

But joy is a fleeting thing. It is a sad state of the human condition that change must come for good or for ill. Pure happiness much be seized in the moment and cherished in the memory of those that go on. Every week, every day, every moment brings changes that can alter our lives in unforeseen ways. So it was for Carlito. In one moment he and his lady love were dancing on the beach. In the next, a group of thugs came. He put himself between them and her. His only thought for her safety, and the safety of the burdens she had placed on him, in him. How could she go on without those things? He had to protect her! He had to try to save her! But how? He yelled for her to run, but she did not. She stood and watched as the group advanced. They beat him. They tore him apart. They took the bottles from his remains with glee. Carlito looked at her. He begged her to turn, to not watch. Instead she knelt and took a bottle. She uncorked it and put it to her lips. She looked at the group and laughed. He searched her eyes, traces of sadness were there, yes. But so was joy. Carlito heaved his last breath.

Peace and redemption comforted his soul. His life had been short, and brutal, but he had brought joy to the one he loved. He had made the world a better place, however briefly. As his soul lifted upward and heavenly music filled his ears he realized that there really is no better accomplishment than that.

His name was Carlito. He was a piñata. A piñata with a belly bull of liquor minis, and a heart full of love. His quest? Share his love and boozy bounty with the world.

You too can achieve your nightmares! I mean dreams! Dreams!

I did it. This weekend I achieved one of my lifelong dreams. You know those dreams that haunt you? Day after day? Night after night? Pushing you? Pursuing you like a hunted stag? Those dreams that motivate you on a core level?

I attained one of those. Yes. I did it. I fell through a barn. Again. What do you mean that isn’t a dream? You have never had that dream where you fall through a barn floor? What is that? Oh, a nightmare you say? Psh. Nightmares are dreams too. Don’t be a hater. You have your goals. I have mine.

You’re just jealous because I achieved something glamorous. Bruises are considered glamorous, right?

Saturday was supposed to be Farrier day at Prinrock Farms. Farrier day is a magical day from hell that involves gathering up every single horse and having a farrier give them the equivalent of an equine pedicure. For the most part this isn’t bad. Generally 23 horses out of 26 are good. They are catchable and they don’t fight too much, but oh when the hellions decide to fight it is a sight to see. Anyone who thinks people kicking or smacking their horse around is abusive should really observe what they will do to themselves and each other when they are in a pissy mood.

Let me tell you, a horse is a half cocked gun. Take Luna for example, she can be the most docile thing ever, but Heaven help us all if she is PMSing. She can clear a six foot tall fence from a standstill and cause concussions with the best of them. I watched Dreamer break two halters and her own face rather than allow herself to be tied. They’re nuts. They’re exquisitely beautiful creatures, but they are nuts. Anyways, between Luna trying to prove herself the world’s best jumper, Joey picking your pockets and wandering away with any tools that aren’t tied down, and Barbie being the wild mountain horse who will never be touched! Never!!!! Farrier day is one of the days that I look at with trepidation.

So, at 7:30 ON A SATURDAY I already knew the day would not be in my top ten. Then the farrier was late. Then he was an hour late. Then we realized he wasn’t coming, which made life suck for a variety of reasons.

1.       I had been up at 7am on a SATURDAY for nothing.

2.       I had a pen full of agitated horses that I somehow had to feed without them beating each other up too much. This pen would also get grosser and grosser with every passing moment. So I would have to wade through a foot of muck rather than six inches when I eventually tried to capture them. Lovely.

3.       I had made a big deal out of being busy all day with Boyfriend the night before. Now I was no longer busy, and my entire argument that had been emotionally charged and ineffective to begin with was void. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

What to do with a free Saturday? Call Boyfriend and eat crow? Can? Winterize my yard? Clean house? Clean barn? Do laundry? Sleep? Relax?

None of the above. I got wrangled into helping my dad clean out my grandpa’s barn. Which is good because a good wind could knock it over, and my grandpa does not need to be wandering around in it, so I’m glad that I was there, but did I mention a good wind could knock this thing over? Danger! Danger!

