Home, By Definition, is Many a Thing

Noun.

1. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

2. an institution for people needing care or supervision.

Verb.

1. (of an animal) return by instinct to its territory after leaving it.

All valid. All true. I've mentioned the word "home" a few times since I've started my blog. It's a word that keeps resurfacing, usually in conjunction with mini-epiphanies that occur in my everyday. So the definition is slowly revealing itself to me. Or definitions, I should say. What is "home". Home is Where The Heart Is is cross-stitched and hung on people's walls. Motley Crue sang Home Sweet Home. "There's no place like home", Dorothy repeated, clicking her heels three times to get back there…click click click... Lots of cliches out there using the word "home", created by people who obviously know something that I don't, or haven't… until now. I'm not saying I know what it is, because I'm totally not there yet. But I'm getting closer.

When I finished graduate school, I needed to leave. I mean, actually leave the state of New York. I hated where I grew up. High School sucked. Bunch of horrible people with bad intention, who picked on whatever made them uncomfortable. I think I've mentioned in a previous entry how I was affected by it all. Yeah, it sucked all right. So when I had opportunities to leave for college, then leave the state after college, I totally took them. And I haven't been back since. Well, not so much to live anyway. Just for holidays, and an 8-month stretch when my Mom had major surgery. I had been living in Denver under the most awkward of arrangements at the time, so coming back for a bit while she healed made sense. But even then, my aversion for the place reappeared, and after 8 months I was off again. And searching. In hindsight, I shouldn't have left. But that's another entry, for another day.

What is it that we search for, anyway? Surely we can't know what we want when we're in our 20's. Can we? Or are we influenced by our surroundings? Our family members? When I was growing up, I remember my Dad would sit at the kitchen table and stare out the window for long periods of time, thinking about God knows what. I feel like that happened a lot in the winter time, and I now imagine the thought in his head was something like "fucking snow… more fucking snow". The look on his face so melancholic at times. Eventually, I would find myself thinking the same thing. Staring out the same window. But I never really understood that because I don't really hate snow. It's actually quite lovely. Most of the time.

So, I have been searching for a feeling, I guess. The feeling I'm convinced I would get if I happened upon my definition of home. And I think my definition of home is the feeling of belonging. Belonging somewhere. Belonging with, and to someone. And familiarity. Surrounding yourself with things that are familiar. Familiar, familia, famille…family. It's something that I have yet to find since I set out searching in 1993. I just haven't felt I belonged in any of the cities I've lived in… Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Denver, Raleigh, Carolina Beach… All beautiful. And I love my friends who are dispersed throughout all of them. I've witnessed home and family and belonging… while with so many of them. Like my best friend's family who I've been lucky enough to spend time with every week for the past 6 months. I love this family as if it was my own. But it's not. I guess i just simply want my own.

You all know from my ramblings and blah blah blah-ging that I've started reevaluating my life. It is, after all, kinda the very definition of a mid-life crisis, which I am now fully floundering around in, by the way. And in the middle of all the reevaluating, I went to visit my family twice in the last four months. And both times, saw something new. Something I've never seen before, and that I can't exactly put my finger on, but it was beautiful. So, it has been slowly occurring to me that I actually might have a place that feels like "home". Where I kinda belong. Where things are familiar. And perhaps it's really been there all along, just waiting me me to figure it out. Isn't that funny? The very place I couldn't wait to leave. Who knew. Did I mention that I don't hate snow? It is rather lovely.

I wonder if it's because I have been gone for so long that I see it with new eyes. I mean, not just figuratively, but literally. So much has changed there. Or maybe it's because I'm on the verge of a friggin' break down and just want to shut down for awhile. Hide in my sister's room for a month. Just like that scene in St. Elmo's Fire where Jules locks herself in her room because she thinks she's a fuck-up and is having a meltdown. Then Billy comes in to talk her into coming out of the room. He tells her the story of St. Elmo's fire as he holds a lighter to a can of hairspray… Poof! …i don't know. For whatever the reason, I feel it deserves further consideration and exploration. And I shall give it just that. I'm tired. Tired of searching. I need a break. And a nap.

