Soft Underbelly Exposed

I’m just sittin here.
sittin here with a kitten on my neck
wonderin what i will do with my life
and wonderin how old you have to be
to be too old to start over....
so i sit here, feelin soft kitten fur
as i run my chin along its back
and wonder if life is still around the corner
like it was ten years ago.

i remember feelin free;
invincible as youth always is
as i am sittin here.
sittin here with a kitten on my neck,
rememberin what it was like to be strong
as my innards tremble
like the kitten on my neck....
So fragile, so weak, so natural
not runnin, playin; still nursin.

some say that life is happenin
as i’m just sittin here
sittin here with a kitten on my neck.
but i say life is sittin here
and wonderin and feelin and rememberin...
sittin here with a kitten on my neck
touchin soft fur that comforts the part of me
wishin for answers and youth and peace....
just before i stand and put the kitten down.

Pimp My Blog

Hey, how do you like my new blog mission statement (the one in green). I think it is a more accurate statement of the purpose of this blog. After all, genius and perfection are nothing if not currency meant to better the world at large. Thus, I spend mine on you.

While I am bettering your life, I must tell you - no, insist - that you go straight to the Harbor Theatre and see "Bride and Prejudice." (For those fans who do not live in our quaint little backwoods city, get it on NetFlix.) It is a two-hour phantasmagoria of color, music, romance and intrigue coupled with pulse-pounding song-and dance numbers and a sort of tongue-in-cheek humor that makes it easy to laugh and enjoy. At $5 a ticket, it is slightly more than what you are used to paying at the Harbor, but it is worth every penny. You'll not only be watching a great movie, but you'll be supporting a new business. How cozy is that?

Finally, I'd like to encourage my dear readers to invest a little time in the blogs listed at right. Both written by dear friends of mine, the blogs are intelligent, witty and have important things to say. Well, they try to compete with me, but I don't mind. Anyhoo, you'll love me for it.

Love, your mentor,
moi

A Peek into the Depths

Oh, I am so totally busted. My friend, Miss Lisa, sent me a link to a "romance quiz." This quiz asked questions I wouldn't have whispered into the eagerly awaiting fuzz of my pillow! However, since her quiz came back 100% accurate, I decided to give it a shot. And be completely, completely honest. Ouch.

So, here is the result. I am sharing it with you, dear readers, so that you know that even perfection can be vulnerable. Again, my only motivation is to encourage you that you too may someday reach the pinnacle of existence, the place where excellence abides. Where I live.

Romantic Personality Type: The Sonnet
Description: Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer (DGLDf)

Romantic, hopeful, and composed. You are the Sonnet. Get it? Composed?

Sonnets want Love and have high ideals about it. They're conscientious people, caring & careful. You yourself have deep convictions, and you devote a lot of thought to romance and what it should be. This will frighten away most potential mates, but that's okay, because you're very choosy with your affections anyway. You'd absolutely refuse to date someone dumber than you, for instance.

Lovers who share your idealized perspective, or who are at least willing to totally throw themselves into a relationship, will be very, very happy with you. And you with them. You're already selfless and compassionate, and with the right partner, there's no doubt you can be sensual, even adventurously so.

You probably have lots of female friends, and they have a special soft spot for you. Babies do, too, at the tippy-top of their baby skulls.

*Humility Notwithstanding*

I was standing, humility in hand, about to enter the door. Knowing that the interview about to commence was likely to be emotionally taxing, I rued the attack of self-pity with the accompanying tears I'd just undergone.

I opened the door.

The stature of the woman on the other side of the door belied the power she could wield over my life with the mere twist of her lips. Who was this woman? She was me.

Inside all of us lives that little piece of nagging flesh known as Intuition. She gripes, she complains, she butts in when you'd really rather she wouldn't. She tries to steal all your fun. She says you shouldn't when you really think you should. She says stop when all forces say go. She pulls in the reigns just as you were about to let your wild horses fly.

And, if you would just listen to her, you just may be able to save yourself a little grief over the relationship you should've walked away from. You may have saved yourself a little money over that car you wanted but couldn't afford. You could have saved yourself the humiliation of being wrong when you thought you were so right. Because she bats 100.

So, looking at the woman on the other side of the door, I had just one question: will you still love me even when you don't understand me?

Because all of life boils down to the profit and loss statement on the incorporation of our lives. All transactions with friends, family and loved ones a cost/benefit analysis. Our talents, assets. Our faults...catastrophic write-offs on next year's tax return. Every disagreement becomes a negotiation to determine who will divest what asset in order to turn a profit this quarter. In the big world of commerce, a fine line exists between a merger and a hostile takeover. Beware the latter.

So, when that friend or loved one comes to me and says they don't understand me, I go see the woman. Because if all else fails, I know she will love me.

The question is, will you?

Humility notwithstanding, dear readers, that question can only have one answer.

