My NonComplacent Blog Is 5

Keeping up with my maddening posting schedule of once a month, I'm making this a celebratory post...and inspiring you in the process.

I'm a dinosaur in blog years. 6 years of blogging including my one year of myspace blogging (aka armpit of the internet). Since myspace blogging doesn't quite grace my mind as proper blogging, I'll proudly admit to a 5 year old Blogger Birthday today.

Abandoning my status quo of silly entertainment for a few, I'll share with you the latest and greatest in BeeRepartee-ville. I've been all kinds of seriously lately and wonder if I decided to grow up when it comes to being realistic about my goals. And so I've discovered something.

Complacency.

How I hate that word.

The concept is a constant antagonist in my life...seeping, prying, invading. For me, complacency is lingering without direction or wisdom, not a peaceful state of being. In other words, mediocrity. I fight with this daily because to be mediocre when goals are to be had or while pursuing great accomplishments, I would just rather not try at all.

I could chalk up a lack of trying to my need for perfectionism or the latest socially digestible phrase such as OCD, however I only know one way to push off complacency: charge my way through the problem with all the mental prowess and physical strength I have at my disposal. Charging like a bull can be wholly exhausting.

Sometimes this fight is all consuming and leaves little for friends, family, my hobbies, and things I love to do. Sometimes I am overcome with bouts of melancholy and hopelessness that I will not succeed in my goals leaving me to cling to discipline to get me through. I do not categorize these bouts as clinical depression but simply knowing my own mood swings and knowing myself best. Its these darker times I see myself in the truest light, the simplest form, to allow myself an introverted view to challenge what I don't have the drive or will to accomplish.

Is this part of growing up? Is this what 'knowing yourself' is all about? Perhaps, it is. In any event, I feed my inner Drill Instructor to pull from myself the will and drive to accomplish great things.

In short? A disciplined self is a powerful self.

I've had to challenge myself this quarter in school. Disciplines are difficult for me as a constant. I get bored, tired, or my worst enemy...feeling status quo and beat myself up for not being the best. Half-assed is not a method to a comfortable end for me however, it is my tendency to go there when I'm feeling less than motivated.

I say all this because I know many also struggle with this. I'm not alone. I'm not an island aside from my obvious lack of palm trees and sand about me. Whether it's personal, psychological, physical, or spiritual, I think most everyone can agree that complacency is a nightmare to any kind of goal.

I challenge you to find an area of your life where you know you should or could use disciplines. I've picked this next semester to be a serious throw down for me. I will own each and every one of my classes. I've already picked up running for a personal discipline. And at the risk of sounding narcissistic, I am freaking proud of myself for sticking with it even when my bed covers are far more comfortable than my running shoes on a treadmill.

There is also something to be said for the glory of a well-filled ipod to make a 2 mile run a reality.

I hope to stick to this challenge to myself over this next bloggy year. In turn, I hope this post will bring about a positivity to your day, your week, or your life. It's my 5 year bloggy birthday present to you.

You are welcome.

~Bee will share her running music mix if you share yours

Posters, Biology, and General Nonsense

Do you see the time stamp?

Oh, yeah. That's real time. 1:45am to be exact. Biology exam cramming + flu demands unusual hours. Haha, say that 10 times really fast.

It may interest you...or not, that the ability to make no sense is inevitably higher when it's 1:48am and you've consumed enough coffee to calcify the liver of Juan Valdez and his burro. Equal opportunity liver poisoning is always best. Nyquil also does the job. I should know, I've been mainlining that stuff with this crud I contracted last week.

So, you ask, where is my will to blog? The will to create? The will to drink milk straight from the carton in wild abandon? It's been taken to the pokey for routine questioning and I think it's still being held hostage in booking. Forcing my hand, I am allowing creativity out on good behavior between the parietal bone and cuboidal epithelium, aka short break from studying while I'm strung out on flu-inspired uppers known as 'cold medicine'.

I just noticed I didn't post in September. I can't remember when I went a whole month without spewing nonsensical bloggy posts about school, books, and my neighbor dude who looks barely old enough to buy beer and looks like a very famous Hollywood actor. I pass him (the neighbor dude, not the actor) on the stairs and I turn into an awkward teenager. It's not like I wanna abandon sixteen years of marriage or have his children. I don't call Mr Coffee "Captain Awesome" for nothing.