Naturally I am selected for the job of retrieving items from across the loft floor. It only makes sense. I am the least useful of the group. It’s like in a horror movie. You know someone is going to die, and you know it is going to be the ditzy blond chick because she contributes the least to the well being of the party. I was cannon fodder. They said it was because I was the lightest, but I know the truth. So I was like, “Hey! Okay!” and “Is this a bad time to tell you guys I have been having dreams about falling through barn floors again?” Chirp, chirp went the crickets. “Hey, Lauren. Why don’t you start by gathering up all the jars and glass [from over there on the sketchy side of the barn]?” Seriously, take the flashlight. Go down the hall alone. It’ll be cool. There isn’t certain doom down there. That’s just bad lighting.

So I collect jars, crocks, and giant wooden things like the good girl that I am. I’m creeping from floor joist to floor joist, spreading my weight out the best that I can on the termite riddled wood. I was practically belly crawling along to reach some of these jars and other mystery objects. Most mystery objects being made of cast iron and appearing to be tools of some sort that I couldn’t identify. My grandpa has some cool stuff. Some cool, HEAVY stuff. A few hours pass. We uncover two glass display cases, because every barn has two antique glass display cases in it for grain and things, right? We found a cider press. Who doesn’t keep one of those laying around? There were also some old chairs, an engine, a steam engine, a tractor, a seed box, thousands of strawberry cartons (WHY?!?!?!?!), planters, enough canning jars to make me ache with jealousy (Really. They are about $10 a box. I have bought about $50 worth of them recently. When I could have just come rummaging…AGH!), and those are just the things I could identify. American Pickers would probably jizz all over themselves if they saw my grandpa’s barns. The point is, I got cocky.

At some point in the barn’s past someone had laid down plywood over the floor in places. This gave me a sense of security. Nothing could harm me. I couldn’t see the broken and decaying boards. They weren’t there! The floor was strong. It was plywood. I laughed in the face of decaying boards! Ahahahah-AHHHH! Yup. The plywood gave out. Dad and grandpa were nowhere around, and I was stuck with one leg through a barn floor sprawled out amongst a pile of shattered glass. ‘Cause of course I had been holding glass. It wouldn’t have been nearly intense enough if I hadn’t been holding glass.

So, I’m chilling there with one leg through the floor, wondering how on earth I’m going to extract myself, when the total absurdity of the situation hits. Seriously, how many people get to achieve a lifelong dream TWICE? TWICE!!?!?! And I’m still young. Think about it. At this rate I am falling through a barn once every ten years. Actually it is freakishly close to being exactly ten years. Assuming that my penchant for freakish accidents will continue, I will fall through barns an estimated six more times. This experience was significantly less traumatic than before, so theoretically I will survive all six falls and perish of more natural causes. That is achieving my dream an anticipated 8 times over the course of my life! Can you believe that? Talk about a goal! Man, I am so lucky!

Cow Propping 101

Cow tipping is NOT as easy or fun as it sounds. Cow propping is even harder.

I live on a farm. I have done my share of teasing city kids. No more. Where did this insight come from you ask? Well, let me tell you...

When I say I live on a farm I mean it. We have cows, horses, grain, dogs, cats, the whole shebang. But unlike normal farmers that ship aged cows off to be hamburger we keep the old girls around until the pass away. Seriously. The cows are all almost older than me. That's really old for a cow. With this policy we naturally see more cow health problems than we would if we ran a younger generation. Arthritis is an issue. Sudden, random, semi-temporary paralysis is also an issue. As in, it has happened twice in the last year and a half.

The first instance was Buttercup, whom I felt very sorry for until she suddenly lost her paralysis to become a wild face butting cow demon from Hades. I was fine with her when she whipped her head into my leg and made it numb for hours.  It was the same with my arm. I shouldn't have been so close, right? 