So, what do I do now? You know, I ask myself that daily. I have no idea. I just want to find where I belong. My home. The beach is so very beautiful. It's healing. And I am in love with it. But much like being in a love that isn't reciprocated, it can be a pretty lonely place. At any rate, I'm just waiting for some clarity. Or maybe a sign that will tell me which direction I should head in that will get me even closer.

Or, at the very least, a pair of very shiny, ruby slippers … click, click, click.

To be continued.





*Disclaimer: Image is not mine… and is not being used with ill intent or money…. it's just the only kind of ruby slippers I would ever wear.

It's Like Puberty... Only not.

It's interesting the way we all interpret what we see, what we read, what we hear so differently. There was a person at work who I swear to God, was hearing a completely different language when ever I spoke to her. I could tell her on a sunny day that the sky was blue and I liked her skirt, and she would hear that I was panicking yelling, "It's RAINING! It's RAINING!". And that her skirt was the most hideous in all the land. For the life of me, I couldn't understand. Still can't. Thank God she doesn't work there anymore. It's draining. Why is it that we see, read and hear so differently? It can't always be about tone and delivery, can it? I mean, people are quick to blame the person delivering, but isn't it possible that someone is simply hearing/reading/seeing something out of context depending on their own current mood and experience?

Since I've started writing this blog I'm gaining more readers. Which is so, so cool. But with that comes more analysis/interpretation. Now, I understand that a lot of my entries are obviously not written by Pollyanna Sunshine. I mean, it is about the beach and all, and the beach is a happy place. But it's written by a 44-year-old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis for crying out loud. I'm figuring my shit out. It's not going to be a ray of sunshine all the time. I'm like Grumpy Cat. Only not as furry. And I'm human.

The other day I had an old high school friend tell me how much he enjoys reading my entries (thank you for that, by the way) but that he wondered if I was ok. I was a little surprised by that. My first reaction was "Um, of course I'm ok". But I realized it's because he really doesn't know me as an adult. And reading some of these entries without knowing me, might come off as depressed or "not ok". I am ok. Really. 

When I think of all this stuff in the middle of the night, like now for example (it's 4:16 am) I'm not exactly listening to show tunes and smiling to myself. Because that would just be weird. Not the show tunes part, because who doesn't like a show tune, but the smiling part. I don't usually sit around smiling to myself in the middle of the night. I cannot stress enough, daily, as in every DAY, that just because I'm not smiling, doesn't mean I'm not happy. It means I'm thoughtful. Or reflective. Or just. Not. Smiling. Same goes for my writing. I'm thinking and reflecting and my fingers are delivering the news, and if they could smile while pounding away at the keys perhaps they would. What would that look like anyway? HI! how are you? I am doing GREAT! SUCH a lovely night out there! The problem with that is if you do know me, and I started using exclamation points and large letters and even saying smiley things, it might come across as sarcastic and insincere. It's just not who I am. Am I capable of lovely, loving, soft, caring and heart-felt, happy writing? Absolutely. Of course. And I do when I'm writing TO someone or when I feel like gushing. But I don't do it often publicly anymore and I'll tell you why. It's private to me. And showing that kind of deeper emotion is personal. It's really intimate in my opinion. More intimate than talking about a creative block or my introversion. When I was younger I was teased for showing too much emotion. Dramatic, I was called even. Ridiculed by my peers for displaying such happiness and sadness and everything in-between. Kinda sucked. I do show those things amidst people I'm close to or am comfortable with. But I also find myself settling into a kind of stoicism as I continue to age, and when I write. And that might be what's coming through. I dunno.  I'm a friggin' 44-year old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis. I can't be held accountable for some of the things I do. haha

Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to assure the masses that I'm just fine. We'll all go through it eventually, if we haven't already, the mid-life thing. Perhaps you won't even recognize it (or didn't) perhaps it won't be as painful (or it was). Or perhaps reading my crap will change the way you'll go through yours when it happens, (or make you remember and embrace yours when it did)? I want you to know it is totally ok to laugh at my awkward and clumsy moments. I mean, this whole stage I'm going through is the adult version of puberty. It's a growth spurt. One. Big. Long. Tantrum. I don't fit in my own skin and am clumsy in this new shell I'm in. And I still think like a 16-, 22- and 35-year-old respectively, depending on the situation I'm in. Some of what I say should be respected and taken seriously. But, most of it should really be taken lightly as it's just the musings of a 44-year-old kid at the beach, metamorphosing into God knows what.

It's all good. I promise.

Finding Your Person.

"Wuvvv…. twue wuvvv, will follow youuu... foweverrrrr…"

I tried to insert the sound bite in there, but I don't know how to. If you've seen the movie, you know what it is.

I just finished watching The Princess Bride, for the gazillionth time. In case you haven't seen it (and I recommend you do) it's about the "True Love" that exists between Westley and Buttercup. And I always have to question when finished, is there really such a thing? Or is it just for story books.

Love is a touchy subject for me. I've spent the majority of my adult life not really believing in it, outside of the love I have for my family and friends. I grew up in a generation where Mother's promised their little girls they would meet their prince charming, and live happily ever after. I too, have heard a variation when I was a little girl. I know now it was most likely to protect us from the reality that might come later. Because after high school it was "you'll meet someone in college"… and then after college it was "you'll meet someone at work like I did"… and now it's just "stop being so picky". Here I am at 44, single and a "never-been-er" (as I've explained in Birth of The Beach Chronicles). Which is what's triggering the question now: such a thing? or story books. 

Buttercup: "I fear I'll never see you again…"

Westly: "Of course you will."

BC: "What if something happens to you?"

W: "Hear this now…I will always come for you."

PBC: "But how can you be sure?"

W: "This is true love. Think this happens everyday?"

Maybe story books. Don't get me wrong, I've been in love before. Thought I was, an embarrassing number of times, too. And oh, how awful the broken hearts were when I was young, even with the "I-thought-I-loved" ones. Just ask my girlfriends who've had to witness them. We lost at least 3 phones during our sophomore year in college because of broken hearted [ego] tantrums. Right out the window. Literally. But as I got older I think I just realized love isn't something that just happens every day. I believe it's quite rare. So, there might not actually be a "prince" coming my way any time soon. At least not by my Mom's standards as they were when I was little. Then again, maybe there is.

I'm not sure how I feel about that to be honest. I live very strictly to the rule that I'd rather be alone for the right reasons, than with someone for the wrong reasons. And if that qualifies me as picky, then so be it. I know that's hard for people who care about me to understand sometimes. I remember when my beautiful Aunt passed away. She actually had a pretty heartbreaking life. So, she loved her daily martinis. She earned them. Unfortunately they, and smoking caught up with her and heart disease ensued, then heart surgery. Then afterwards, a stroke from which she never recovered. Man, I loved that woman fiercely. I miss her and her laugh. She had the greatest laugh. I was living in Atlanta when I found out she had the stroke, and I quite literally jumped in my car and drove down to Tampa. Six and a half hours was all I needed. I was a few hours too late. By the time I got there she was in a coma. My Dad went in with me to talk to her with the hope that she would hear me tell her I loved her. As a side note I've never been really good at telling people that. As an adult anyway. He was my rock that day. But as we told her how much we loved her, he put his arm around me and told me I shouldn't be so selective. I think he even said something like, "You'll never find someone who isn't an asshole at least once in awhile…" haha… I got it. He doesn't want me to end up like she did. Meaning, sad and alone. I can't promise I won't be alone, but I can promise there will be a martini or 2 in my future *wink* … Joking aside, I understand the concern, really I do. And it truly was a lovely moment between my Dad and I. But I'm holding out.  

