The Broken Teacup

"Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" It's a phrase I worried about using several months ago out of fear it would be construed as racist. I even went so far as to confide my worry to a trusted confidant, a wordsmith, and probably the smartest person I know.  He told me he understood my concern, and we explored the etymology of the phrase. We concluded it was not racist, but with everyone as touchy as they are today, it was probably best to lay off using the phrase. I forgot about searching for an alternative that would be politically correct.  Until yesterday.  A social media posting linked to a BBC article, entitled, "Trump challenges Biden to drug test before debate."  Essentially, Donald Trump has asked that Democratic presidential candidate Joe Biden submit to a drug test before their scheduled debates because Biden had shown a marked improvement in his cognitive state recently. Trump accused Biden of being incoherent during a debate.  I f

June 3, 2020 was a momentous day for me. It was the day I walked away from it all.  March 23 was when teleworking officially began. I had already spent two or so weeks in fear of it happening. As I sat in Tampa, Florida, an e-mail informed me to immediately notify the human resources director if I had gone to any of a number of states for Spring Break. Florida was among them.  I spent the rest of my vacation in fear that I would not be allowed to go back to work, believing I had done something wrong. Had I not taken pictures, I would have no memory of what happened I was so paralyzed with fear.   My fear got worse when I started the journey home. Now, generally, travel by airplane is taxing for me. I was all about social distancing before it had a name. I spent many a flight wedged against the wall of the airplane because of space hogs I did not want touching me; I really don't like strangers to touch me. Now a stranger's touch could kill me.  We came back from Spring Break and

So I finally reached the breaking point yesterday.  Or so I thought. It’s only gotten worse.  Today I got kicked off a couch by a kid who didn’t even ask nicely to sit there.  I got sass talked by a student who didn’t follow my rules.  Last night, I couldn’t sleep in my own bed because my neighbors were having a party right outside my window. Their daylight-bright patio light shined right into my bedroom.  The original breaking point came at the second grocery store I had been to that day. People were going in through the out door and rushing in the wrong direction once they got in. One woman was even standing with a “wrong way” sign stuck in her face. How can one not pay attention to a freaking sign in one’s face?  I couldn’t get to anything I needed, so I left the store. Only to get trapped in the parking lot. I was backed out to exit properly and in comes a massive truck blocking my way. So I backed up and she wanted me to do it more. I wanted to say, .”You’re going the wrong way, d

I have had a lifelong struggle with things making me anxious, things "stressing me out." Even after I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, I had no clue what "anxiety" was -- and it stressed me out! After many years, I think I have a better handle on the definition of it. Quite simply: anxiety is anything that makes me uncomfortable, uneasy, or nervous. It's what "stresses me out." I wondered for a long time if having an anxiety order made me high strung. According to Merriam-Webster , I am highly strung. And that stresses me out. I do think I have my quirks, my idiosyncrasies, things that make me me. I even have things for which I feel guilty and I should not. I don't think it's fair for me to feel that my quirks and idiosyncrasies make me weird. Of course, that would mean weird would have to have a negative connotation, and in my world it does not. Weird means one is courageous enough to not conform to societal expectations and be

So, seven years ago, I intended to start a blog, back when it was cool to have a blog. Life intervened, and I didn't follow through. I know it's not as cool to have a blog anymore, so this will serve just as my space to discuss random thoughts and ideas, my little cyber planet where I can unload whatever is clogging up my cognitive space or gumming up my creativity gasket, or for those times when I need to get something off my chest. I used to have a place to go for that, back in the early 2000's when boards and forums were all the rage. Then Facebook came along and just decimated everything else. Oh, and the baseball player around whom the board was centered retired. (Yes, I'm talking about Mike Mussina. I still love that guy!) I still talk to my closest pals from those days. Most of us migrated to Facebook and opened a "branch" of the group of which we were core members. We had a password-protected forum on the board for pet peeves. I truly miss it. I st

When one who likes to consider herself a writer has an image she can't shake, her mind turns to how can that image be used, or perhaps what said image means. The recurring image for me is a broken teacup -- just cracked really. Finally, an idea came to me. "Maybe the teacup is your life, and the tea itself is the day-to-day goings-on of your life. Sometimes your life, like the cup, is very full of sweetness; sometimes you don't like what's going on. Something can happen to the cup and cause a little crack, or sometimes the day-to-day goings on get boring." I decided I needed somewhere to share my cracks, to release pressure and vent. Someone reading this is going, "There's a place for that. It's called therapy." I know what it is. 3 p.m. every Tuesday is what it is. :) A friend said, "Maybe you should say it's more like a percolator. You let the pressure build up until the truth is forced through the daily grinds of your life." I s