Notes from the Red Bird House

I've been  thinking a lot lately about how boring it must be to read a blog written by an introvert. I mostly think this when I sit down to write, contemplate the white screen, and realize that I have nothing that most would categorize as 'interesting' or 'fun' going on in my world. Oh, I'm not bored and I'm far from boring. To me. To others? That's the big question. I'm just not out there moving, shaking, or making grand things happen. I'm quietly living my life all by myself. Yes, I interact with people but it's not on the level of what most would consider interaction. I talk all day long at work - to co-workers, customers, etc -  and I occasionally hangout with friends but nothing exciting ever comes of it. I choose to live my life in the solitude of me and me alone. I don't know anyone who finds this even remotely interesting which is why it shocks me when I see (or hear) that people have read my blog. Let's for a moment consi

'If everyone had a 'hot chick at the gym', the world would be a healthier place.'  ~ Stacee Harris The first time I went to graduate school, I thought I might find the Holy Grail. I was determined to figure out why some people (most specifically women) exercised and why others did not. I left school without finishing my degree and my thesis, but twenty years in and around the field of exercise and human psychology have taught me one thing - Everyone's Holy Grail looks different. Sadly, there isn't a magic pill, cream, or device that makes us workout regularly. Some people love it, others hate it, and still others simply weather the storm. I know for a fact that I'm a 'storm weatherer'. I hate to work out, but I've done it consistently, with the exception of  a few minor hiccups, for nearly all of my adult life. I'm not ashamed to admit it - I'm extrinsically motivated. Left to my own devices, I suck. I know this for a fact because my

I had my first bad hair day in a long time yesterday. I used to not have 'bad hair days'. This was because I didn't have enough hair to classify things 'good' or 'bad'. My hair just was. Short. Very short. So short it couldn't blow in the wind or get in my eyes. Yesterday it did both. Ordinarily this would probably signal the beginning of the end. All the other times I've tried to grow my hair out (or simply tried to see how long I could go without cutting it), wind blown hair would have been a harbinger of things to come; the sign of the first and last Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The fact that it's long enough to get in my eyes means two things, (1) This is by far my best attempt in twenty-five years to grow it out and (2) I'll either run screaming to my clippers today OR I'll run screaming away from them. The jury is still out on #2. It's love/hate at this point. I thought it was mop-like weeks ago. Wrong. It is now officially m

I could have shouted the words at the top of my lungs. That, of course, would have drawn a certain amount of attention and I'm not all that into attention. I prefer to blend. Sure, it's boring but historically it keeps the accusations of 'weird' to a minimum. Not that I've never been accused. That has happened with more frequency than I'd care to admit since moving to Austin nearly three years ago. Funny because people here in Austin talk a good game about keeping things 'weird' then they go and judge that which differs slightly from their definition of 'normal'. The thought, though, has occurred to me that I am perhaps too normal for Austin and therefore deemed unconscionably weird. I've failed to embrace the true spirit of the city and I shall be made to pay the price for that seemingly small indiscretion. I need to stop with the normal normal and find a version of weird a little closer to what people around here expect and consider normal.

It was probably a sign that I need to find something else to focus my energy on. Graduate school starts in six weeks and I have a really cool vacation planned in five weeks so relief is on the way. I just have to make it to the end of summer. Not that a summer crush is a bad thing. After all, this one is getting me to the gym with increased regularity and that in turn is making me stronger and fitter, something my body needs anyway. Yes, Naysayers, I know it's not going anywhere and I am well aware that I'm 'wasting' a lot of good brain power on what is more than likely just a figment of my imagination. It also happens to be fun. Recon is fun. Perhaps too fun. So sue me. Yesterday, after months of patient observation, I finally got a name. I wasn't trying and I certainly didn't do anything different than usual. She just happened to circle close enough and happened to be wearing a name tag. I happened to surreptitiously (I think) glance at the right moment for

Swagger. I've got it. Well, OK... I've got a little. I like to say that my silence is part of it, part of my mystique. I also like I like to say that she's telling her friends, 'If I ever switch teams, that's the woman I'm going to be with', as she points at me, of course. In the meantime, she has her golden vagina and I have my enigmatic silence. The thought occurred to me tonight nearly out of the blue - I still don't even know her name. It's not a first and I'm not scared Twice now. Twice. I think I've caught her watching me. Granted, I'm still winning. God knows I've watched her far more, even if I haven't caught her every time. Suffice it to say (and I'm not the least competitive about this issue or most others), she is absolutely, positively NOT watching me with the regularity with which I watch her. End of story. Yesterday, though, it seemed as if she was waiting for me to notice her. Which probably means she's

I started reading again about a month ago. It was around the time I realize that I would more than likely get accepted and return to graduate school in the Fall. To study Liberal Arts. If I know anything about liberal arts (I do happen to have four years of first hand under graduate experience), it's that it requires reading. Lots of reading. The problem? Historically (by that I mean 'over the last decade'), I hate to read. So much, in fact, that 'hate' doesn't seem nearly strong enough to describe my absolute and utter derision of it. And now I'm embarking on an adventure that will have me reading near constantly for the next two and a half plus years, longer if I decide to do the PhD. I know this begs one major question - Why in the Hell would I chose to go back to school and study liberal arts, of all things, if I hate reading so much? In my defense, I could have chosen to study literature. At least with liberal arts I might read something 'inter