Empty

I have no bloggable material.  No Joke.

Last week, I was entirely on my best behavior. Well, close enough.
  
It was a usual week for me: work, tennis, running, guitar, belly dancing, beading and little dragon boat paddling thrown in for good measure.  It’s also summer which means good food, great patios and nice frosty local beer.

There was an impromptu “I’m trying to glamorize my life” shopping adventure.  One funky black skirt, sheer white linen cardigan and a classic black v-neck sweater, I decided to forgo shopping for new shoes.  Yes folks, my glamour has limits.  Well, my Visa has a limit.

So that’s it.  No stories.  I’m sorry.
No insight. Not into me. Not into the real world.  Not into anything.

I’m hoping for a better August.  I’m currently in the process of ridding my life of commitments so I can go back to being free and spontaneous.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  Until then, get out there and cause some trouble! If nothing else, do it for me.  

New York , New York

Somedays, I think I’m living a life that was not intended for me.

I’m content, but sometimes my life seems a little too …. Halifax.  And a little not enough New York City.
I don’t know what it is, but there is a glamour attached to the city.  A glamour that says a girl can go out every night of the week, drink cocktails and eat at fabulous restaurants.  Now, if you’re going to do that, naturally, you need great clothes and kick ass shoes.  Price tag? What price tag?

If I were a real NYC glamour girl, I would have a Visa of infinite limit that would miraculously pay itself.  I would write a newspaper column.  Since that would be my primary source of employment to pay the rent on my fabulous Manhattan apartment I would spend the rest of my days shopping, drinking coffee and planning which fabulous parties to attend.  

In a nutshell, I think I was supposed to be Carrie Bradshaw.  I think I just got a little lost along the way.  Just a little.

No Worries

I know enough to know better.  But that doesn’t mean I can stop thinking just like that.  Knowing is only half the battle.
And I’m not saying it’s my fault.  Like I said, I know better.  But that still isn’t enough to make me stop.  How can you just stop?

A recent suggestion from an article mentioned that it is a good practice to set aside one hour of a day a designated worrying time.  I contemplated the suggestion, but couldn’t decide if contemplation is a form of worry in and of itself.  Then I worried about what if I forgot to worry about something during my designated hour.  Does that mean I would have to postpone it until the next day? Or are exceptions acceptable?  

Besides, I don’t like to worry, per se.  I would much rather over-think, deduce, contemplate, dissect, analyze and replay.  Why bother worrying?  I know better than that.

You know what the worst part about this all is?  Now I’m afraid you’ll worry about me worrying too much.  For the record, I’m not really worried about anything – except whether or not I need to set aside a designated worrying time. You know, just in case anything comes up.

Hot to Trot

At first I was nervous.  I didn’t know what to expect or even what to do. My friends, being experienced horseback riders were confident in their abilities.  Given it was only the second time I’d been on a horse, I was a little nervous.  After a little hmming, and a little hawing, I figured why not, we should go for it.  We were going to Trot the horses.

When they found out that I was a little nervous because I was not an experienced rider, they found me the gentlest horse.  Funny enough, he also happened to be notably bigger than all the other horses.  So much bigger, that they had to offer me a foot stool so I would be able to mount her.  I was told not to worry and that Daisy was one of the best horses they had.

Daisy was great.  She plodded along quite nicely.  When it came time to trot, I was instructed to hold on tight, and kick the horse in the sides to get her going.  With a good kick she got going.  And no less than 10 seconds later, just when I was starting to get the hang of it, she stopped.  I kicked her again.  Nothing.  I kicked her again, still nothing.  I let her walk for a minute, tried again and still nothing.  

It was a hot day out there.  About 30 degrees.  All I can guess is that my horse was too hot to trot.

MIA

** Warning: The following may resemble a rant.  Which is exactly what it is.**

On Friday, I arrived home 15 minutes after a courier attempted to deliver my Ipod.  That was just bad luck, I would have to wait until Monday.  The notice on my door said they would redeliver on Monday.

On Monday, I waited patiently and anxiously all day long. I did not leave my house, because I wanted to make sure I was there to receive my Ipod.  

On Monday afternoon at 3:10 pm, the courier called to say that I needed to arrange an alternate time for delivery.  They explained that my Ipod had not gone out on the truck that day.  I explained how I was told that it would be delivered, and how I had waited all day at home for it.  There was nothing they could do.  They offered to deliver it to me on Tuesday, which is a problem because I was scheduled to work from 10 am until 11 pm.  After some convincing, I leave my work info and contact number.  They’re to take the package there.

On Tuesday, at 4 pm, I still have not received the package.  I call the courier and provide the appropriate tracking numbers.  Apparently, there is nothing they can tell me.  Except that because I redirected my package from home to work, it probably didn’t go out today.  Apparently, it takes 24-48 hours to process the redirect.

Not entirely satisfied with the information I received from the courier company, not to mention the two days that I had specific instructions for delivery, I decided to see what the tracking number said and where my package was.  

Funny enough: My package is showing as delivered.  Apparently, it was delivered at 9:28 this morning.  It was signed for by someone I don’t know.  At this point my best guess is that they took it to the shipping and receiving department at work.  And who knows how long it will take for them to get it to me.  If it gets to me.  

Tool Box

He carries his tools in a large red bag.  He jokingly calls it his purse.  Really, it’s just a large canvas bag.  But at least he is secure enough to joke about it being a purse.

My tools are in a tool box.  It’s black with a red clasp.  I feel mysterious when I carry it – only because I know I don’t look like the type of person who carries a toolbox around.

Inside both of our chosen methods of transportation is hours of enjoyment.  Hours worth of silver to be cut, soldered, filed, soldered again, filed again, and then polished.  Hours of projects.  Limitless possibilities.

Inside my tool box are rings which I’m going to eventually drill to add a middle piece and an earring hook.  There are also rings for fingers, work in progress.  There are small links, and when I feel up to it, I will continue making the chain link bracelet.

Inside his tool bag is a really neat and intricately cut bracelet design.  Work so detailed that I only dream and imagine having the patience to execute so finely.  His tool collection is much more expanded than mine.  And organized too.

Our toolkits both contain many of the same basics, but other slightly different tools.  Our tools are more suited to the type of work we like to do.  We share, and what we don’t have, the studio likely has in their tool cupboard.

Inside both of our heads are the right tools. Tools of creativity.  Tools of patience, and impatience. Designs, waiting to escape.  Corners that can be cut.  Details to fine to overlook.   Ideas waiting to materialize into personalized pieces of art.  Beauty from the world as we see it.