I guess in a way it was my fault really. I had severely hurt my shin tripping over a well, trying to run from a skunk about fifteen minutes earlier. I should never have went near her with the scent of blood in the water as it were. She sensed my weakness. She lunged from a laying position as I filled her water, catching my chin with a perfectly executed cow head upper cut that left my jaw dislocated and me very stunned and stumbling for a few minutes. I didn't fall though! I didn't even go to the hospital because I was concerned they would wire my jaw shut and I wanted to go see Boyfriend without being hampered by that pesky thing called helaing properly. Yeah. I'm pretty BA.

Though when dad asked me to recreate it so he could put it on YouTube I mutely shook my head as I stared at him in concussion induced stupor. Never. Again. Well, Buttercup passed away a few days later with my mom 
mourning over her poor baby. The danged cow loved her and would lick her all over. The other cows lined up for their customary funeral procession, and within a few weeks life returned to the insanity we call normal.

Fast forward a bit to this summer. We have a lake. We have a hot cow. We have a hot cow stuck in a lake. I wasn't home, but the story must be told for posterity. We had just had seven inches of rain. The lake was
knee high as dad fought valiantly through the water to rescue the cow, Bessie. As he neared her and maneuvered to begin cow tipping, pushing her up he fell. Down, down, down through the stinky muck. Suddenly he was chest deep in the water and staring up at the side of a cow in a very precarious position. If she fell he would drown. Fear ate at his insides, but he fought it courageously. He would save this cow. He clawed his way through the gooey mud and wrestled the sling onto herwith God granted strength and perseverance. By the grace of good Lord, and the help of a Ford tractor, the cow was saved and pulled ashore. She head butted dad for his trouble, and proceeded to lick mom. This happened three or four times. Well, dad knew how to avoid the giant hole, so they weren't identical, but you get the picture.

This weekend good ole Bessie was down again. She wasn't in the lake this time, but she was wedged very near to the electric fence which was definitely hot when I inadvertently touched it while holding a metal chain and some metal pieces for the sling. Ow. Well, it was mom and dad's anniversary (28 years!) so dad and I hurriedly rolled her into the sling, which wasn't so bad because she was trying to stand up to presumably attack dad with her face so her body wasn't touching the ground most of the time, and proceeded to carry her up to the house and prop the front end loader of the tractor up with a large wooden post to keep her up and let blood return to her legs. 

A few hours later and she was grazing happily without the support of the sling. She looked so good that my parents decided to let her loose. The next day she was down again and was less than cooperative. We got her 
up briefly, but she didn't seem interested in doing anything more than hanging in the sling, chewing cud, taking a few bites of grass, and mooing plaintively. So we let her lay down again. Then the unthinkable happened. I
needed to use the tractor for something else. 

Mom and I looked at her. Poked at her. Petted her. She mooed back. What to do? What to do? We tried to rock her so that we could get the sling better positioned. Which means that I tried to rock her while mom sang a round of "Don't rock the cow. Don't rock the cow, baby. Don't rock the cow. You'll tip the cow over." Cow rocking, tipping, cow moving period is damn near impossible when they do not want to help you. Cows are quite dense and frankly intimidating when you are concerned that ever move of their head is going to leave you with some sort of paralysis or dislocation. I'm not nearly as good as I used to be. Darn you Buttercup. 

Anyway, after looking the situation over mom and I decided to wedge square bales between Bessie's legs so that
she could get blood flowing to her extremities. We lifted her up, wedged the bales in, lowered her down, unhooked her, and watched in horror as she started sliding off the bales. Heck. We grabbed posts and propped
her up. Would it hold? Could I possibly feed fast enough? I rushed to the tractor, sat down in a seat full of water and began my rounds in a rush. The other cows mooed angrily at me as I tried desperately to cut bale strings in the twilight. One bale down. She was still wedged up on her hay bale throne grabbing bites of alfalfa from between her front legs. Two bales down. Was she sliding? Did she look nervous or was it just dark? Third and final bale down. Yup, she slipped. We have a cow down. Mayday. Mayday. B1 is down. I repeat B1 is down.

Mom and I looked at her, contentedly chewing her cud and decided to leave her until today. Today we will try cow tipping and propping again.Maybe this time we will succeed. Maybe this time we will triumph over Bessie's blatant indifference to ever walking again. I'm not holding my breath though.


