When it rains, it pours.

It seems to be that I don't have real great luck with water these days.

This last weekend was an adventure.  Heading out of Eastern Oregon to meet my family, making my way to Central Oregon where the weather is usually nice and warm this time of year to find wind blowing and rain sprinkling at the campground by Lake Ochoco.  The following morning making our way to Clear Lake which during the summer even on the hottest day, apparently still stays a chilly 41 degrees water temp.  BRRRR.  We made our way out onto the lake with clouds in the sky, and a fairly mild temperature.  This was my first time in a kayak.  Let me paint the scene... it's an inflatable, 2 person kayak.  I was going out in it by myself, so the 2nd person seat held my bag, a couple of extra life jackets, and my water bottle.  I slide the small boat out into the water most of the way, and then climb in myself.  Not wanting to dip my toes in the water because of that frigid temperature I mentioned.  I get myself situated and begin to scoot the boat further out into the water off of the shore.  I begin paddling with an oar.  Having never paddled myself anywhere... it took me a minute to get it figured out.  There was a bit of a headwind.  So I learned quickly that I must paddle much harder.  Coming around the bend, by the dock where the men are getting into their drift boat.  They advise me that if I prop up on my knees I will have better leverage and be able to move along through the water much quicker.  It's going to be a hard trek to get out there because of the wind.  "I can do this" I have to continually tell myself.  My arms are already tired.  I decide to get a head start from the boys, yet an 11 year old passes me in his hard plastic kayak ridiculously fast.  Making it look much easier than I have found it to be.  As I'm working my way further out into the lake, I realize that each time I bring one side of the oar out of the water, it runs down the shaft and drips into my lap.  My Nike Dri fit leggings are drenched... and are anything but "fitting dry".  I'm layered on the top with a layer of dri-fit, and a jacket over the top.  I have a scarf wrapped around my head because, well.... my hair was a mess.  Camping and short hair do not mix well.  Just saying.

The wind picks up a little bit and we've all kind of met out in the water, to share the horror stories we all have about how difficult it is to paddle against a strong wind.  The clouds then cover the only sliver of sunshine that was peaking through.  It starts to drizzle.  "Great, just great."  I think to myself.  The wind is blowing me back in the direction that I'd already worked so hard to paddle out of... I have to really dig in and drench myself with each stroke of my oar.  Then the drizzle unleashes it's fury into a full-fledged down-pour.  I'm soaked.  the bottom of the kayak has a nice layer of water, my Chaco sandals hold my ice-cold little nubs of toes, and I fear that I'll drop the oar any moment because of my numb and tingling hands.  It's June in Central Oregon for cryin' out loud.

Ten or fifteen minutes of torrential downpour, and the sun comes out again.  The wind is still blowing but not nearly as bad.  My top half has dried out a bit, but still each time I paddle anywhere I drench myself with the water from my oar.   I hang out upwind of the boys who have gotten their fishing poles out, and were attempting to catch "dinner".

After pulling the boats out of the water, loading everything back up and attempting to thaw out while we ate lunch, we are back on the road to our next camping location.  Sure enough, it's raining.  Most of the evening and through the night.  We were able to crouch beneath the canopy of the trees for a bit and have a fire to warm our bones, while we widdled kindling with knives.  We soak in the hot springs pool a couple of times, and make it through the night.

Point of my story... well I'm just really looking forward to some actual summer weather.  I'd love to do the kayaking thing when it's warm outside and the getting-wet-thing is welcomed as a method to cool off.  I can't even express how excited I am to camp in warm weather, not having to bury yourself under covers to stay warm early in the evening.  Being able to stay up late around a camp fire and roast a marshmallow or five.

If the shoe fits...

Write a blog, they said.  Write about what you know, they said.  It'll be easy for you to make up crap, they said.  So far, writing about my family and my fondest memories has been easy.  Finding things to write about is proving to be more difficult.  But I will not quit trying.  With that said, I'm always open to suggestions.  But in the meantime...