Let's just say the movie star hair is quite lovely and when this fetus...uh, um...the neighbor dude... and I pass on the stairs, I typically become enamored by my Chuck's, keeping my head down. If I look up and say hello I end up blushing like I'm asking Santa for my first training bra. What the heck is that?

My sister says that a woman can't be a cougar unless she is over 40. Is this true? Is this phrase outdated? Anti-feminist? I don't care. It sounds funny, just go with it.

Welcome to the cougardome.

I'm not a girl, not yet a cougar.

Speaking of cougar, Mr Coffee has been out of town working again. Weekend only conjugal-mybestfriend-imissmyhubby- visitations are not making me happy which leads me to believe that in reality my neighbor dude, McHollywood HottieHair looks more like he could eat corn through a picket fence and I'm simply riddled with lethal levels of estrogen.

I'm leaning more toward massive chemical imbalance. Take that how you will.

The only upside to Mr Coffee being away from home is that homework gets done faster and I can hog the entire bed during the weekdays. I'm also reading more so my studies don't wholly consume me while I'm having a Nyquil Sniffling, Sneezing, Aching Head, Tripping on Acid, So You Can Rest Medicine. I've also learned that my library allows 50 books checked out on one card at a time. Additionally, the library also allow 50 books on hold.

Do you know how tripped out you can get when you have 100 books at your beckoning call? I'm punch drunk on the power of the library card and it's glorious internet-accessible library catalog.

Mr Coffee has also gone out of his way to provide me with stellar reading material. There is a new New Moon magazine that he brought home for my, and I use this word liberally, literary consumption.

He must really love me because he had to stand in line and with a Twilight magazine. Probably wearing his USMC t-shirt, cover, and 50 pouches hanging off his belt for his assorted items he carries on a daily basis, ie..leatherman's, flashlight, cell phone, wallet, pocket knife, assorted pens/notepad, small pup tent, and one lone paperclip to lethally deal with the guy behind him that snorted and whispered, "sucker" after noticing Mr Coffee's impending purchase.

Oh, yes. Captain Awesome must love me.

The magazine has Twi-inspired posters that my teenager absconded for her very own. There were two posters that I wouldn't let her put on her wall as they were smoking off the paper and burning holes in my retinas. The good kind of burn. Posters such as these remind me of my aunt.

First, I will clarify...I love my aunt and while this juicy tidbit of poster mayhem may be a comical memory for me, it's sweet imprint upon my meager brain cells is equally endearing. My aunt rocks the casbah all week and twice on Sunday.

Growing up, my sisters and I visited my aunt's apartment now and then. We'd find ourselves dropping trou' and voiding right in front of Tom Selleck.

Yes, the actor Tom Selleck.

It's killing you isn't it? You want to ask me why.

I know you do.

Okay, I'll spill.

My Aunt is about 15 years older than me. I didn't even know what puberty was when Magnum P.I. hit the airwaves. However, my aunt couldn't resist him*. And really, do I blame her? That chimney brush 'stache, the red Ferrari, and what appeared to be the giant, permed Ewok glued to his chest.

I mean seriously, WT....?

When visiting my Aunt and upon experiencing nature's call whilst in her humble abode, I would go to the bathroom like all normal people do until I'd see it. Those ridiculously small athletic shorts (I remember Cher's belts were bigger than circa 1980's NBA shorts). The smile. The Hawaiian shirt.

It was a giant poster.

Right. Above. Her. Toilet.

I'd walk into the bathroom, turn on the light and I swear to you, Tom's eyes would follow me around the room. I'd hate to turn around and tell him not to look because well, that was crazy. But Tom's presence was unnerving enough to give me stage fright on occasion just knowing that he would see me in all my mooning glory as I sat down to take care of business.

It was also bad because in the 1980's I thought of Tom being a serious old dude. I had not yet understood the appeal of some heartthrob over 20 years old who oozed manliness out his giant cavernous dimples. It was not in my rationale either, to consider 30 years old as anything other than worthy of a social security pension and a free tube of Bengay.

I only wish I could go back to 30, but yeah, whatever.

Poster madness is a good memory. I just wonder what my kids will think when they have to pee in front of Edward and Bella. Haha, take that Tom.**

~Bee is off to study some more.