In conclusion: Cow Propping. Hardest sport, EVER.


*No cows were harmed during the duration of this story.  Except maybe their pride. Nope, definitely their pride. Her pride is now irreparably damaged.



** We really do love all of our animals, and despite the dramatic storytelling, we provide them with the highest level of care possible. Bessie has pain killers and medical treatment. She has not been neglected in any way. She has been allowed to live life as a cow, and I'm not an expert on what a fulfilling life would be for a cow, but she has had what we consider to be a full life with lots of love, grass, hay, and freedom. She is currently experiencing "cow hospice," and aside from being photographed on her throne, is treated with the love, respect, and dignity she deserves.

Bracketing Brilliance

Have you ever been sitting there, minding your own business, when a thought hits you like a hurricane? And you’re like, “Holy crap. I am so deep. Why isn’t everyone this insightful? I should share my glorious mind magic with the world! Or, at the very least people that know me. Outsiders don’t deserve my knowledge anyhow. They wouldn’t appreciate it.” And then you mentally ramble so much you forget your divine-inspired-clouds partingly awesome thought? Yeah, me too.

Luckily for you though, this time I made a post-it.

Okay, so, I’m sitting there putting together brackets. Which if you didn’t know, is about the most mind-numbing monotonous thing you can do at my job.

1.       Grab bracket
2.       Gauge bracket orientation
3.       Orient bracket properly
4.       Grab t-bolt
5.       Gauge t-bolt orientation
6.       Orient t-bolt properly
7.       Insert t-bolt into bracket
8.       Grab washer
9.       Place washer over t-bolt
10.    Grab nut
11.    Place nut on t-bolt
12.    Tighten

In the beginning I’m fake excited about it. You can tell I coach kid’s soccer because in the back of my head I’m placating myself like I do the kids that suck at running, “No, no honey. Defense is WAY more important than scoring!” (<- Actually, also sucking at running, I believe this.) Anyone can build a conveyor! But put together brackets? This stuff is boring. No one would want to do that. Basically, when I begin I’m convincing myself that what I’m doing is so crucial to the conveyor assembly process that I deserve a sticker for sucking it up so others don't have to. By bracket 100 I’m a gold medal winning bracket assembler. Screw gymnastics. This is where it is at! If bracket assembly was an Olympic sport I'd be all over it. By 200 I’m like a super hero saving people from the tedium induced insanity. Stand back, ma’am I’ve got this. Then I'd dramatically throw myself on the box of bolts and use them to assemble still more brackets. Which I would use to defeat some horrible villian, probably made of all thread. By 300? Yup, I’m a martyr. I have saved hundreds of unsuspecting children (or three other employees) from having to face the intense suffering and hand cramping induced by bracket assembly. I deserve a frickin’ parade, but I won’t be able to wave. Because my hands are twisted into what I assume will one day by a bitchin’ case of arthritis. I’d settle for a holiday. Certainly I deserve a holiday for such sacrifices? Anybody? Anyone? There is no clapping. No speeches of gratitude for taking the sucky job. As I drag the last bracket from the box with clawed, calloused fingers, my hopes for achievement are dashed. I’d settle for a thank you, or a beer. Actually, I’d kinda prefer the beer. If I could put a straw in it and drink it without holding it.

In case you can’t tell, 350 of these later my mind has started wandering a bit.

One of the issues with bracket assembly is the, as I like to call it in the beginning, stupid-hippie-son-of-a-B…olt not threading properly. At first I always try to keep shoving the thing, hoping somehow that it will magically screw on despite its being crooked. Eventually though, about the time I begin sighing dejectedly whenever it happens and am too worn down to fight anymore, I do the smart thing and simply unscrew the bolt and screw it back into the nut with the proper orientation. It seems simple right? Well, yeah, but my head is a very strange place (as I’m sure you can tell) and when it is early in the game that damned thing is being difficult just to mess with me. My sacrifice is valiant! I fought against the odds! That bolt is an evil mastermind. You don’t even know…