I shall write about what I know.  I know shoes.  I know that I love shoes.  I know what kind of shoes are beautiful, hideous, creative, and spunky.  I know that I love shoes.  Did I mention that I love shoes?  I plan my entire outfit around what pair of shoes tickles my fancy for the day.  "You have too many shoes."  I have heard far too many times.  "What on earth do you do with so many pairs?"  "You can only wear 1 pair at a time."  All of these things, they fly in one ear and right back out the other.  I will not neglect my shoe habit, for it started in the womb.  I love them all.

Birkenstocks I've had since high school

Some days all you need is a comfy pair of shoes and a glass of wine or a good book.
I adore my fun and funky Nike sneakers.  I thoroughly enjoy my black flats, and I feel confident in any number of my pairs of pumps.  Each pair of jeans I own has it's own corresponding pair of shoes that fits perfectly just below the hem.  Each individual pair of slacks I own, also has a matching pair of loafers, heeled mules, pumps, or stilettos.  Every pair of skinny leggings has a sneaker that looks fabulous with a rolled up hem, or a pair of sandals that fit just right.  And every top or blouse has a matching slide, slingback, or flipflop that works with the color.  Even my dresses (which I don't wear often) have a variety of calf height boots that look absolutely adorable.  Blacks work with grey tones.  And brown works with earth tones.  Camel and nude go with almost everything.  And I finally splurged and bought my first pair of Tieks, which are truly worth the money.  Which seems to be a popular controversy these days. 

It must have been a hard day at work

How did I come into this terrible, sometimes pricey habit, you ask?  Well... I suppose I shall blame it on my mother.   For even when I was a wee one and she was the one in charge of my shoe purchases, I had a shoe fund.  A jar of change on her office work desk.  

Do I have favorites?  Of course.  My boots.  The brown leather cowgirl boots that go with anything.  The distressed dark brown with the beautiful, scrawling ivory colored stitching.  They can be worn below the perfect boot cut jeans, or on the outside of skinny jeans or leggings with a long sweater, or with a summer dress made of light and flowing material.  The perfect mix of tough country and dainty femininity.  Or there is always those hand stitched camel colored leather Frye pumps with the blocky grained heel.  The ones that I wear with long, ivory colored linen slacks.

Old, and New

There is a pair of shoes that fit every occasion.  You must have a nice pair of boots that keep your feet protected from the elements.  The mud and the snow are nothing on my Danner's or Sorel's.  And don't forget the comfy stand-by Fatbaby's.  Good for keeping seed out of your socks when you're out in a field, or up on top of a seed truck.  So comfy in fact, that I've gone through 2 pairs of them.




















There's a certain bad-ass-ish-ness that one feels when they have the opportunity to clomp around in a pair of Danner boots. There's a reason they are an all-American work boot.



















There are also occasions when you must have something that slides off in an instant.  Travelling requires it's own type of shoes and, well it's always a good idea to have a huge variety of colors and levels of comfort to choose from.  I almost always take a picture of the shoes if they are in a significant place.  Airport carpet, Lombard Street (Crooked street in San Francisco). You should also document the types of vintage Nike style sneakers you wear to the Nike Headquarters campus after you've spent too much time buying said shoes at the Nike Employee Store.  Sometimes you just need a cute pair of sandals to show off your fabulous pedicure.

I know that I have an obsession.  But it's too late in life to teach this old dog new tricks.  I'll continue down my path of destruction.  I know nobody care that much... but to me, this is my hobby.  To always find just that perfect shoe that fits my foot.  I love shoes.  End of story.

Summers... Part II

A very dear friend of mine that I grew up with, requested that I touch on a more specific topic that was a large part of our every day lives as kids, growing up in a piece of farm equipment.  So here is my Part II to yesterday's post.