I'm sure my definition of "true love" (if it is "such a thing") is going to sound unrealistic, but it's mine so don't judge. And I'm not so unrealistic as to think it would come without issues, or won't require hard work, or it won't face hardship. It does. And will. I know this. So here it goes: I define it as constant. And unconditional. It has really long legs that can stride across long distances. And chemistry. Man, it has chemistry. You look at the person and are utterly "gaga" (as I like to call it) over them, and not just physically. You can turn around and 30 years have gone by, yet you still love like the very first day you realized you did. And because of that longevity, even the worst of shit can't break it. As if the roots are so firmly established that regardless of the storm, they/you will still be standing when it's over. And maybe, just maybe, you genuinely don't want to be with anyone else, ever again. I know, I know, you're all shaking your heads with an "Oh, Wendy… bless your heart…" But I don't care. I'm sticking with it. I've felt it. I've seen it. I'm not dreaming of a prince. I'm waiting for my person. He'll show up. Asshole-moments, issues, hard work, hardships and all.

If I had to give a number to the times I believe I have felt real love (at varying degrees mind you) I'd say 4 maybe 5 times. And if I have felt some level of love 4 to 5 times in my life, I would say one of them was "true love". Maybe two, but I'm pushing it with the second one. And if I dig through the idealism and the memories and crap that kept me hanging on white-knuckled to those two, the hope for another chance, or what ever it is that we can't let go of when it's gone, I can narrow it down even further to say I really only felt that for one of them. One. Still do today. And I always will. Perhaps that's why I've been so "picky".

But love is really friggin' difficult, man. Which is why it's so rare. Too easy to give up on apparently if we look at divorce or infidelity statistics. I look at all the couples on the beach and wonder what their fate is. I have to say, I think the worst of it is not being able to be with the person you love. Whether it's because they are no longer alive, or they're over seas, or they're just simply unavailable or don't love you back. It happens. A lot. We can't help who we love though, you know? It's painful. And confusing. I guess the reality is that some things don't always end up the way we want them to. See? Story books. 

For anyone reading this, if you have found your person, I mean really found your person, I would really like to hear about it, genuinely. Tell me your story in the comments below. And hold on tight. Tell them you love them often. Be kind to each other. It's rare. And this life is short.

So what do I believe. Story books? or such a thing. Who the ef knows. Half of you reading this will read it as I'm cynical. The other half will read it as I'm a hopeless romantic, especially based on comments I've made in previous posts. Time will tell. What I do know is that this was a horribly mushy tangent I just went off on, wasn't it? Guess I must be softening. The Princess Bride will do that to you… So I'll just leave you with the following quote from it (with a slight modification):

"I do not envy you the headache you will have when you finish reading this entry. But in the meantime, rest well and dream of large women…"

*Smile*

What Did One Monkey Say to the Other?

A lot, apparently.

I currently have Deer-in-the-Headlights Syndrome. Again. And when that happens, I can't write, I can't paint and I can't really say much, if put on the spot. I stare longingly at my ginormous jar of bottle caps, waiting for them to tell me where they belong…. in a painting? a table top? speak louder my little colorful ones. I can't hear you. I even periodically walk into the closet that holds all of my art supplies, thinking something in there will wave wildly for my attention. I mean, I'm not kidding. I go in there at least a couple of times a day. Nothing. It's a block. An effing giant creative block by it's most annoying definition. 

I never remember how I snap out of it either. Sometimes it's a matter of just forcing myself to do something creative and it becomes a trigger for something bigger. Sometimes it's a cause, like a charity event, that I always enthusiastically sign up for block or not, and end up not completing until the last minute, and hating it. Actually, the hating it thing also happens when I try to force a painting, just to trigger something bigger. Reminds of this thing I found about a year ago, while researching art on Pintrest (for inspiration, ironically enough). It's from a creative person named Natalya Lobanova. You might even recognize it, or have seen something similar. I call her a "creative person" because well, she is, but also I don't know how to describe what she does. This is what it is/says... And I totally get it:

Her blog is really interesting. It's a tumblr account and it's happy2bsad.tumblr.com. I completely recommend you check her out. She has some cool things to show you. 