Well, today as I threaded bolt 347 it hit me. The sky parted. Angels sang. God reached down and touched my numbed brain with brilliance. There were tears. I was overflowing with insight, or allergies, but most likely I was just so full of insight that it was leaking out. Ready for this? Are you sure? It’s pretty profound. You should stop now if you can’t handle it. Okay,  here goes:

Bolts and people are a lot alike. So why on earth do I put so much time and energy into trying to push a misthreaded person or bolt a certain direction when I know that it isn’t going to work? I could just back off a little twist it a different way, and try it again with much easier success. Why do I get so bent out of shape and think the absolute worst of that poor, misguided bolt when things aren’t going quite right; rather than just sighing and realizing that with people, as with bolts, the angle is everything?

Okay, so I’m not sure if it is because I like to pretend to be the superhero, or what yet, but I thought the back off and twist it a different angle analogy was freaking brilliant. I hope it changes your life. If it does I would like to humbly suggest a parade, or booze with silly straws.

Preferably soon, before the arthritis sets in.

Why I haven't been blogging.

I am too old to blog. I think I must be eighty. Why? Well, I suppose I should give you some background.

I bought a place. I decided to landscape. I feel crappy wasting money of things that don't give back, like say, annual flowers. So I got the brilliant idea to landscape using vegetables and herbs. That's great right? Fresh produce, right? Well, yeah, but do you know how much zucchini five plants make? Do you have a clue how many tomatoes can grow on just four bushes? I have been drowning in produce. By the way, if you cut basil , oregano, cilantro, lemon verbena, mint, or any other herb it loves it. You get a bigger bushier plant than before - which is great unless you have a weird phobia about wasting anything. In which case you wind up with about ten pounds of pesto, and more lemon verbena jelly than you know what to do with.

That right there is why I'm eighty. I have so much produce I decided to can and preserve some of it. There were only so many ways to cook zucchini, alright? In other news if anyone needs a zucchini recipe hit me up (zucchini bread, zucchini fritters, zucchini lasagna, fried zucchini, baked zucchini, zucchini salad, zucchini salsa... get the picture?). Anyway, my grandparents had me "help" them can when I was little, so how hard could it be right? Well, yeah. It is easy. That's how it suckers you in. Can some tomatoes? Next thing you know and you have
delved into the dangerous world of pickles and jelly. Before you know it I'm going to be canning beef and conserve. I'm like a junkie, an eighty year old canning and preserving junkie.  Seriously, I have started stalking Craigslist for canning jars and supplies. Next thing you know I'm gonna be slipping an extra ten in the hand of my dealer at the farmer's market so he gives me the "good stuff." I'll be breaking into my neighbors yards to steal peaches, because dried peaches are like crack and I can only imagine how delightful they'll be in jelly. It's
Friday night and you know what I'm doing? I'm pickling eggs and cucumbers. I'll be processing tomatoes. I'll probably even have my Grooveshark on. I'll be canning to the Andrews sisters and Bob Hope, because yeah, I think I was born one or two generations too late. Hopefully I will surface again after this drought succeeds in killing all my plants. 

Cellphone High

Ah, cell phones. They make our lives so much better, don’t they? I don’t know how I ever survived without people being able to contact me 24-7, regardless of what else I was doing. Oh, you’re busy feeding horses? Why didn’t you pick up? Uh, the tractor is a dangerous place for a cell phone? Ugh, but I needed to talk to you THEN.

*dramatic sigh* But that isn’t even the worst part. You know what is? Texting? No. Not the act of texting. It’s pretty sweet actually. I’m talking about the existence of text messages on your significant other's phone. Over there, right now, is a log of what that person thinks, feels, and says and it is at your inquisitive fingertips. I will be totally honest here. When I am alone in a room with my BF’s phone my brain does some really strange things. This is what happens:

I feel like those old drug warning movies where the pot starts talking to the kid that is supposed to represent you.

Phone/Pot: “Hey man. Come here I wanna tell you something. You want some candy?”

Me: “No. I’m not supposed to talk to you. I’m being good.”

P: “Nah. It’s alright. Really. It’ll just take a minute. No one will even know. It’s great candy.”

