It’s funny how much we change as we get older. If you really think about the whole thing – it’s just downright weird.
In our youth, it’s easy to go with the default belief that certain things will always stay the same. I remember thinking there’s no way on earth I would ever love any type of music other than heavy metal. I adored it, almost likening that love to the point of being in a relationship. I immersed myself in it, attended concerts, adorned my walls with posters… I just couldn’t and wouldn’t allow myself to imagine it any other way.
As the majority of us age, I believe our minds expand. It’s pretty amazing, really. We become more open to try new things, to advance ourselves in ways we never contemplated possible. This has indeed been the sum of my lifes experiences. When I reflect back on all the chapters of my book, it makes me both happy and sad – with some shades of gray in-between, of course.
Whether or not we want to admit it… we become more emotional as the aging process progresses. Instances that would normally roll off our shoulder earlier in life will now have an overwhelming affect on our emotions, which can often add confusion to an already delicate situation.
The maturity process also ushers in less patience for the asshats of the world – a statement that needs no further explanation.
I now appreciate the finer things in life more than ever before. Just as strong though, is the realization that these finer things will not be traveling with me when I leave this earth.
Probably my favorite thing about ongoing maturity is not giving a shit what others think. This shouldn’t suggest certain values which we hold dear to our own character; such as honesty, integrity, causing distress to others, and the like. I used to be what’s known as a people-pleaser, would go out of my way to accommodate someone who was unreliable at best. Now, largely – I don’t care what judgement others may hold against me for my actions. As long as I’m going about life to the best of my ability, obeying the law and not harming others – I really couldn’t care any less about what others think of me. Past or present.
There’s more to come, I hear… as long as the Good Lord allows me breath.
It is to me, at least.
My circle of friends is small, and that’s by choice. Once you’ve been burnt by a select few throughout the course of a lifetime, it becomes pretty easy to build up that old retaining wall – to keep the nicely filtered water safe inside and disastrous tidal waves out. The quality level of my true friends is nothing short of stellar now – that’s what is important to me. I love having a friend I know so well that half the time we actually finish each other’s sentences. With most every subject, Lou and I end up having the same opinion. On the rare occasions we don’t agree on something, we still respect each others opinions. Neither of us have ever tried to change each other, nor persuade the other into doing something we’re uncomfortable with. Because a ‘real’ friend would never do that.
Lou and I have joked for years now about how we would be perfectly content to drive home from work on Friday and not leave out again until Monday rolls around. Once home from work on a weekday, we won’t start our car and go out again until the next workday. Doesn’t matter if we’re in need of something, it has to wait. You’d literally have to light a fire under both our asses to get us back out. Like many others, we both have a dog waiting for us to get home. Fact is, any type of errand after work requires careful prioritizing because of our pets – but I don’t know a pet-lover out there that begrudges this. I wouldn’t trade a thing.
I’m not complaining about any of this – quite the contrary. It makes me happy going straight home and and staying home. I’m not a socially active person by nature, never have been. Once in a while Keith and I will have a family event to attend over the weekend which we enjoy. I just find joy in weekends which have no plans whatsoever – aside from the rare impromptu day trip with him.
Speaking of my husband. He’s a hard-working man who works out of state all week and only comes home on the weekends. After so long it became routine like anything else – I just got used to it. I am not afraid. I’ve got my fearless boy Mojo, a fully loaded S&W and a quite sophisticated home security system. All that said, when the weekend finally does get here I relish my time with him. Since the weekend is all we have, we definitely make the most of every moment together. Hey, I realize it could always be worse – he could be deployed overseas for months or even years. I’m thankful for the time I do have with him and everything else we’ve been blessed with.