So getting back to the block, I'm sure you're all aware of the Meeting of the Monkeys that happens every night. (I've mentioned it on Facebook quite a bit.) If you aren't, it's how I refer to my insomnia. When I was living in Denver, I had a Native American massage therapist refer to the noise in your head that keeps you awake (hence the insomnia) as "Monkey Talk". For me, it occurs between 2 and 5am, most of the time. Sometimes it happens before I even try to fall asleep. Like tonight. Which I think is totally rude of them. Anyway, I'm realizing THEY are the block. They are the friggin block. They're the ones with the headlights into which I am staring blindly right now. And it's because they won't shut up. It happens when they have too much to say and can't sort through it calmly enough to articulate any of it. I picture them creating their own little pyramid wall blocking the view like water-skiing monkeys in formation. You know, like standing on each other's shoulders and shit. Crazy little bastards. All their talk about cancer and botched surgeries and shitty jobs and how helpless they feel that they can't heal the people they love, much less be with any of them to try.… Fucking monkeys. Just breathe already. Take a break. Shut up for 5 minutes, for crying out loud. You might hear/see things a little clearer. Sigh.

All of that said, I'm really sorry for this non-entry today. There's just too many of them this week for me to sort through the things I want to discuss. But they did remind me that new blogs need new entries semi-regularly so that people will keep reading. And I do so hope you keep reading. The ever elusive "they" say that it's always darkest before the dawn, so there's hope for a clearing soon. It's pretty damn dark in here right now, that's for sure.

Stay tuned. Thoughts on home. Thoughts on love. Coming soon. 

A Glimpse of a Person.

I'm awkward. Really. Frigging. Awkward. 

In my own skin, and around people. And it's odd, I know. 

But I stand behind that awkwardness because it makes me who I am.

I'm clumsy. Oh, so very clumsy.

I trip over shit that doesn't exist and I talk too much when I'm nervous. 

But so what. So did Bridget Jones.

and I stand behind it because it makes people laugh. Makes me laugh even. 

And laughter can inspire creativity. 

I paint.

I write. 

and I can play Yankee Doodle on the guitar. Sort of. 

And although I may not be a genius at any of it, 

and can offend others with the content, 

I stand behind my creativity because it's moving me forward.

I'm a doer. Everything is possible. 

And I'm passionate. When I feel something I do so intensely. Like love.

For better or for worse.

And I stand behind all of it because

The awkwardness, 

The lack of grace, 

The creativity and intensity… 

All indicate that I am alive, and surviving. 

Like everyone else, I'm just living life.

Perhaps even successfully.

That's my response to those who question who I am. Or question the "why's" of me. Why I say stupid things when I'm nervous. Why I apologize all the time (I even apologize to chairs when I run into them). Why I'm hard on myself. Why I don't own a toaster or a microwave (you would not believe how often this is questioned).

But then I think, why should I explain myself? I mean, those kind of things are just a part of stuff. Side affects. 

I realize the above doesn't explain why I don't have a toaster or a microwave. But it should give you an idea of who I am. 

Inspiration is a Fickle Bitch.

I finally made it back to the beach after spending a work-related week in Raleigh. So good to be home. It's funny how different the two worlds are, the city and the beach; people-wise, temperature-wise, and more importantly, inspiration-wise. What drives me to write or create is very different in both places. The beach is inspirational as it is, but when I'm here, I think it's because I spend my time here alone. I love being alone at the beach. It's allowing me the time to sort through all the shit that I had piled up and stashed away over the past 6 years. The shit that makes up me. I've neglected me a lot, compromised a lot, and forgotten even more. Some of it is good and will be celebrated through writing or painting for sure, but more so, I think there's some bad stuff in there that will require some embracing before I put pen or gift card to paper/board (oh yeah, I tend to paint with old gift cards and my fingers most of the time haha). When in Raleigh, I end up just wandering too far, and spending too much time, in my head, without creating a thing. It's not exactly healthy. Inspiration knows that, so she waits for me here. I so want to be a painter or writer who can create in any place I happen to be, no matter what's going on. All in due time. For now, I need to be where I can find inspiration because apparently she doesn't like to travel.