Growing up in the grass seed capital of the world the way I did, I wasn't the only teenager that had this type of summer job.  And those of us that did the same thing during the summer time had a type of understanding that other friends did not.  We had similar work ethic without other options.  At the time, most of us were in it because that was our only option for summer work.  They were either a direct descendant of the owner, or in my case, my family was very good friends with the farm's owner.

We were barely into the days of cell phones.  They were not smart phones, and they didn't do anything besides make phone calls, text messages were expensive, and if you were lucky you had snake on your phone.  It was before the days of social media.  Our biggest means of communication was through the radio.  Talking on our cell phones was highly frowned upon and incredibly expensive back then.  I think they used to charge by the minute!  There was also a thing called Roaming.  We would wait patiently all day until the "live request show" on the local country music station would come on.  Pure Country, 103.7!!  In my best radio host voice.  The MC, he'd let us teenagers rule the air waves.  Requesting song after song, night after night.

There was an understanding between all of us that you listened to that station in the evening to see who would get on air.  Friends would request favorite songs, girls would request romantic songs to try and get the point across to that special boy.  But Marie and I would request classic Bellamy Brothers, Redneck Girl often.  Because as all of you know, a redneck girl wears the name on the back of her belt.  Both Marie and I proudly wore our leather belts with our jeans displaying our names across the back. (If you don't know the lyrics and that made no sense to you, shame on you.)

Certain songs had certain meanings... and every time I heard that song, I knew that somewhere out there in some piece of farm equipment was my friend Marie singing along.  Marie and I go back a long way.  You see, we've never been the super close type of friend that always hung out or did other things outside of school all of the time.  But we did have the same babysitter when we were just wee ones, and that takes us way back.  Being a farm kid, sharing that special bond with friends holds a fairly significant place in my heart.







I'll do my best to take you back in time to our high school summer-time playlist.

Redneck Girl- Bellamy Brothers
Fishin' In the Dark- Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Cadillac Ranch- Chris LeDoux
Where The Sidewalk Ends- George Straight (because everybody loves George)
Watermelon Crawl- Tracy Byrd
and anything by The Judds
... you get the idea.

Music was all we had out there.  Alone in the cab, nothing to do but talk to the radio.  I don't know about others, but my own personal game was to seek through the stations, whatever song came on through the speakers, I needed to be sure I could sing along to the lyrics.  Some will say that is the reason I'm a music freak now.  To this day, if I'm on the hunt for something good on the radio, whether I'm by myself, or with a group in my vehicle... you must, "Name that song"  or "Name that band".  I must know who sings it and all of the lyrics.  I also have that music memory, let me hear it once and next time I'll be singing along.

My mom and I take it to another level.  Randomly, I will receive a text message with a set of lyrics typically not the chorus to name the song, and extra points for naming who sings it.  If I'm driving, I'll record myself singing lyrics and have her name it.  I don't drive without music on and I think that I blame that tick on having worked in the fields for so many years.  To keep myself from getting bored or tired, I needed to SING!!!  So... there is never a quiet cab when I'm driving.  Some habits die hard.

The last struggle that I know my fellow farm gals will understand is finding a comfortable temperature.  Depending on the time of season... whether we were cutting, thrashing, or working dirt really determined how I would dress.  When I was young, my dad always advised long pants and tall boots.  Keeps the seed out.  However, sometimes my rebelling teenage attitude came billowing out and I wasn't able to stop it.  If I was stuck in a cushy, air conditioned, clean combine cab all day and I didn't have to climb up on top of trucks to settle seed down before tarping or if I didn't have to do a lot of running around the field... all I had to do was drive, I'd wear shorts.  Tank tops, tshirts, and sweatshirts.  Then Boss would get in, crank the AC while he rode a round with me and completely mess up the comfortable temperature I'd finally achieved.  As an adult, I learned that jeans and tall boots were the only way I could function.  I really couldn't handle dirt or seed being in my socks or in between my toes.  I needed clean, dry feet.  To keep myself cooled off if I had to spend much time outside, I was a tank top gal through and through. My armpits get claustrophobic I used to say.