For Your Edification

Hello, fans, and welcome to another day of glorious Laura-basking at Laura.com. I welcome you to come in, enjoy the glitter of my sparkling wit, the sheen of my keen intellect and the gentle breeze as my genius blows your hair back.

I have included on this web page a link to my (not quite) Daily List. Despite the recent controversy over certain references, I quite enjoy my Daily List. I do hope that you are benefiting from the listing of such important aspects of my being as what I am hearing, what I am thinking, and what I am reading. Several of you may garner some pointers that will "buck up your ideas" a bit.

I am implementing plans as we jointly peruse the workings of my fingertips on keys to expand the vision of my Daily List. I have included this week's It List (a must-read for any upwardly mobile persona) which highlights the best and worst elements of the Laura Experience in recent weeks. I trust you will find it informative, witty and oh-so-revealing about what it is that makes my life experience worth duplicating.

So...until we meet again over the wonderful workings of my mind...a bientot, ma copaines.

You game?

When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Since I live in Muskegon, does that mean that I must be obese, lazy and do nothing with my life? If you believe columnist Tracy Lorenz, the answer to that question would be a big “Hell yeah!”

However, Tracy’s most recent column was custom-made for the obese Muskegonite. Applying his mensa-worthy intellect to the three problems above, he devised a weight loss program that even a fat, lazy, do-nothing Muskegonite couldn’t fail.

His theory is simple. The body is like a furnace. It burns fat to maintain the 98.6 degree temperature required for normal functioning. Well, if that body were placed in cold environment for long periods of time, it would consume more of that fat fuel to keep things at 98.6 degrees, resulting in an over-all fat reduction. Voila…weight loss!

Actually, his theory has been proven by the Aleutians who live in northern Yukon Territory. They must consume large amounts of fat in their diet to replace the fat that is burned to keep them from freezing to death. I’m sure if you talked to a person from Iceland, they’d say the same.

Ok, since we don’t live north of the tundra line, how do we keep our bodies in a cold environment for long periods of time? Simple: sleep over your covers.

He lost seven pounds in seven days doing this.

So, I challenge any one of my blog readers to do the same. At the end of seven days, post your weight loss. I, on the other hand, will continue my regimen of healthy eating and exercise during that same seven day period. Comparing notes, we’ll determine if Tracy’s intellect is a mere cranial flatulence or real genius.

To quote Muskegon’s infamous former resident and now-columnist of our excesses: this is so simple, we can do this with our eyes…closed.

So, who’s game?

Opination

Let someone dare utter the words "partial-birth abortion" and instantly the hackles are raised on pro-choicers afraid of losing their right to eliminate a certain untimely interruption through the slippery slope of American politics: from a ban on partial-birth abortions straight to no legal abortions anywhere and women doing numbers on themselves with hangers in some dank back alley.

Puh-leez.

We've become a nation so inundated by opinion masquerading as news analysis (resulting in misunderstandings of truth) that mere words can evoke a reaction stronger than ol' W discovering the White House is out of buffalo wings. God help the poor fool that gets caught in either firestorm.

Consistent with my do-gooder heart and rather innocent intention, I wrote a column for my college newspaper about how pro-choicers should support the ban on partial-birth abortions because it is a heinous, ugly, cruel act. In doing so, I describe the procedure for the uneducated populace that all-too-often decides an issue based on a clever editorial or the vociferous claims of a know-it-all acquaintance, rather than the actual merits of the issue.

The response? I'll never know. I killed it after it was critiqued by my editors. (Sensitive journalist, I am.) Apparently, "partial-birth abortion" is a "pro-life" term and the "graphic description" is too much for any readers of a college newspaper. Besides, they said, we are sure people are aware of what the procedure entails. Describing it is not necessary.

For me, taking the description of the procedure out of the column took the bite out of my argument. By doing so, I would be left re-hashing all the typical pro-life arguments, saying nothing new or original.

But that is not actually the problem. The problem is that even my own editors are so programmed by the partisan bickering on the issue, they could not see past the semantics of what I was saying to see the real issue at hand, which was that if pro-choice people were to realize the horrific nature of this procedure, even they would support the ban.

But...that argument will never get heard, at least not with my by-line. And so, I'm beginning realize that, award-winning journalist or not, being thick-skinned is the first criterion for success.

Quick, insult me and let's see if I can roll with the punches.

Wolf it, baby, wolf it

Some rules are just obvious. You don’t swear in front of a judge. You don’t slap your mama. And you don’t blow your nose in a restaurant.

Apparently that last one has a few people befuddled. Walk into any restaurant in the greater Muskegon area, and I will guarantee at least one juicy, rip-snorting, nose-blowing incident before you leave. And if you have my luck, it’ll be right as your food arrives, saving you a heaping helping of calories to boot.

Admittedly, I'm one of those people that keep their head down when I hear a vociferous sneeze in a crowded place. I don't want to see the gore. But there are no hard feelings. After all, you can't control when you sneeze. But blowing is another matter. It is not as if you don't have that warm-up sniffle that warns that a good nose blowing is imminent. In my opinion, this is what the public restrooms are for.