*I've been corrected by my Aunt who says that the bathroom poster belonged to her long time roommate and my Aunt's poster was of Huey Lewis.

**please be aware, no actual posters have been hung anywhere near my bathroom or bedroom. Thankyouverymuch.

Today

I had to rewrite my last post because where I may have thought that I connected all the dots to my stunning mental prowess, a lot of my readers thought I may have just purchased a bong.

I contemplated cutting off my ear and mailing to a blogging peep, but last post was WAY more fun and efficiently crazy. Besides, I mail things and they disappear. I do not like the UPS Store by my house. The last two times I went in there, the desk clerk accused me of postal fraud for mailing a DVD as media mail. Last week, they ate two packages I sent USPS. I am not going back there.

When it comes to things I don't like, I'll add the IRS to that mix. I don't like the IRS at all because they couldn't count even if they hired a Harvard Actuary and locked him/her in a room with a calculator.

I've been waiting months for a refund check I should have received months ago. This is an infuriating reality when dealing with the government. I have children to feed, school supplies to own, bills to pay, and books to buy. Especially books to buy.

My sister, Sheena, is visiting from the UK for a few weeks. She IS Queen of the Jungle.

Sheen does volunteer work in London for a house of prayer. She'll be home for a few more weeks in the U.S. getting her poop in a group. And to bludgeon the ignorant travel visa employee in person for getting her visa business thoroughly botched. Just the thought of travel/Visa stuff makes my head hurt.

Sheen and I had a good time together. We used to fight when we were kids. A lot. I'm the oldest and she's the baby, so that goes without saying, yes? Now we only fight over the best coffee, kinds of beer, books, music, and movies. We're neck and neck over books and movies. I think I win the music fights but she wins the coffee fights. And that's only because she was a barista for Starbucks for umpteen years. She knows her coffee, yo, and it aint from Wikipedia.

Lastly, and on a more serious note...

Today the family is heading down to Portland to hang out with my side of the family for a memorial service. My Uncle Jim passed away last month after battling cancer. He was 63.

I wasn't close to him, but whenever I did see him, I would get the biggest smile and a warm hug. Jim was an amazing person with a big heart, bright eyes, and the most infectious smile you've ever seen. Seriously. I always thought he looked like an African American Sean Connery. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who thought that. :) He could also plunk out a mean blues riff on a guitar like no one I've ever seen. I will always think of him when I play my guitar. He is truly missed.

Your Sex Is...what?

I dedicate this post to the talented King's Of Leon (who desperately need a better songwriter) and dear sweet Avery Gray for her absolute inspiration.

Have you ever heard a song and you wonder, what the heck?

What is Muscrat Love? Who would ride around the desert on a A Horse With No Name? Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds?

Okay, we all know that the Beatles were smoking the carpet when they wrote that last one, but I think I have another song to add to that list of lyrical spewage of the musictard persuasion. Apparently, Your Sex Is On Fire. Really it is and it's begging you to mock the ever loving scheisse out of it.

KINGS OF LEON

Lay where you're laying, don't make a sound

I know they're watching, they're watching

All the commotion, the kiddie like play

Has people talking, talking

You, your sex is on fire

The dark of the alley, the breaking of day

The head while I'm driving, I'm driving

Soft lips are open, knuckles are pale

Feels like you're dying, you're dying

You, your sex is on fire

Consumed with what's to transpire

Hot as a fever, rattling bones

I could just taste it, taste it

If it's not forever, if it's just tonight

Oh, it's still the greatest, the greatest, the greatest

You, your sex is on fire

And you, your sex is on fire

Consumed with what's to transpire

What would happen if indeed Your Sex Was On Fire? I think it might go a little like this:

911: "911, where is your emergency?"

Me: "Um, hi. It's....uh....hard to say, really..."

911: "Where are you right now?"

Me: "Um, I'm laying where I'm laying and I think people are talking while I'm listening to King's of Leon on my ipod."

911: "Oh..Do you have an emergency?"

Me: "Um, yeah...I think. Um. Well...Ooooh. Okay. Hear me out....My sex...well, it's on fire. "

911: "Your sex?"

Me: "Huh? I can't hear you. There's too much commotion. The kiddies are playing."

911: "Your sex? It's on fire?"

Me: "Yes. Yes. I do believe it is. I think."