These days, Marie and I have no need to cruise in our daddy's pickup trucks... we have our own.  Again, if you don't recognize it, shame on you!  Look up the song and get familiar.  

Summers with Dad

This time of year, believe it or not... is hard for me.  Most everybody else is getting geared up for summer.  Hair is getting lighter, skin is getting darker, drinks are going into the coolers, music is getting turned up a little louder, and water is beginning to get warmer.  Here I am, thinking of memories of sitting in the cab of a windrower or combine driving around in circles for 10 or more hours a day.

When I think back, my summers have always consisted of some sort of farming.  My dad taught me how to drive everything.  I remember my summers being spent with my dad.

My memories go back to an age I'm not quite sure of.  However, I remember my red Mickey Mouse alarm clock (the loud ringing bell kind), my Igloo lunch box that was turquoise and yellow, and my first pair of work boots.  I can remember waking up with Mickey, attempting to pack my own lunch, and getting dressed and ready to go to the farm with Dad.  My dad has worked for Knife River (formerly Morse Bros.) driving a cement mixer my entire life.  You do the math, we've already established that I'm now 30 years old.  He has, for as long as I can remember, taken 2 weeks off during the summer-time to work on the farm.  His friend's farm, to help out.  That was his vacation.  Something he enjoyed doing... mom probably would have wanted to go on an actual vacation, but dad's heart needed the tractors.  The smell of ripening ryegrass, diesel fumes, and a plethora of dust and dirt.
I always took a pillow with me, despite the cabs being small and quite cramped back then... I always found a place to curl up and sleep.  When I wasn't napping on the floor, I was sitting either in dads lap or right next to him.  I can very distinctly remember driving a combine, sitting on dad's lap.  I turned around, and his head was tipped back sleeping.  I woke him up at every corner because I was worried I couldn't do it myself.

The first time I had to squat to pee in the field was an experience of it's own.  I was with dad, he didn't know how to explain how to squat, he didn't have to worry about that.  It's easy for boys to pee when you're out in the field.  But dad treated me just like the boys that were out there.  The first time was pretty painless... I had dad there to run interference.  But as I got older and began driving equipment on my own during the summer, it became more difficult.  Being the only girl on the crew out in the field, if my machine came to a stop (so that I could get out and pee), here came the boss in the pickup bombing across the field to make sure I hadn't broken down or plugged or something.  There's no telling how many times boss-man saw my little white rear-end.  I had to get creative.  Spacing myself perfectly with the other people driving, and waiting until the furthest corner away to ensure extra time, or making sure I could do the first round so that I could be right up next to the tree line for some privacy.

Dad teaching me how to pull the 18-bottom plow.

All of the things that I know had to quickly become common knowledge.  Every single bit of it came from my dad at some point.  He taught me how to drive, how to drive straight, how to turn a corner, how to round a pointed corner so that it was easier for the next driver to get his header in the small space to cut the grass.  He showed me how to look at my sickle bar and check for problems.  He bought me my first pocket knife to pluck the mud out from under my guards, and to cut the straw out of my header when I plugged it.  He taught me to pack more food than you'll need, just in case you work longer hours and need more to eat.  Not to mention, you eat when you're bored... which is a lot.  He showed me the basics of driving a seed truck.  He showed me how to combine the first row of a field with a lot of trees... how to slowly inch my header in there to suck up the swath and then back away and take a different angle to get back in there so that the tree branches didn't scratch the machine or break something important in the rear end where my straw chopper, fans, and engine were located.  He gave me enough confidence and enough independence to become good at these things.  When I did something wrong, or broke something because I had made a mistake, dad and the boss gave me just enough hollering to make me not want to let them down again, and enough constructive criticism to do better next time and be more careful.  I learned to have my coffee drank by the time I got to the shop in the morning so that I can use the restroom before we head out to the field.  I learned to top a truck, on the go with the New Zealand kiwi driving and hanging out the window throwing hand signals my way before the days of being in a machine that had a functioning CB radio.