It is the gurgly, snotty sound, you see... it just kills my appetite.

Now, I may be a tad on the fussy side, but my mother was a world-class nitpicker at the dinner table. However, it’s not fussy to object to the raunchy sound of nose-blowing as a forkful of potatoes and gravy slips between your lips. It’s a sign of the evolution of our species. But unfortunately, nose-blowing is just the beginning. I’ve seen nose-picking, sugar packet “toothpicks” digging for hunks of food, boil-fingering and toe scratching. And yes, I’ve seen it all in public restaurants.

Perhaps these people think that because their great-grandmother who smoked three packs a day would hawk up lugies at the dinner table, a mere nose-blowing is negligible. Or maybe, like monkeys at the zoo, they think personal grooming at the dinner table is a bonding experience. Even wilder yet, maybe they think that we enjoy hearing them blow and silently congratulate them on their nose-blowing efforts, rating them on a one-to-ten continuum, with ten being the all-snot-in-one-blow.

Look, I’m not buying it. You people know what you are doing is wrong. So, Muskegon, I have a couple questions. Has eating out become so commonplace that we feel as comfortable at a restaurant table as we would at our own dining room table at home? And exactly why would we indulge in these behaviors at home, anyway?

I don’t know if anyone famous has said it, but if not, I’ll take the leap. Good manners are a sign of a civilized society. Opening the door for a woman doesn’t mean you are sexist, it means you have good will toward your fellow humans. Covering your mouth when you cough shows a consideration for the health of others around you. Wearing deodorant helps you win friends and influence people. And blowing your nose in the bathroom ensures that I won’t get up and dump my drink in your lap. Because if I have to sit through it one more time, I may just go postal.

A recent outing with my two young daughters was a colorful lesson in just how bad things have gotten. Our experience began as we walked in the door of a local seat-yourself establishment and were rudely pushed aside by an older fellow eager to get the one good table left. We politely took a less appealing table nearby.
He then removed his jacket revealing a shockingly-grungy, wife-beater undershirt that did nothing to hide his aged man-boobs and hairy armpits. Within minutes, he was joined by his rowdy friends who talked loudly about how their friggin’ car kept belching black smoke and the stupid cop who gave them a ticket for it. Feel free to insert colorful expletives and belching at will.

Then, just as our food was served, a woman began to blow her nose.

Perhaps you think that I had just picked a bad restaurant. Think again: I’d seen it all before. No, it was not my fellow diners' behavior that was remarkable, it was that they were all engaged in my most-hated behaviors seen individually at other times, now united into one unique dining experience.

Thanks to my own nitpicking at the dinner table, it is unlikely that my children will suffer any ill effects from this day-at-the-farm dinner. But one question does remain to jostle me nightly from my pleasant slumber: where, oh where, have all the manners gone?

Role playing

In case you haven't yet noticed, I've somewhat of a split personality. I don't know if I'm a narcissist dedicated to making my life perfect or an idealist beating her adorable head against the thickheaded ignorance and entrenchant apathy of the air-sucking humans around me.

That's where this blog comes in. Today (I stipulate this condition since I may change my mind tomorrow) I plan to use this blog to explore the different sides of my personality and the various issues that drive me mad. That's my role.

Your role is to be a good reader and look here often. You are to laugh when requisite, cheer me on at all times, agree with me often and always, always think I'm brilliant.

Oh, and for those dedicated readers, you may post comments to my blog entries by clicking the "comments" link directly beneath each pearl of wisdom I dangle before your startled and unbelieving eyes.

Happy reading.

Pssst. Picture coming soon. Shhh....

One deviant thing

What you need to know is that you will never know me by reading this blog. But you will know what I want you to know about me, which is all you need to know to make me happy.

In addition, I'm not afraid to let you see only those parts of myself I deem acceptable for public viewing. And I'm not afraid to reveal one deviant thing about myself per millenium.

This millenium's deviant thing is this:
When I was a little girl, like ten, my friend and I were dallying with the idea of becoming smokers. Problem: moms were counting the cigs. My solution: the ground in our quaint little downtown community was virtually littered with partially smoked butts. Suddenly, we had a plethora of tobacco choices. Pall Mall, Merit Menthol, Kool, Camel, Salem, Virginia Slims. We were in a tobacco paradise for fools. For days, we joyously snatched half-deteriorated butts and sucked them down to the filters. Round about the third day, I was snagging my daily stash when the sudden thought dawned on me: who the hell's mouth had been sucking on this thing? I whipped the offending butt to the ground in humiliation, realizing that what I had done, I had done on main street in the light of hundreds of curious on-lookers. That day I determined that no one would know what I had done. Except, of course, for the observers lucky enough to glimpse a feckless kid being a piggy wig with discarded ciggie butts.

But then there's always that once-a-millenium confession. Good for even the deviant soul.