911: "You think? What do you mean, 'I think'?"

Me: "I. THINK. I think my sex is on fire. Can you do something about that?"

911: "I'm not sure if I'm hearing this right. You say that your sex is on fire."

Me: "Um, YEAH. Do you understand English? Am I calling India again?"

911: "No. I live in Nebraska. I'm just trying to help. Do you have an emergency or not?"

Me: "Well....I don't know. I was hoping you could help. The problem is that I have no idea where my sex is...heck, or even what it is. But I do know it's on fire."

911: "Have you tried putting it out?"

Me: "Putting what out?......Like, put out my garbage? I know you don't mean my cat. What else would I put out? My cat is already an outdoor cat because I have allergies. Besides, my cat is not on fire. My SEX is."

911: "Your.....sex?"

Me: "That's what I SAID. Don't people in Nebraska have sex?"

911: "I'm not talking about me. MY sex isn't the one on fire. Have you tried extinguishing your sex?"

Me: "Ooooh, how can I put out the fire when I don't know what my SEX IS. I don't even remember where I left it. Maybe it was in a dark alley...at the break of day. I can't remember."

911: "Are you hurting or in pain...do need an ambulance or a doctor?"

Me: "No, but I'm not really uncomfortable. I keep using chapstick to keep my lips soft and my knuckles are turning white. Other than that I think I'm fine. Aside from the fire of course."

911: "Let me get this straight. You are on fire....but you don't know.....if you are on fire?"

Me: "UM, YEAH. DID I STUTTER?"

911: "Even in Nebraska people know whether or not they are on fire."
Hells bells, I need a vacation...my BRAIN is on fire.
continues: "I want you to stay on the phone until the ambulance gets there, okay?"

Me: "Aww, come on. Will this take long? I want to put this sex out before I leave tonight. I'm going driving, driving...."

911: "Stay right there. Are you dying, are you dying?"

Me: "No, not really. I'm dealing with consumption."

911: "Consumption? Like...Tuberculosis? You have Tuberculosis? We are dispatching medical personnel right now....can you hang in there?"

Me: "I think so. A doctor would be nice since my head is hot as a fever. I practically feel rattling in my bones."

911: "Have you had anything to drink or eat? Do you feel light headed or dizzy?"

Me: "No, but a double pepperoni sounds really good about now. I could just taste it..taste it."

911: "Medical responders should be there soon. Hang on, it's not forever."

Mutters to self: Pepperoni...hmm, it's still the greatest, the greatest, the greatest..

911: "Ma'am, are you okay? Is your sex still on fire?"

Me: "I. don't. know. How many times do I have to tell you. I have NOOO idea where my sex is. I just told you. CHEESE LOUISE."

911: "But you said it was on fire? Is it finally put out now?"

Me: "If I don't know what it is," ~through clenched teeth~, "how should. I. know?"

911: "Well, you're the one who called....Let's try this. Do you see fire anywhere?"

Me: "No, not really."

911: "Then let's just say your sex is NOT on fire. You have nothing to worry about, okay?"

Me: "Okay. Hey, I see the flashing lights now. You still dispatched a...giant wagon?"

911: "Yes, and they are going to give you a free ride around town and a souvenir. The coats are just a way of saying thanks for calling 911. It's got a lot of cool buckles on it. I think you'll like it."

Me: "Cool, thanks...hey they're here. I gotta go..."

911: "Mkay, buh-bye now."

That's how this story transpired.

******

BEEP!

Ring, ring...

"Hi, you've reached Bee Repartee...."

If you think my parents named me something that looks and sounds like Beer Party, you are sadly mistaken. Repartee means wit or quick retort and I picked it cause it's a big word and it makes me look smart.

What?

And no, I'm not really Bee either but "B" is the first initial of my last name and everyone trusts a Mrs Bee or an Aunt Bee, just ask Opie.

Bee is far more interesting than Jenny, Jenn, or HEY LADY! You have toilet paper on your shoe!. But the advantages of being named Bee, Apple, or Rumer are not completely lost on me. If weird names were cool back when I was a wee tot, my parents would have left the hospital branding me with a name like Oven Door or Buffalo Shine.

Jenn it is because Buffalo Shine is a retarded name.

"...I'm sorry I'm not home. We've been awfully busy this summer...."