When dad's vacation was over and I was out there by myself, he came out almost every night.  Bringing a cold brew to the boss, sitting around the bed of a pickup, chit-chatting about the day's production as the crew finished up and so anxiously awaited the dust to settle in and lay down, making it almost impossible to see your swath in front of you.  Round and round you'd go, looking towards the trucks where we'd park the machines for the night, waiting and waiting for those headlights to flash 2 or 3 times... signaling us to come in for the night and park them to cool down.

The first time I drove a large piece of equipment down the road, I was 14  years old.  Everyone believed I was responsible enough to do it.  I, myself was nervous.  Somebody always came and helped me.  If anything, boss would trade me... he would drive my combine and I would follow slowly in his pickup.  But the first time I had to... we were short handed.  My dad was out there (I think it was on a weekend) helping.  He had left the field to take a full seed truck to the warehouse.  He wasn't back in time to help us with the move.  So boss said I had to drive it on my own.  I'd be the middle combine, with somebody leading the way in front of me and someone behind me.  He had faith that I could do it by myself.  It was one of the longest "road-trips" we had on the farm.  2 fields that were pretty far away from each other.  I succeeded.  I made it to the field, I didn't hit anything.  Everybody was safe and sound.  Except for my dad.  He still wasn't back and it wasn't until later that evening when my mom came to pick me up that I'd been informed that while driving to the warehouse in the truck, he'd been t-boned by someone driving a hay squeeze (semi truck in the front, fork lift in the back).  Mom took me from the farm to the scene of the wreck.  All I can really remember was the cab of the truck was not where it was supposed to be, sitting crooked on the frame of the truck.  Dad had gone for quite a ride, having flipped over onto it's side after impact.  The person driving the hay squeeze had run the stop sign.  Besides a hurt knee and being slightly rattled, dad was okay.

Dad and I enjoying some R&R last summer.  WCMF '15.

As an adult, even up until just a few years ago, I was following in my father's footsteps.  Taking a 2 week vacation during the summer months to help on the farm when I was needed.  It is a relaxing change of pace, leaving a desk job and being outside, in the sunshine, getting dirty, and helping a farmer get their crop in.  It's a good feeling, a sense of accomplishment.  Each day you can see how much you've gotten done.  How many acres you've windrowed, how much you've gotten thrashed. Or if your turning dirt, how many more hours will it take? And should you just keep going until you're done, whether that puts you home at 9pm or 1am.  I quickly learned after high school was over and I was working full time, that I too, just like my father had diesel running through my veins.  Dust belonged in my ears, I enjoy the horsepower, I like wearing my jeans and boots to work each day, putting my hair in a pony tail and being left to drive.

Best 4th of July ever.  Sneaking selfies and
chatting dad's ear off in the combine.

Each spring, I hear from my dad that this is his last summer helping out on the farm.  I always bring to his attention that he has said that same thing for the past 5 years... but it's always the same old song and dance.  This year really is the last.  Most recently, even though I was not taking the time off to work during the summer, I did spend my 4th of July in the combine with my dad.   Just like the summer that we spent the 4th of July evening cutting a field late into the night.  Watching fireworks from the dark cab of the windrower. Like I said, this time of year is almost bitter sweet.  I miss farming with my dad.  I miss being involved.  Don't get me wrong, I have fun summer plans this year.  Lots of camping trips and plans to enjoy my summer and wonderful warm weather.

But I'll always miss my summers with dad.  It wasn't just my summer job.  It was my best childhood memories and I cherish them.

My Mom's Heart

In preparation for today's post, I asked my mom for her permission to talk about her.  Her response was well received.  She feels that if anyone can take something positive away from it, it's a good thing to share.  Some of the details I couldn't remember.  She was able to provide the missing information to fill in the gaps for me.  This was almost 20 years ago, yet some parts are vivid in my memory still and I assume always will be.