Me: “No it’s wrong. I should not be talking to you. I need to go.”

P: “Wait. Come back. It won’t hurt anything. We’re just, talking. You know? There is no harm in talking, is there?”

Me: “Well, I guess not…”

P: “That’s right.” *DING – TEXT RECEIVED* “Hmm, I wonder who that’s from. You wanna open me up and look for me?”

Me: “No. That’s wrong I shouldn’t do that.”

P: “But you want to so badly. You can’t deny it. Just do it. Just this once. It won’t hurt anything. You won’t find anything. It’ll make you feel so good. You’ll know where he stands. That fear you have? That he’s talking to someone else? It’ll go away. You’ll never have to doubt again.”

Me: “I do really want to…”

P: “That’s right. That’s right. It will make all your insecurities go away. There is no shame in just being sure. Just try it. Just this once.”

*Dramatic end scene as the unsuspecting girl reaches for the phone*

Fast forward two months and I’m stealing his phone and sneaking in the bathroom to scroll through texts every couple of days. The phone is whispering to me in my own head. I’m a junkie. I can’t stop. I need another fix. My self control is reduced to that of a fourth grader. I’m going through texts and emails like a pregnant woman craving chocolate with box of Oreos nearby. It doesn’t stand a chance. If it is written down I am reading it.

There are of course three things that can happen here.

1. I can find nothing to make me mistrust him more. The sun will shine through the window. His phone will glow all golden-like. There will be unicorns that dance, and flower petals will fall from the ceiling. My BF is perfect, I will think. I will never mistrust him again. Then, the dancing unicorn will turn on me and stab my through the chest with the most piercing guilt and self loathing in the history of my life. I will have a guilty hate spiral on myself as I am all but bleeding to death from my guilt. How could I have doubted?  I should have trusted him. He would never mistrust me like this. Do I even deserve him? Should I take myself out of his life so he can be with someone as awesome and trusting as him? Why is life so HARD?!?

2. I can find nothing to make me mistrust him more. Which leads to a guilty hate spiral on my part. How could I have doubted?  But my ego will kick in. Well, obviously I thought something was fishy or his damn drug dealing phone wouldn’t have convinced me to look. Maybe he is just hiding it deeper. I should look again! When he isn’t expecting it! Then I’ll catch him!

3. I can find something to make me mistrust him more. This leads to an angry hate spiral directed at him. Granted, I’m fueled to be pissed. I already thought he was up to something, and now I KNOW. I will take anything that was ambiguous and turn it into deceit.  I will then lay a cunning trap to convince him to tell me what dirty things he has done without him knowing that I know. Or so I think. More likely he will walk back in the room to find me huddled in a pathetic sobbing wreck on the floor. I will point to the phone and stammer out my accusation. He will rebuke it with an invasion of privacy clause. To hell with illegal search and seizure, I will say. It doesn’t matter. I found it. We will fight. My own guilt at having discovered the material illegally will give him a leg up where he didn’t have it before. We will wind up in court. He will take my cat, which makes no sense because he has no claim to my cat other than I invaded privacy so I shouldn’t be allowed to have a cat, because they like privacy. I will stare at the judge and ask, “But why? He freaking cheated! How am I wrong for finding it out? How am I being punished for his deceit?” It won’t matter. There is no answer. This is the court of my heart, and the judge is anything but fair. I will be punished either way. I will wind up sobbing on the court room floor while he walks away with a girl that is most likely prettier, younger, more interesting, less psychotic, and by all means worthier than myself. Oh, and my cat will freaking love her.

And that is what happens in my head EVERY TIME I’m left alone with a boyfriend’s cell phone.

Stop Feeding Your Soul Twinkies!

Disclaimer: This rant is a direct result of a conversation I was having with my friend, J, in the car the other day. An interesting side note here, J is the girl that most of my rants were bounced off of first. She is the catalyst for many of my self discoveries. This one in particular deserves a shout out to her as she put the concept way better than I could.

