YES!!
New Hampshire. UHH.
It took one year and fourteen days to see a license plate for every great state in this union in my metropolis.
Even if another candidate is selected to fill the position for which I interviewed yesterday, it may have been worth it just to finish my ‘thing’ with the sight of a New Hampshire license plate.
Rasher, Mel, and I went to Arizona for a long weekend. Arizona? Not for me. But I’d go anywhere with these two.
I love these two
we did a lot of this…
…and this
and after awhile these just looked like middle fingers
bliss found in Rasher’s dad’s backyard
It’s been a 22-day dry spell, but I’ve heard from another one.
Dear xxxx,
I wanted to write and let you know that the Congressman received your letter, and he wanted me to respond personally. Thank you pointing out the importance in the way which terms used to describe those who are mentally ill cause stigmas. As you know, there have been different words used throughout history to describe different groups of people that are insensitive or inappropriate. Hopefully, over time, all these terms will be removed from legislative statutes.
Best,
Liz
Legislative Assistant
Office of Congressman E
*eye roll*
In replying to this fluffy, stupid, brush-off email, I curtly asked if I should interpret this response on Congressman E’s behalf as disinterest and I’d be better served pursuing other avenues to get this accomplished. Her response:
It will be a pleasant surprise to hear from Congressman E’s office again. In the interim, May 25 will mark two months allowed for my state and federal representatives to respond. At that time, I will pursue other avenues…whatever those may be.
PS There isn’t a business professional out there who wouldn’t get shit-canned if it took two months to respond to correspondence. *exasperated eye roll*
When S called on Monday – the very day some sociopath bombed the Boston Marathon – to tell me the cancer had spread to her brain, I didn’t feel anything. Not numbness. Not upset. Not defeat. Nothing.
I’ve decided that’s because this news of a brain tumor is a horse pill. It is one supersized pill too far. No matter how I try to swallow it, I can’t. I just keep spitting it out. It doesn’t matter what hopeful or devastating statistics it’s hidden in, it’s not going down. So I refuse.
There’s no doubt a pinky-nail-sized tumor exists. Yes, I see you cancer. But even though you are 1.5 inches deep into cerebral business in which you do not belong, I refuse to accept you.
Be it denial or instant acceptance, either way I’m fine with rejecting this brain tumor of a horse pill. I know that one day I will have to choke it down if the cancer wins, but for now and as long as I can, I refuse.
Eleven days ago, 16 letters were postmarked to 14 elected officials – from my representative to the President – and two local advocates to change the phrase ‘mental defectives’ in US law.
Today, the post office delivered the first two responses.
Representative W said in essence, ‘Dear fill-in-the-blank, thanks for your letter. Since you’re not in my district, you’re not my problem. But here’s your representative’s address. Have a nice day.‘
The first of the two advocates, Former Representative R, replied on a more personal level (but probably only because he knows who I am via TB, my brother-in-law, and a friend of mine.) ‘I wholeheartedly agree with you, but since I’m not in Congress anymore, I suggest you contact your current congresspeople.‘
Erg. I knew I should have included a list of those I copied to avoid the inevitable ‘you should talk to so-and-so’ responses.
In sixth grade, I wrote to the first President Bush with a recycling initiative. Six months later, with generic response in hand, I learned that only the loud and unrelenting are heard. I was small and meek at 12 years old. Some things have changed in the twenty years between receiving a form letter from the White House and today. While still small, meek was a skin I shed in high school.
Fourteen responses to go. All I need is one bite.
im·pinge [im-pinj] verb, im·pinged
to encroach; infringe (usually followed by on or upon ): to impinge on another’s rights.
What impingement means to me is six weeks on the bench and physical therapy. There’s a whole mess of duct tape and dreams holding a shoulder together. In our society today, so much time is spent hunched over a keyboard that certain posturing muscles are neglected.
So, as it would be: Muscle negligence + CrossFit = Impingement. At least in my case.
I’ve been advised to not even run because the arm swing could irritate good ol’ lefty. At first I was happy to have the 4.5 hours back from my thrice-weekly CrossFitting. But then I thought about it. There are 168 hours in a week. Sixty of those are spent sleeping and another 40 are spent at work. That leaves 68 hours of unaccounted time.
On what, exactly, am I spending those 68 hours? Perhaps the answer to why the return of those 4.5 hours is so important lies within that very question.
So, I’m going to track my time and figure it out. I can only hope that these numbers will do for me what seeing the nutritional information for red meat did for my diet [insert dry heave here.]
Hard lessons about the value of time have been learned – again – in the last year. Why the hell would I waste even a moment of those 68 hours??
reducerenewrecycle 