"I need you to get up and do something for me.  I need you to call 911."  My mama said to me.  I was 11 years old when my mother came to my bedroom early in the morning before it was time for me to get up for school and calmly asked me to call 911 for her.

She tells me that any other morning, our large black lab knew what it meant to "go wake Tiffy up" and he'd come to my room and pester me until I got up.  But this particular day was different.  Our dog, Duke wouldn't leave my mother's side.  He knew there was a problem.

She had a blanket wrapped around her, with her pajamas underneath.  She slowly sat down on our maroon couch in the living room with no lights on, just the light that came through the window as the day was just beginning it's start.  She had pain and couldn't get comfortable earlier in the morning and my dad had even offered to take her to the hospital.  She declined, saying she'd be fine.  She moved to the couch, dad went to work.  She says she was able to get a bit more sleep.  And in her words she says, "The next time it woke me up I knew something was wrong, and at the same time, knew that it wasn't my day to die."  Thinking it sounded crazy, but she says she just knew.

I must have been in some sort of shock.  I don't remember crying right away.  Mom was telling me that I had to call 911.

"I'm having chest pains and it's hard to breath.  My arm hurts.  I might be having a heart attack."  She told me.

I picked up the phone, carefully dialed 911 for the first time in my life.  I spoke with the dispatcher, gave them my name and hers.  I told them where we lived and answered all of the woman's questions.  She wanted to know where my mom was,  I let her know that it was her who had requested I call and that she sat here close to me, talking and breathing.  

Our local EMT's showed up soon after, (I grew up in a small town, fire station wasn't far away).  I recognized some of the men who were there from the community, only this time they were dressed differently, being in uniform.  They crowded around her, listening to her heart, checking her pulse, taking blood pressure, and giving her much needed oxygen.

My mother, the stubborn woman that she is, refused to take the ambulance ride.  She knew it's expense and knew our family would have trouble affording it.  You see, my parents both worked hard and we lived paycheck to paycheck.  They provided a wonderful home for me, everything I ever needed.  And the reason they were able to provide for me, was likely because my mom was a penny pincher.  She knew how to make her money go as far as it could.  And this was one of the corners she was willing to cut.  At the time, I didn't necessarily understand why she didn't want to go with them.  But she refused.  She stated she would wait for my dad to come home from his job.  Dad worked 30 minutes away from home.  And had likely been at work since the wee hours of the morning.  If he was out on a job, he had to get back to the plant and then leave to come home.  Who knows how long that could have taken.  She later recalls that the ride to the hospital (which was approximately 35 minutes from where we lived) was a painful one.  In retrospect, she wished she should have gone in the ambulance.

After that, my details are fuzzy.  I can't remember if I went to school or not.  At some point, I was at the hospital during one of the tests she was having.  I can recall that she wasn't allowed to move.  She couldn't sit up or move her head much to either side.  She was flat on her back and extremely uncomfortable.  She had to stay that way for numerous hours.  And she was NOT happy about it.  Despite her being upset and most likely in a lot of pain, she still looked over at me and was smiling.  She is also not one that likes having the attention entirely on her.  She's not quite the extrovert freakazoid that I am.

Over the course of the next 19 years, she's had other "episodes" and a second heart attack.  Having stents placed, meds changed, and then sent home to continue to eat like a rabbit.  She has multiple specialists and does everything in her power to keep her body healthy.  It's not her fault and it's not fair.  My mom always used to say to me when I was a kid, hunched over the toilet throwing up, sick to my stomach...  "I would take away the pain if I could."  or "If I could throw up for you, I would."  Sounds gross now as I write it.  But my point of this statement is that I know what she meant.  If I could take away her crappy heart and have it for my own and be the one to have heart attacks and stents placed so that she didn't have to, I would.