Do you feel unfulfilled? Like you’re missing out on something greater? I sure as hell do. I feel like I have been set here for some great purpose, some driving goal, that I have no clue how to pursue. It leaves me feeling dissatisfied, vacant, hollow, guilty. Sure, I have brief glimpses of glory where I feel like I’m on my path. But, I have a lot of times when I shove that void full of booze and bad decisions, and for awhile I forget the emptiness. Well, okay, in my case it is booze, bad decisions, and romance novels. Okay, okay, I really have been bad about the sitcoms lately too. It is just so easy to feel better about myself when I am focused on HIMYM and don’t have to think about the total lack of good I did that day.

If your body is what you eat. Your soul is what you do. It is like those people on the discovery show that eat fourteen cheeseburgers, and thirty-seven twinkies a day. They are consuming a ton of calories, but they are getting no nutrition. They feel the urge to consume more and more of the empty calories because they are so malnourished. They go on and on becoming unhealthier and unhealthier, craving more and more. I think our souls(spirits, minds, whatever you want to call the core part of us that is us) are like that too. When we don’t realize that we are feeding ourselves spiritual (I almost went with a soul food joke here) junk food we need to shove more and more of the sugary nutrition-less stuff into that void because we feel so empty. I feel like doing things good for the soul (giving of your time, loving something outside yourself, volunteering, telling the truth, wanting good for others because you genuinely want to see them happy, etc.) is like feeding your spiritual self a well balanced meal, while indulging in reality TV marathons so that you are so engrossed with the images on the TV that you don’t focus on anything else are like candy (mm, delicious, delicious soul candy). Sitcoms and reality TV might be funny, but they are like all indulgences. They should be used sparingly.  You realize the benefit of moderation with eating. You should see the carry over here too.

So get off your butt, stop feeding your soul Twinkies, and get a freaking multivitamin!

So what would be a multivitamin for your soul? I’m not sure yet. Maybe that is my overwhelming purpose. Perhaps by the end of this I’ll write a wonderful book called, “Soul food, and not the deep fried kind.” I think a good place to start is with the almost universally held belief that being a good person is a good thing. We should be nice, respectful, loving, caring individuals. As much fun as it is to watch pithy comeback slinging jerks and people who care more about tanning than their grandparents, do we really want those characters as role models? Whatever happened to the archetype of the good people who were rewarded for being good? Nope, not here, no way. They aren’t entertaining. We are filling ourselves full of the idea that you have to beat each other out by any means necessary to win. Lying, sneaking, back stabbing? Give that girl a medal!***SARCASM! Yeah, I disagree with that on a profound level. So, I think a good place to start is to simply try to be nice. Say thank you. Let someone enter the door before you. Be pleasant.

As I was driving the other day I was really struggling with what I could do to fill my own void (other than getting addicted to a certain reality show that reminds me of Cheetos for some strange, orange, reason) and I landed on the idea that I am going to try and do one nice thing a day, just to be nice. Believe what you will, in whatever semantics you may, I think that pouring out good energy begets good energy. Every little bit helps, right? So I am a few days in. Nothing I have done has been huge. I have not single handedly ended world hunger. I haven’t come up with a plan to end joblessness, or get medical care to people in third world countries. I have done things like: stopping to let a trucker drive before me, complimenting a stranger on her necklace, asking an elderly couple if they needed help carrying something, and dropping a can of green beans in the food drive box at the grocery store. None of those things was particularly hard, well I struggled with the compliment and offering of help. (How sad is it that I mentally fought the initial urge to be helpful/nice because I didn’t want to offend them?) But I think that they have all made a difference. Maybe I helped that trucker’s road rage, maybe I made that woman’s night and she then avoided the fight with her husband that she would have had in front of her kid who then would have taken a gun to class because of the pain at home. Hey, don’t judge. It doesn’t take much to change the world, one action can set a whole different course of events. One yes rather than a no changes the future. And maybe, just maybe, that can of green beans is helping a family fill their bodies with nutrition, even as it helped fill my soul with some too.

**Also, I realize that I harp on TV a lot. I’m sorry if I offend anyone with that, but if Snooki and Pauly D are the paradigms of what our culture holds as valuable I think we need a cultural reboot.