I’ve never been a bar person by choice. Ever. There’s something very sad to me about bars. Again, just my personal preference and opinion. We do enjoy having dinner with our parents on occasion. I don’t socialize with friends on a ‘regular’ basis aside from maybe a couple times a year, then it’s usually just for dinner or when someone is moving away or some life-changing event like that. I do not enjoy shopping – while I know this is weird for a woman, trust me when I say I’m totally okay with it. I guess the most social I’ve been in my entire life was last summer while I was busy planning our wedding, which I’ll admit about killed me. Literally had to be somewhere or meet up with someone 3-4 times a week. My stress and anxiety levels were off the charts. It was during this time that my friend Lou even sacrificed her own after-work time (something we both hold sacred, remember?) to plod the hot summer streets with me to help search for a wedding dress. I remember that after the wedding was over, I couldn’t wait to get back to my old ‘rut’. And so I did. I didn’t walk… I literally RAN back to it.
Ah… the aroma of sweet familiarity. Mmmm – smells SO so good. Just. Breathe. It. In. And Relax.
So what’s the point of all this, Bon? This is getting a little monotonous.
Apparently there are some out there bearing a false impression that I have a moral obligation to restructure my time to deligate more of my after-work hours to socialize. This has even included pressured attempts during the weekend when Keith comes home from working out of town all week. Needless to say, my patience level has bottomed out on this.
It’s not like I’ve been silent about my stand on the subject. It’s not a hidden secret on a game show being held for a big reveal later to floor everyone. I’ve expressly stated on several occasions that I’m a homebody and choose to spend my time after work at home, and my weekend time with my husband – but it’s all been blatently ignored.
My question is this… having made this a wide-open fact, why on earth would someone push the envelope, again and again? And if you do find yourself attempting to change or reroute how a person thinks – what kind of friend does that make you? And why would a person want to spend more time with you if you’re trying so hard to inflict your preferred method of thinking on them? Why would any real friend do that?
My reasoning is, a real friend wouldn’t.
I will not change the way I choose to spend my time, and I refuse to be bullied into it. Of course I realize there are exceptions to every rule. But if dire circumstances ever did warrant a change, my family and close friends would be those who took precedence. This 46 year-old broad has worked 40+ hours a week my entire adult life (attending several years of college during that), and traveled from one side of hell to the other in an attempt to start a new life. I have earned my right to spend my time after work however I damn well please. So I’m gonna clear something up real quick-like, once and for all. If you have a problem with how I spend MY time – weeknights or weekends – I strongly suggest that you start keeping it to yourself.
I will not apologize to anyone for being a homebody. It’s who I am, and I won’t apologize for being me. So quit right now trying to change me.
That is all.
Now if you’ll excuse me – I’m home for the evening. So I’m gonna fix myself something to eat and watch Dr. Phil.
The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. ~Maya Angelou
I’ve already grown weary of winter. Winter months are hard, and those who know me already know I’m not a fan of anything difficult.
If you’re still reading this, you’re probably aware that this will be a rant post. Hey, we all need one now and then. With that said, I’ll proceed to touch on a few of the reasons why I
abhor hate dislike the season.
- All the extra required clothing, resulting in more laundry. Additionally, more clothes give the illusion of more pounds. Hate.
- I must wear socks. I hate socks. More importantly, my feet hate socks. And any accompanying enclosed shoes.
- Staying up longer at night to make sure that last log is in fact extinguished results in Bon getting less sleep. This is not a good thing.
- Everything looks bare naked and dead. That’s because it is. For several months.
- My car is happy in cool weather – but hates freezing temperatures. It’s not unusual for my key locks and/or door jams to freeze, resulting in me being late for work.
- Lotion up. Now, lotion up once more. Wait, we’re not done here – dammit the lotion bottle’s empty again.
- Dear Sun, how I adore thee. But alas, our time together seems to have been cut in half. I am pale. I mean like Edward Cullen pale. The forecast calls for even more pale.
When torrential rain gets thrown into the mix (over three-inches-expected-in-one-day torrential) it turns from aggravating to disastrous. Like when you let your puppy out to poo and he decides to find a hidden spot in the yard to dig while in said torrential rain.
Yep, I’ll be late for work again.
I have a lot of pet peeves, probably even more than the average person. After my experience going home yesterday, thought I’d touch on just one.