My mom is the strongest woman I know.  It's not her weak, unhealthy organ that causes her fits that I adore.  But the big, bright, healthy heart that lives in her soul that is so beautiful.  That is what makes her the woman she is.  Love you, Mama!!!  -Sugie

**If you can take anything away from it, my mother would want you to take this much... don't put it off when it come to health.  Man or woman, adult or child, take care of yourself.

Here's my "Share"

Take my advice.  Maybe just this once.  

Our society today relies heavily on the use of our cell phones.  I'm writing my blog post on my cell phone, so by no means am I preaching to get rid of them.  However, we text more than we call.  We never leave home without it.  And in some cases we don't even touch our family as often as we touch our cell phone.  The average child believes in their heart of hearts that they have a RIGHT to have a cell phone.  The average teenager looks at his/her cell phone over 200 times/ daily.  

Here is my stand on it.  Some will disagree and that's okay.  It's devastating to know that you are no more important to someone than the wonderful world of social media or text messaging your "friends".  When someone is immersed in scanning their feed, they don't see you, they definitely don't hear you.  And despite being in the same room, they aren't with you. 

I'm not against social media.  I partake when I'm bored at times.  I set aside 10 minutes a couple of times a day to look at a couple of apps that I enjoy.  But when I get home at night, unless my cell phone is ringing or I receive a text message from a member of my family, it's typically ignored.  I don't scan social media multiple times daily because none of my acquaintances have posted that many times in 1 day.  And if they have, I've likely "unfollowed" them.      

I use my cell phone constantly to get directions in the car.  I google things that I want answers to.  But I can honestly say, I don't use my phone as a distraction from the real people in my real life.  I focus on the people that surround me.  And if I don't do a good job of it, I'll try harder next time.  

I want to use my phone as a resource and a means of communication.  I am constantly reading and researching things on my cell phone.  It is NOT used as a distraction.  I want to spend my time with my family, without my face being lit up by the glow of a phone.  

Life is hard some days, so the need for a distraction is sometimes welcomed.  A place where you don't have to think, just flick your thumb upwards, I get that.  I have those days sometimes too.  

In the end though, at the end of each day, I want to remember people close to me.  Not something that somebody said that I "liked" on social media somewhere.  Can you truly make a memory with both hands glued to your cell phone?  Can you enjoy someones real company and be there for them to support them or listen to them if you're reading about what some friend or your co-worker's cousin's ex-BFF said on social media or are 17 acquaintances deep when you looked at who "she" was in a relationship with and saw that "they" were friends with that one "person" who was really attractive, and looked at their profile and saw that they had a bunch of big-boobed selfies posted... ?

Take my advice, maybe just this once.  Give the people around you the attention and respect a real human deserves, put your phone away.  Just try it.  

OCD

My name is Tiffany and I have OCD tendencies and am kind of a control freak.  I've known this now for a number of years.  I am unable to change it and have chosen to embrace my freakish ways.  

I'm willing to share here a few of my Tiffany-ISMS.  I feel that as long as I'm willing to admit them whole-heartedly that it makes them okay. 

First of all, the most important one is that there IS a correct and an incorrect way to load a toilet paper roll onto the dispenser.  The new square should always feed on the top of the roll.  The other way is obviously backwards.  This rule, to my mother, is ridiculous.  My mother also has OCD tendencies, so the fact that she does not feel this topic holds the kind of importance that it does, baffles me.  

I shall share a quick story.  The last office I worked in had a large number of employees with multiple restrooms.  The restroom closest to my desk had approximately 8 stalls.  When I enter the restroom, I always go to the same stall.  And every day the toilet paper was installed into the dispenser incorrectly.  Nobody really knows the frustration that causes me.  

It's a wonderful thing if you have decided to be a good citizen and help take out the garbage.  Whether it be a chore that someone has deemed yours to take care of or you're just feeling helpful it doesn't matter.  The act of taking out the garbage is a multi-step process.  Please don't half-ass it.  You may as well not do any of it at all.