And Inspiration is a fickle bitch, man. She comes and goes even at the beach as quickly as I can jump in a car and declare I'm moving again. I keep my eyes and ears open for a trigger when I'm not in my own home. And I started voice-recording my thoughts when I'm not near my computer so as not to forget them by the time I am. Have I mentioned lately how horrible my memory is? 

Before I end this mini-entry announcing my return, I must say the highlight of the trip to The Rals was the always fascinating Girl's Weekend. And when I say "girl's weekend" I don't mean shopping for shiny clothes and drinking piña coladas and painting our toenails a matching color, while listening to the Backstreet Boys or some crap. We'd rather gouge our own eyes out. Ours is more like a "dude's weekend", when we get to have them. By "ours" I mean just my best friend and me. There is a LOT of beer drinking, fried food-eating, ass-scratching and watching movies of naked chicks, er, well in our case it was naked dudes. And by way of the movie Magic Mike. There was quite a bit of rewinding, replaying and lewd, suggestive commentary going on. You can bet I found them inspiring. I have no idea what time we even made it to bed. Yeah, we totally tore it up. 

Ok, we didn't really tear anything up. We watched Magic Mike during the day. And, we were kind of asleep by 11 that night. After cleaning up the kitchen and recycling the beer cans. Maybe it wasn't exactly like a dude's weekend... Whatever. Let us have our thing, man... We're not hurtin' anyone. haha

So, on that note, I say here's to inspiration where ever you can find it.  ; )

"I" Before "E": The Real Story.

And an explanation for some cryptic Facebooking this past week.

In a previous entry I wrote about something I had to do that I was dreading. Yeah. That "something" is now over with. I can friggin' breathe again. It wasn't as painful as I feared it to be, but it's also something I hope to not do again in the future. At least not under the same circumstances. Trolley Pubs without motors are not for the out-of-shape or faint of heart. They are wretched vehicles. haha But seriously, the main reason being I just don't like to be around people I don't know very well, or doing activities I have no interest in, and doing them in public places I'd rather not be. But I adapted. Sounds high-maintenance, I know. It isn't. It's just the way my brain works. Let me explain.

Recently I took the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test for work. They use it so that they have a better understanding of how to approach and include each employee successfully, in any given situation. No really, they do… at least the intent is there. Which I might find to be a good thing, if and when it happens. The problem is they give the test to prospective employees… as in, you haven't been hired yet when you take this test. I find this flawed. I mean, if you feel your potential job is dependent on it, and who wouldn't, there will be people who will not answer honestly, but rather in a way they think the company might want them to. I would think it might happen a lot, actually. I, for one, totally did this. Now anyone who knows me, knows that I am a stickler for honesty. I've had too much experience with people who aren't into the whole truth-telling thing, so I am making a conscious effort to be upfront and honest with who I am, what I say and how I live. It's probably very annoying to some, but I don't care. It's about doing the right thing. All of that said, I came clean and confessed to my evil dishonest test-taking ways. I even admitted why. And in my quest to practice what I preach, I retook the test. The outcome was very different than the original. So when the team heard my new results, and after working with me since May, the general response was "well THAT explains it".

