Notes from the Red Bird House

I'm not sure if I'm sleep deprived again or still . After two back-to-back Clo'pens (one due to a crappy work schedule and the other due to an improper school/work/life balance), I thought I was back on track. I went to bed like a normal person Tuesday night and woke up like a normal person Wednesday morning. The seven hours of sleep I got weren't enough to catch me up, but I no longer felt like I was sleep walking through the day. I was still tired (even without the Clo'pens a six day work week tends to wear me out), but I was almost to my weekend and a good night's sleep. That didn't happen. Yesterday morning I learned that The Tennis Channel would be televising the quarterfinals of the Pan Pacific Open live Wednesday night. From Tokyo. At 12am. The second match due on court? Stosur - Sharapova. Now, I'm not too fond of Maria and her little balled up fist, but I do like Sam. A lot. My decision was made. I'd get off work at 11pm, drive home, sho...

I'm exhausted. I've been up since 3:30am and I'm operating on maybe four hours sleep. I'm not sure if the world-at-large knows what it means to 'Clo'pen' (verb), but it's why I'm in the condition I'm in and a huge part of my vernacular these days. A 'Clo'pen' (noun) occurs when one must work until the close of business and return in the morning for the open of business. Generally speaking, the hours between shifts are minimal, like seven or less. Which is exactly why I'm in the condition I'm in. Last night I 'closed' at 10:00pm and had to be back to work at 5:00am - seven hours, a classic 'Clo'pen'. Under normal circumstances it's painful. Sleep in nearly impossible in the limited time one has between driving to and from work, showering, getting ready, winding down, winding up, making coffee, walking dogs, etc. Then there's the worry that the alarm will be slept through, so sleep that does come is...

I wish I believed in dusting. My mother was a believer, a true one at that. Every Friday, which was cleaning day, she dusted the whole house. On summer breaks, that task fell to me. Sort of. I was never very good at it. Pick up everything and dust under? Ugh... Do I have to? I promise if my mom was one to beat kids, I'd have gotten beat every Friday over the 'room divider'. It held all kinds of knick-knacks that required moving and dusting. The shelves with all of our soccer and softball trophies were enough to make me quit organized sport all together. Over the years, I learned to start at the top (Dust falls down as you go so it does no good to dust the bottom first). I also learned that cheating was useless. My mother, much like the god she didn't believe in, was omniscient. I guess when you can cover that part yourself, you don't need God. Needless to say, I learned how to dust the 'right' way. I can do it; it's just that these days I choose not to...

Why am I woefully unable to smile at beautiful women? Especially the ones I see on a daily basis and the ones that don't give me the time of day. This, of course, may be the crux of my issue. They don't give me the time of day. Then again, maybe they don't give me the time of day because I come off as unfriendly. Ugh... I just don't want to be that woman, that LESBIAN. Somewhere inside I think that they'll think I'm being lecherous or typical of 'my kind' if I smile or act friendly. I truly don't want anything except a smile in return and to be able to appreciate their beauty from a distance. That's it. I'm not in pursuit of sex or anything that even remotely resembles sex. I like beauty. It's honestly that easy. And that pure. Then the thought occurs to me that no one will ever believe me because no one on Earth is that damn boring. Or that pure. Not even teenagers with their chastity rings and abstinence pledges. Alright, it's n...

My life is predominantly about choices right now. I suppose that's pretty common. We all make choices all day long every day - the snooze button, breakfast, long or short sleeve shirt, take lunch or go out, Starbuck's on the way to work, get gas before work or after work, the list goes on and on all day. Some of our choices have lasting impact; others are largely frivolous and won't matter five minutes after we make them. Tonight, though, I clearly felt the weight of my recent choices. I'm three weeks into graduate school, my second go-round at graduate school, let's be honest. The first time I had it easy - a graduate teaching assistantship, tuition waiver, low rent, and few bills. This time it's a bit different. I'm a full grown adult now, with a full time job, a 'lifestyle' I'm accustomed to, a substantial pile of shiny new student loans, and a car repair bill (all on my Visa) that never seems to get any smaller. For the next three-ish years...

Nothing motivates me to write more than reading. I don't mean that I'm excited to write because it'll give people something to read. No. Hell, no. What I mean is that nothing motivates me to write more than the words, 'It was a bright cold April day, and the clocks were striking thirteen'. Ugh. Sincerely, ugh. Recognize the line? It opens George Orwell's "1984" and marks the beginning of my descent into Hell. I vowed long ago, about the time I finished reading the Cliff's Notes to Orwell's "Animal Farm", that I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER read anything by George Orwell ever again. On the top of that never-ever-ever list? "1984". And here we are, something like twenty-eight years later and a worn paperback copy of "1984" lies open next to me. What page am I on? Three. Thus far, I'm not impressed. I'm also wondering if they still make Cliff's Notes. I read two books in high school...