Not really. I hate answering the phone. I hate hearing it ring 30 times a day, so I unplug it. I figure that the important people are those who already know my cell and will try me there. Problem solved.

I miss my husband.

Mr Coffee is out of town Monday through Friday again and I'm the host to at least one or two of my kids friends on a regular basis. They're good kids when they aren't owning each other in victory dances after Wii bowling or boxing. Chuck Norris is the preferred Mii for boxing.

Naturally.

"...but if you leave your name and number..."

I won't call you back. I'm busy reading fan fiction online and catching up on things that I won't be able to do with my 14 credit fall schedule. Books, movies, gardening, solving world hunger, and saving baby seals. I have more time in school with my youngest going into full days of 1st grade.

I'm losing weight.

I'm throwing that in subtly because as much as I don't want to bore the retinas from your eyeballs, I'm freaking happy about it. Proud, even. Rumor says that in person, I'm a 70 year old, 5ft drag queen but you probably wouldn't care as long as I can make you laugh. Maybe you would care.

For what it's worth, I'm not a drag queen and I was 5 ft at birth.

"...then I'll return your call..."

Do you ever get crushes on celebs? My daughter's friends and I have gotten into heated debates about Team Edward or Team Jacob. If you know what I'm talking about, feel free to chime in. If you don't please feel free to glaze over at any time.

Edward makes my ovaries explode. That's all I'll say about that.

I turn 30-whatever next month. I'm not old.

Two days later, my daughter is turning 13. It makes me nervous how these boys check her out at the grocery. They stutter, eyes looking glassy...they act half-baked and I bet you a X chromosome they drool. I'm scared.

It frequently goes down this way and I swear they are just begging for a scissor kick in the head.

"...at my earliest convenience."

I'd rather play my guitar or listen to music than listen to 50+ messages I have stored on my phone. Voice mail is not my friend.

Gui Boratto, All-American Rejects, The Script, and David Grey are new arrivals on the iPod. Anyone have a good suggestion for music? Music to write to? Chore to? Run to? I listen to everything however, I don't do country or death metal. I do like a rousing polka, though.

I'm writing a book. Yeah. That's what I said. No, I'm not telling you what I'm writing. I hope it's good enough because dialog is HARD to write. Now you know.

"BEEEEEP"

Can It

I'm recycling this today. Yay! Go me!

I can have an adventure pretty much anywhere, but the grocery is practically Disneyland. When I pull into my grocery, I can't wait to buy, interact with others there, and effectively piss away half my paycheck. See? Disneyland. If the checkers donned mouse ears, I swear I wouldn't know the difference.

What I can't understand is why people purchase things like this giant One Whole Chicken in A Can.


Who in their right mind thought this was a good idea? Were the Chicken Ready people all sitting around one day staring at a pile of over-sized juice cans, "What else can we stuff in here? Gee...I think a chicken would fit."

I thought you wouldn't believe me so I had to stop isle traffic while everyone stared at me taking a photo of this outstanding delicacy. I'm pretty sure it's the most disgusting thing I've seen on a shelf. Aside from tripe or pigs feet in a jar, it's right up there with the top 4.

I was told the can opens up and out comes a chicken in one gelatinous blob. Now that's gonna be tasty. Perfect for company or even Christmas dinners.

Chestnuts roasting on the open fire AND hot damn! A Whole Chicken in Can!

~family rushes to the table~

The one in the picture comes without the giblets. I'd hate to open up my Whole Chicken in a Can to find out I'd bought the kind with giblets. Wouldn't you? There has to be room in there for an ENTIRE chicken though, and when I pay for an entire chicken, it darn well better have the giblets, too.

And why not Two Whole Chickens In A Can? Sometimes people get hungry and One Chicken In A Can just won't do.

Another problem is that Whole Chicken In A Can doesn't mention whether this was beheaded chicken, or clawed and footed chicken.

I don't know how I will live on not knowing but I think I'll manage.

~Bee is a double coupon clipper

Picture Therapy

I've been gently reminded by some that I need to calm down. It's summer. The sun is out but someone's kiddo pooped in the apartment pool.

Nice.

As a result, the kids have been inside all day. I just need to calm down and to do so, I will be using a new idea called picture therapy.

Please follow my progression of thoughts as I use my new calming techniques. Going to my happy place....

RP photo credit