I'm not for or against this test. I do think if it is taken honestly, then it can be very telling. And if the results are taken without judgement, then it can be very effective. And it might perhaps, even explain a person's behavior better, as in my case. I'm tired of beating myself up over something I don't know how to explain. I usually just refer to myself as "awkward". When I first took the test it said I was an Extrovert. Well, this might seem possible... I can talk a lot, and I like to hang with friends out among the masses at times. And while taking it the first time I really wanted to be extroverted. But the retest tells the truth. I know how to engage in conversation socially when I'm comfortable. I go out with friends to bars and baseball games, etc., like anyone else... however, when I do, the place is chosen carefully. The bigger the place and amount of people can play a GIANT role in how soon I leave. Even when I entertain in higher numbers in my own home, I spend most of the time in the kitchen. I really don't like answering questions. And I often go so far as to cancel or turn down plans, because I really just enjoy being at home. And alone. These are just a few examples, mind you. It really goes much deeper than that. This is just not the right place to get into it. I'm an Introvert. And I am learning to embrace it. It's sadly viewed so negatively and it shouldn't be. When people first hear it their initial reaction is to apologize, as in "oh, jeeze, I'm sorry... But you have a lot of GOOD qualities too!" or "I think all introverts are just crazy…" (that came from a co-worker a few days ago). The reality is that we just approach situations, projects, public interaction and the like, differently. What moves us forward and what we enjoy doing are just different. Where an Extrovert gains his or her energy from other people and social experiences, basically things outside the self, Introverts gain their energy internally by experiences that stimulate their mental life. Simply put, E's focus on their outer world, I's focus on their inner world. And if I've ever appeared to be focusing on my outer world, I assure you it was either an effort to try to fit in, or a means of necessary adaptation. Or, perhaps it was simply Extrovert-Envy.

I feel compelled to mention that the test is made up of really short and annoying questions where you choose between two words or phrases… 

Are you more a) fair-minded or b) kind-hearted. 

Does staying late at a party a) energize you or b) drain you. 

Do you prefer to work on a project that is a) scheduled with a deadline or b) casual and open-ended. 

These aren't verbatim, by the way, but close enough. Some questions aren't as clear-cut as that and are often times very frustrating because they are so similar in meaning or context. There was a question I was adamant about circling BOTH answers for:

Do you find you are more a) unwavering or b) devoted. 

This one pissed me off. I am both. I know the definition of both. And firmly believe one drives the other. I feel that one can be devoted enough to something that they will stand unwavering on it. But I digress.

This is how 75% of this test goes. And it feels like a mind-fuck to be honest, pardon the expression. And can be very stressful unless you completely understand that there isn't a wrong or right answer to these questions. So, I'm pretty sure you'd be more likely to feel less stress, take it honestly, and understand its use if you were to take it AFTER you were hired. Right? 

There's no judgement in the outcome. Or at least there shouldn't be. Because at the end of the day, there are amazing strengths to both camps. And one camp isn't crazier than the other… In fact, I think a business made up of 100% Extroverts, or of Introverts, would totally tank immediately. There's a balance in life. To everything. And this is no exception. One simply needs the other to be successful. I recommend storing that away for any time you catch yourself judging a co-worker's personality or behavior that's a bit different than your own. Things aren't always as they seem. I'm not high-maintenance. I'm just different. Just because I'm not smiling, doesn't mean there's something wrong. And if I should decide to stay home, it doesn't mean I am depressed.

If you ever have the opportunity to take this test, take it seriously. If you have already, I'd be interested in knowing what you all are. At the very least, take the time to read the differences between. Here's a good place to start, which includes at the bottom of the article a great TED Talk video on introverts, if you're interested:

The Science of What Makes an Introvert and an Extrovert

Perhaps it will give you a better understanding of who I am, and how it's possible that I can write this blog about the random ramblings in my head, and still be considered introverted.

My beautiful cousin once posted the following article from 2003 on Facebook. He's a nurse. And a smartie. And I read it every so often to remind myself I'm all right.

Caring for Your Introvert

I'm just happy to learn my awkwardness finally has a name : )

One Chick's Junk May Just Be... Well, Junk.

But mine will always be treasure, to me.

I find the things we choose to hold onto rather interesting. Like, not figuratively hold on to. I mean literally. As in letters or pictures and such. I dug out this old, black, no-longer-able-to-be-zipped portfolio in which I keep a bulging amount of crap, to find an image of an old friend from high school. Not sure what my criteria was/is for hanging on to all of it. I mean, what's in that awkward pouch is just a mass of selected randomness spanning over 15+ years. How it all made the cut and why I have been carrying it with me across country and back, is beyond me.

