“What defines us is how well we rise after falling.”
“We don’t know what we got ’til it’s gone, like it or not. We live and love; we try to do what’s right. But we’re all here waiting for our silver invitation to the big band in the sky.” – Zac Brown Band
Jesus never promised us we would not suffer pain or sorrow but He has always said He would be there to help us bear the sorrow and the pain.
“Thank God for all I’ve missed that led me here to this.” – Darius Rucker
(this is a blog I wrote a few months back on my work blog site that I am repurposing here)
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!” Is it time to get up already?
After I finally muster the courage to set my feet on the floor and realign my body from horizontal to vertical, I often find myself immediately rushed — as I perceive most people in the morning are. We’ve got to get our coffee, our breakfast, let the dog out, get dressed… the list goes on and on. When I finally make it to my car to begin my 15-minute commute, it doesn’t take long to realize those 15 minutes will likely morph into 20 or 30. Again, I feel rushed. Especially with the
lovely unbearable Dallas-area traffic.
My car often sings at least one, “BEEP!” every morning to alert other rushed commuters that I, too, am in a hurry. The blaring country music temporarily slows the swirling of the mental to-do-list tornado inside my head.
I make it to work, park my car (that reminds me: I still need to get my oil changed), hustle into the office and plop down at my home-away-from-home and fire up the Dell. I then set fire to my keyboard by the speed at which my fingers are moving — a speed that Captain Kirk aboard the Starship Enterprise would be envious of.
I’m intermittently interrupted by a “BEEP!” of the phone sitting next to me or the knock of someone needing my
expert helpful opinion. When the phone call ends, or my filibusterous opinion is satisfied, it’s back to lighting fires.
Finally, I stand and dart away, immediately regretting the swiftness of my motion (did I stretch after softball last night?), and head to the printer, restroom or someone’s office. I Dodge, Duck, Dip, Dive, and Dodge people on my way to my destination better than a Gold-Medal Olympian. My mental tornado shouts, “BEEP!” as I obliterate the obstacle course of people along my personal yellow brick road to my destination.
I return to my desk when my stomach audibly and arguably alerts me that it’s time for lunch. As I take what seems like my first real “breather” of the day, it hits me:
My almost-instant “two-thirty feeling” has the 5-Hour Energy commercial added to my mind’s swirling vortex and I start to question the genesis of my exhaustion.
It began before the tornado. Before I even became vertical. Before the first “Beep.”
It’s time to slow down. Not right this second, but from before morning perpendicularity.
Instead of cursing the alarm clock for shouting at me to get my (beep!) in gear, take a breath and be thankful that my you-know-what was able to even have the opportunity to get out of bed this morning. Instead of my car singing its daily duet with other fellow rushers in the morning, drive The Texas Way and let other cars sing solo. Clear the mental skies and actually listen to the lyrics. Instead of rivaling a world-class athlete on American Gladiators while in the office, say, “Hello,” smile, and get to know my coworkers.
Let your beeps justify when you do something, not how you do something.
Oops. I almost forgot: it’s time for lunch. Beep!
Little known fact: I’m a man. A guy. Male.
Although we’re not known particularly well known for our prowess in the kitchen, I happen to
think know I can make one of the meanest, leanest, most perfectly-popped bags of corn that stainless GE microwave has ever seen. Hitting that one-touch button labeled “Popcorn” and closing the door with such precision isn’t something just anyone can do. It’s a skill that takes decades to master. And don’t even get me started on the overwhelmingly healthy dinners of green beans, roasted chicken breast, corn, sweet potatoes and pasta I conjure up, courtesy of my freezer and my friends at Healthy Choice, Lean Cuisine and Smart Ones.
Let’s face it: Baking. Broiling. Sautéing. They are all some form of cooking that I have as good a chance of mastering as Lee Harvey has of getting away with killing JFK (too soon?).
Or, so I thought.
I have brought this debate up multiple times over the last few years, and it never seems to resolve itself. No, it somehow only fuels my passion for a permanent, worldwide name change to one of history’s most beloved pastry treats: the cookie.
I’m a simple man (which may contribute to why my man-brain doesn’t comprehend any counterargument to my upcoming claim). Chocolate chip satisfies the taste buds just fine. There’s no need for the fancy-schmancy Macadamia Nut with Chocolate Chips and Caramel Snickerdoodle yadda, yadda business. Just give me the simplistic chocolate chips, you wa-hoo.
It’s my favorite bakie.
No. Don’t correct me. I know what you’re thinking, and no, that’s not a typo. Cookies are not cookies. Cookies are bakies.
Why, you ask? I have been repeatedly told that baking is not cooking. That it is not even a form of cooking. Why, then, do you bake something that has the word “cook” as two-thirds of its name?!
If cookies are not cooked, but baked, they should not be called cookies. Plain and simple. There are countless other examples of foods that are baked versus cooked or cooked versus baked, but this post already undoubtedly has your head spinning and wanting some delicious, fresh, homemade
cookies bakies (not to mention the name’s obvious tie-in for you “420 regulars” who get a craving for munching on something delish after the smoke clears).
The world needs to know the truth behind bakies. Get out there. Go all “Sinatra-ish” and start spreading the news.
Now, pass the dough. We’ve got bakies to cook. Or, bake.
Oh, f*** it. Whatever.
“Great moments are born from great opportunity.”
It’s Gameday at Fenway Pahk in Bahstun. Game 1 of the World fahkin’ Series!
I often criticize those who do things “half-assed” or who don’t give it their all. In fact, I often say,
“Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”
This new blogging adventure of mine is probably one of those things that I should “do right.” But, who am I kidding?
With the writing I do daily for a very necessary bi-weekly paycheck, my excruciatingly popular extra-curricular social calendar (which consists mostly of my couch, sports and mini-Dachshund) and the my rigorous workout schedule that I
always sometimes almost never adhere to, this blog is unfortunately nothing more than a secondary “if I get to it” task that will be hopefully I’ll get around to on an almost daily basis. And, yes. This makes me half-heartedly hypocritical.
Rest assured. The however-so-frequent posts will not disappoint and make not a liar of the blog’s eloquent and detailed title and description. (AKA: meaningless.)
Anything worth doing IS worth doing right. However often you do it, that is. And however often I do this and post my mindless ramblings and regurgitated thoughts and opinions is my prerogative and it promises to be six shades of sexy. However sexy a picture the word “regurgitated” can paint.
You’re still reading this. BOOM.
Hook. Line. And sinker.
Stay Tuned, Mighty Blogosphere.