Okay so I’ve been struck with this horrendous case of I’ve-just-started-a-blog-and-now-I-can’t-think-of-a-flippin-thing-to-say writer’s block.  This is totally lame!  Especially because on any given day,  I can be found telling any NUMBER of stories to any soul willing to listen–stories that start like, “That makes me think of this one time (at band camp–sorry, it’s a compulsion) when I was four and I ate some magic mushrooms…”or “Yeah, when I went to India and asked my guru the true definition of forgiveness, he said…” or “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally crapped all over the wall of a men’s bathroom in a Catholic church in Mexico?”

But noooo.  NOW that I have free license to tell any story, to blab on and on about my ideas, to just shoot the breeze with cyberdom, I’m struck dumb.  “OOooooh, yeah…I forgot to tell you that might happen,” said P. the other day when I was complaining about this very thing.  Hm.  Great.

It’s like getting into bed with the hottest piece of man meat on the planet and like, falling asleep or something.  What the…?!

I think my one year old might have just put a piece of dog food in his mouth.  Ew.  “Why don’t you go over there and check?” you might ask.  Well, People, it’s protein.  And I’m writing.

Oh, the picture.  It’s what I made myself for breakfast on Sunday morning.  It seemed like a really big deal at the time.  I got out the skillet, all happy and anticipatory, and scrambled a fresh brown egg with goat cheese, roasted red pepper, baby spinach, and avocado.  It.  was.  awesome.  The awesomeness was punctuated by the fact that every single ingredient save the egg is something Jay turns his nose up at, which means I hardly ever buy that stuff.  But the other day I was so on FIRE from everyone’s replies to my last post, that I went to the store and went WILD!!  Nevermind that hours later I would find Jay staring dejectedly into a kitchen cabinet, asking, “Uh, honey…did you get anything good to eat at the store?”  Oh.  Oops.


dsc_25250001.jpgSo I saw them in the grocery store and for 8 bucks a dozen, I felt it was a small price to pay for my sanity.  I don’t know why, but flowers just make me so damn happy.  Sombebody-who-shall-remain-anonymous doesn’t really get into the whole flower-giving thing and you know what? that’s okay because I’ve discovered that flowers are really great, no matter who buys them.

What are your little indulgences?  The things you do for yourself just because?  I’m lookin for ideas.  I figure I’m on a roll.  The flowers are just the beginning...

WAAAAAA HOOOOO!  My very own blog!  This is just so cool, I can hardly stand it!  I’m all a-flutter!  I’m…speechless (for once in my life)!  Ok, so welcome to my brand-spankin’-new blog, The Lady in My Head.  I bet some of you are wondering who the heck “the lady in my head” is.  

The Lady in My Head is a fairly newly-coined name for my spot-on, eerily accurate “sense” about things.  Here’s what happens.  I meet someone, or I enter a room, or I hear about a situation, or I spend time with someone, or what have you.  And zzzzzing!  I start to have a “feeling” and then…gosh, I don’t know how else to say it…a VOICE in my head starts talking, telling me “how it is.”  And sometimes I ignore her because it’s just too hard to face the truth.  But more and more, I’ve been listening. 

It’s okay.  You can think it.  You can even say it.  “She’s crazy.”  Yes, People.  I am.  And it’s GREAT.

So the Lady is quite a nice guide, especially when I let her talk and heed her instructions.  Like, when she says, “Stop what you are doing, sit down and write.  I will tell you exactly what to say.”  Or when I wake up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason and am thinking about someone and feeling very strongly connected to her and the Lady tells me, “Go back to sleep.  But when you wake up in the morning, be sure you find a way to make sure that so-and-so gets what she needs.  She’s in pain and needs to be reminded that she is loved.” 

The Lady, of course, is not to be confused with the middle-of-the-night voice that almost always says, “Must.  Eat.  Chocolate.  Now!”  That voice we will call, “Bertha.”  Bertha is ruthless and (oh my God I am naming the voices–I swear to you, I do NOT have multiple personality disorder) takes no prisoners–afterall, what’s one more ripple in the ocean of cellulite on my thighs?  I used to be a size 4.  Now I’m a size I like to affectionately call, “Don’t Take Another Bite!”  But that’s an entry for another day.

So I raise my glass to the Lady who’s brought me safely here, who’s always got my back, who knows the truth and speaks no other language.  This Blog’s For You!  God, I’m corny.  I don’t know where that came from.  I don’t even drink beer.

Hello world!

January 21, 2008

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