1.  Take full garbage bag out of the can. 

2.  Take said full garbage bag outside to the dumpster.

3.  Bring your happy rear-end back in the house and REPLACE the garbage can liner. 

Now, you have successfully completed the process.

I count stairs.  Yes, that's all there is really to say about that. 

I cannot wear a greasy film that some call lotion on my hands.  

There is a difference in the following words: their, there, and they're.  And if I see them used incorrectly on Facebook, I  will "unfollow" you. 

If you plan to travel in the left lane, please be patient and wait your turn to pass all of the slow ones in the right lane.  If you are one of the ones that will pass 5 cars all traveling the same speed, on the right and then immediately slam on your brakes and cut off all 5 vehicles.  Prepare to receive death glares from my rig.  

I hate the word moist.  

 

Whoever said "Practice makes Perfect" was lying.

"Keep your head down."

"Take another practice swing."

"I said, keep your head down."

"Don't forget to bend your knees."

Oh yes, bend my knees further... I'm a ridiculously tall super freak.  It's like I'm trying to take a squat on the tee box.  Swing, smack, watch it go, looks beautiful.  SPLASH!  Into the water.

"Great hit."

How on God's beautiful green planet was THAT a good hit?  It went into the water, like the other 13 balls I've hit and lost.  Sometimes I hit the ball well.  Other times, I feel like Alice from Alice in Wonderland playing a game more like croquet with a beaked bird as a club instead of this thing we call golf with my pretty turquoise themed clubs.

Golf shorts don't fit me right.  My legs are too long.  My white Nike shoes are getting dirty I notice as I walk down the fairway.  Why, oh why do I enjoy this game when I suck so bad?  I'm frustrated more often then not.  Yet, I continue to try.

Arnold Palmer once said, "Golf is deceptively simple and endlessly complicated."  A hit that I think will do me well in the end becomes disgustingly terrible.  And when I hit it entirely off the fairway and it looks like I won't be able to save myself from numerous strokes over par... I chip it up with ease and grace and save my bacon.

You see, this is new for me.  I began playing golf merely months before I turned 30.  We'll consider this one of those "new" things I'm trying in my 30's.  I'm fairly certain I'm getting worse.  I started with beginners luck.  Now that I try to improve, I get in my own head in an attempt to silently coach myself and stink up the place.

Can you hear the chuckling bird?  

I can. 

The struggle is real, people.  Golf is HARD!!  But I'll keep trying, because for whatever reason, it's fun to be out on the beautiful grass, spending time with people you love.  

Shenanigans for my 30's

It's time to try something new.  I've been on this planet for 30 years now.  Yes, here I am admitting (in writing) that I've just turned 30 years old.  Everybody keeps telling me, "30's are the new 20's" or "My 30's were way more fun than my 20's".  

Here I am, now in my 30's as people say and I need something to challenge me.  My work challenges me some days and people challenge me in my day to day life.  But I want to do something else.  Find an outlet to be creative.  

I recently attended a seminar.  The target for the seminar being the administrative professional... because technically that's what I am.  But more than that, I loved listening to the speaker talk.  And what I really got from her was finding something to really motivate me.  Find something that I really want to do.  Something that I've always wanted to do.  And for years now, I've wanted to write.  Am I good at it?  No probably not.  Do I know what I'm doing?  NO, definitely not.  But as the old saying goes, Here goes nothing.   
My joke has been for some time now, "I should write a book".  Hearing the crazy things that people do or say in my profession.  Sometimes you can't make this junk up.  "I should write a book" I say.  I have a ginormous family, "I should write a book" I say.  I have a lot of "likes" as the world puts it these days, a few passions (COFFEE among others)... "I should write a book" I say. 

So here is what I shall start with.  A new challenge.  I don't know what my blog will be about yet or if anybody will ever read my posts.  I doubt I'm ready to write a book.  But I will start with a blog.  I hope to find daily inspiration to write.