Anyone who knows me knows I have the utmost respect for a good motorcycle driver. I’m always on the lookout for that one headlight and allow extra following room when behind one. However… I hate those crotch-rocket motorcycles with drivers who are on a suicide mission. I literally cringe when I hear the high-pitched ‘niiiii-niiiii’ of one – I liken it to the whine of a bitching kid. You’ll never go fast enough to please them, they simply have to be in front of you. Cops can’t catch them, and engaging in a high-speed chase isn’t worth the danger to others anyway.
One of the disadvantages of living off a long country road are these underground groups who congregate their whining little bikes and drag race. The act of drag racing changes everything – from putting their own lives in danger to inserting you and I into the mix. That’s my ultimate peeve about the assholes that choose to drive like this, the total lack of respect for others lives.
The long road I was on yesterday maintains an unspoken rule of going 5-10 mph over an already generous speed limit. I’ll go a step further to say I rarely have anyone on my bumper, if you know what I mean. In an instant, two unmistakable whines mysteriously appeared behind me. Just as the dotted line ended (did you expect anything less?) the helmet-less crotchers wizzed by doing at least 100. As they both reached the top of the hill to pass the car in front of me (seriously guys, I can’t make this shit up) the guy in the back ducked.
He DUCKED. Like that’s gonna help him out of a lethal situation. He should know that with this kind of ‘driving’, someone will eventually have the not-so-pleasant task of scraping his brains off the asphalt. I wonder how much that person gets paid? Think I’ll pass on sending in a resume for that position.
Word. There’s a time and place for everything. I like my life, and I want to keep it. If you want to
risk play roulette off yourself, have at it – but know that you’re an unspeakable piece of shit if you take my life while doing so. Hey, somebody had to say it.
Well, actually it came by way of the 5 o’clock news this evening.
There’s a strangeness that no one can quite put their finger on. In a suburb right outside of my lovely town, a little girl was photographed. By a stranger. Playing in the snow. Zipped up tight to her nose in fluffy coatings and wintry garb. That’s right folks, a picture was taken.
Let me say first, I’m not trying to make light of any sort of potentially dangerous situation, particularly that which involves a child. But I’ve gotta say, there are some things with this ‘story’ that just don’t jive well with me.
The story as told by an 8-year old girl starts with her playing down the street from her house, and looking up to see a man taking a snapshot of ‘her’. She ran home to tell her mother. Mom is then broadcast all over the evening news rolling her eyes and saying “the thought of a sick, perverted man having a picture of my daughter infuriates me”. Every. Ten. Minutes. Well yeah lady, I have a daughter. That particular thought would infuriate me too.
Let’s say for the sake of argument – there was this man going down the road with his wife driving (the little girl reported he was in the passenger seat – with no description of the driver) who decided to take a few rare southern snow pics, like I had the urge to do my own self today. The little girl (or other children) just happened to be in the general vicinity of where the camera was faced. Hell, it’s happened to me many times – I’ve just never been ‘accused’ of anything. But then again… I’m female. Hey, somebody had to say it…
Through many years of photography, I of course have my own photo library. Rather than a subject who happens to be laced, zipped and velcroed all the way up to their nostrils in the dead of winter – I’m quite sure a few of mine are on a public beach (Gasp**) in bathing suits! Certainly they weren’t the intended subjects of the frame – but what if they had been? This is what it’s come to. Yes, this. Here and now.
I must give credit to my Dad and his eagle-eye on this subject, as it was he who called and brought me up to speed on the said situation-at-hand. Yes, it’s pretty bad when you can’t be your normal self anymore. To be forced to avoid situations we’ve not only been accustomed to all our lives but have been raised to admire, respect and enjoy. Now we have to worry about staring a little too long, if at all… whether anything we say might be perceived as a prelude to an abduction… not to mention the subjects that might happen to be in the general vicinity of our cameras… need I even go on? And if you don’t worry about it… well you’d better worry about it. I don’t wish to downplay the possibility of a legitimate threat on this particular story. What I wish to up-play is the fact that we can’t snapshot a timeless moment anymore, without the fear of consequences.
Because this is where we are.
But Bon, where on earth is this irony you speak of? You really mucked this title up – wayyy off!!