I know you're wondering what's in there. Ok, maybe you're not. Quite honestly none of it is very interesting. It all means something to me for sure, but it really is just random crap. There's some (really bad) poetry from HS and college, and pictures and cards… and letters. I have hand-written letters. They're from my ex-boyfriend, senior year, in high school. When we graduated, he went into the Marines, I went to art school, we called it quits a month into the semester. He wrote to me during his whole experience in boot camp, even long after we had broken things off. I have a lot of his first "expert" medals he earned, too. I cherish all of it very much. Once when I was living in Atlanta, I was at the The Pub reading (because you all now know that's what I do) and ended up in a long conversation with a veteran. He suggested I donate the letters and medals to this particular museum that features such things from the Gulf War. That "they should be contributed as a part of history and show a side to war that some just don't get to see", he said. But I just can't do it. They're so personal. And I was honored he chose me to be the one to listen to his struggles with boot camp. To see him through the worst days of his life. It was often heartbreaking, but strangely beautiful to read. Letter-writing is such a beautiful, and lost art. Sometimes when I'm awake in the middle of the night, I type letters to someone. It's not the same, I realize, but I don't have any intention on ever sending these. 

Two other things struck me as I was digging through. Both are pieces of writing. One is sad and story-ish. The other a playful, rhyme-y sing-songy poem. Both are a little cheesy, the sad one a little dramatic, but that's to be expected from a late-blooming 20-something-year-old. The story actually made me cry when I read it. Isn't that funny? After all these years. It's a bit silly and predictable, but it's about a relationship I had in my senior year of college that continued on and off afterward… and was the reason I moved to Denver in 1995. It's actually more about realizing it wasn't a good fit after all was said and done. Which has always made me sad. A bit tumultuous the relationship was at times, but more often than not, it was pretty amazing. It's a shame that never worked out. Some things just aren't meant to be I suppose. The piece is called My Train. And it's about a journey.

The other thing I mentioned, the sing-songy poem, is a little clumsy but I think it's fun. And totally still relevant. I'm going to share it with you, but you cannot make fun of it. I was quite a little free-spirited dreamer back then. Shit. Who am I kidding. Still am. So it is a little silly… was meant to be playful, not win a Pulitzer. *wink*

I don't want to grow up.

or

Down for that matter.

I want to be free and

Play games —

MARRY the Mad Hatter!

I wanna pick wild flowers

and eat them at will.

Not Geritol or Vitamin B

or any old man pill.

Nope.

Not I, or me,

not even myself.

I don't want to grow old

and sit on my shelf

with the other old toys

no longer alive.

It's the leaves and the playgrounds

I want to revive —

Jump in the piles,

Swing from a tree.

Build huge blanket forts

(the Queen I would be!)

I want to chase butterflies,

make wreaths for my hair.

From daisies + dandelions, grass

I don't care!

The world is so colorful through
the eyes of a child.

The air is much cleaner, the heart

is so wild.

Maybe I'll move to the land of lost boys.

Or build me a fix-it shop in the land

of unwanted toys.

It seems such a better place to be.

You and I, myself and me.

Maybe I'll grow up —

or

Down for that matter.

But I'll STILL be free

to play games AND

marry the Mad Hatter.

Because the air is still clean,

My heart is still wild.

The world is so colorful

Through the eyes 

of a child.

So, why on earth did I choose these particular things to save? Well, why does anybody? Anything from my Mom and Dad I save, like cards. I love the stuff my mom writes in cards. I save all of them. And I have a few things from my Dad… he doesn't write more than a sentence when he mails a package or signs a card. I keep them anyway, because he has such lovely handwriting, and because he uses the word "Luv" instead of "love". And I kinda really luv that. I actually have a 10x10 Smartbox unit in Atlanta with some furniture, all of my photographs, and a very large box of more random crap. When I finally get it moved up here, it's going to be like Christmas.