Here we go, folks. In between sessions of Mom rolling her eyes and speaking of Joe Pedophile staring at photos of her little girl – a lighter, more airy segment flashed up where us viewers got the chance to see submitted photos of the snow aired on tonight’s edition of the local news. How sweet and funny they were, too – most submitted anonymously. Anything from snowmen, to sledding, to children playing, to pets playing, to…. hey BACK UP just a minute. Did you just say children playing????
IMHO the persons behind each of these two segments had to be on two different wavelengths, in two different buildings. In two different cities. With no communication tools. Ahem, you get my drift. Speaking of drifts…
Just be careful where and what you point those cameras at.
No one likes a person that constantly complains. I like to refer to them as ‘downers’, because let’s face it – unless it’s done in humorous fashion, it does bring you down. Sometimes though, you just need to get things off your chest. Things you might normally let slide or roll off your back on a daily basis can mount up and come out in a very bad way if you don’t unload every once in a while.
So, gentle readers, be forewarned that today will be my bitch day. Hey… I’ve done a ‘things I love’ blog before. It’s only fitting that I have a ‘things I hate’ one…
- I hate running across people I call ‘provers’. These people basically need to have whatever you tell them proven right then in order to believe you.
- I hate when I say something about a restaurant that I went to the night before, and a downer is listening and informs me that they don’t have any food in their cabinets.
- I hate when I pay extra for a Marie Callendar’s frozen entree for lunch, and the contents ends up being smaller than that of a Lean Cuisine or Healthy Choice.
- I hate the fact that apparently I’m the only person at work that has the expertise of changing a toilet paper roll. I’ve tested this theory several different ways on many occasions.
- I hate when a stranger 20+ years your elder brazenly uses their age as an excuse to advance ahead of you – and I’m not just talking about lines.
- I hate when a guy believes certain chores are not made for them to do.
- I hate when a guy postpones vacationing, even a simple 2-day beach trip – then suggests tagging along with his mother for the weekend on her trip.
- (Red flag)
- I hate when a guy suggests hopping on your cellphone plan, and you blog about how much that bothered you – then the next night he tells you he’s hopping on his mother’s plan.
- (Dark red flag)
- I hate when normal grooming habits are forgotten or ignored. Everyone I mean everyone knows how I feel about this. Enough said.
- I hate when an otherwise enjoyable trip to a local Japanese steakhouse is thwarted by patrons who believe your space should include their conversations and children.
- I hate when my financial situation is prejudged by another, as in “you should be doing okay now that your car is paid off”.
- I hate when people have trouble addressing a problem and end up just letting it go without confronting and/or attempting to fix it.
- This list will most definitely be continued at a later date. Until then… thank you, dear readers, for the unload.
I know opinions are like assholes – we all have one. I didn’t make that little ditty up, and it’s very true. But blogging forces out the best in me, as well as the worst. I’d like to I must share my opinion on the spoiled brat little dutch psychopath killer.
Urine vander Shit. And I did make that little ditty up.
Based on the facts I’ve already heard, and presumptions on the ones I haven’t – here’s a quick Bon-take on what really happened.
After meeting Holloway in the casino in Aruba that night, he slipped her a date-rape pill. (The same or similar to the evidence recently found in Flores’ car.) From that time to her death I can only speculate, but I’m all but convinced some sort of date-rape drug was used on Holloway, since that same speculation has already all but been proven on Flores. Note the way she was walking with her head down behind him – and from the video I perceived her to be swaying from side to side a bit more than she should.
He’s already admitted to Flores’ death. Everyone knows his daddy got him off with the lawyers on the Holloway case in Aruba – add to that the fact the Aruban police and officials totally mutilated the case. They handled the whole thing like the amateurs they are. I wouldn’t doubt the stress of all his son put the family through is what killed his father anyway.
I also believe there’s a strong possibility that there are others he killed. Now it comes out that his mere presence in Peru that enabled him to kill Flores was most likely caused by our own Feds funding to vander Shit for him to tour the world. Twenty-five grand, in fact. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. The US was the Enabler. Plain and simple.
Once again I present to you – our government, at it’s best.