Welcome to My Life, Tattoo*

I'm not saying it's a fact, internets, but it's possible I have a tattoo problem.

Maybe.

I know of several reputable, talented artists, so fortunately quality is not a problem. And I have a rule (more of a guideline, really) that no ink shall become part of me until I've considered it for a year. If, after that time, it seems like a good idea, then it's a go.

After all, I'm choosing to literally make the image a part of myself. To me, I'm invoking a specific kind of energy or trait—a very symbolic process. A pretty image isn't enough. It has to be meaningful. Of course, that's just my standard for myself. I'm all about the Underpants Rule. If your ideas are different, good on ya. Be the boss of your own underpants. That's just what I need to be happy with my tattoo-related choices.

Making Magic*

I've been a little haunted by/obsessed with this image lately:

Something about this resonates very strongly with where I am right now in life. Admittedly, the last few years haven't so much shoved me out of my comfort zone as made my comfort zone not all that comfortable—what with the Boobonic Plague and breasty dumplings trying to kill me, followed by a betrayal and break-up of a serious, long-term relationship and all. (Yes, said break-up was absolutely, definitively for the best, but the suddenness and stress, combined with the moving-all-my-stuff-out made for a frantic time in my life.) On the plus side, I didn't have time or energy to be traumatized by turning 40. Not that I'd recommend this particular distraction strategy, but I generally like lemonade more than lemons so there you have it.

Last year, I finally started to feel like myself again. I'd been slowly reawakening to myself, finding sass and spunk where before there was mostly exhaustion. While I was shocked that it took two years to feel like I was getting free from the drama of such major life upheavals, the relief overshadowed the shock.

This year, though, I'm feeling a little more "Now what?" It's the inevitable question when that image comes to mind (which happens more and more frequently lately). 

I Got a VBA!

Yes, that's a good thing. It doesn't require shots (unless you're counting celebratory alcohol-filled ones) or anything. It's the Versatile Blogger Award, and I'm ever so grateful to Bill at The Whims of Fairness for the nomination, because he's top notch. If you don't already do so, you should check out his work. It will make you laugh, and think, and maybe even want to punch a goat (possibly all at the same time). But you'll be glad you did, so there's that.

Upon receipt of my VBA, I apparently have several responsibilities, including:

• Thanking the person who gave me the award (Done!)
• Posting a link to their blog (Done! Look at me go!)
• Selecting/nominating 15 other blogs
• Telling the person who nominated me 7 things about myself

Habit of Mind

I’m pretty sure it’s my refrigerator’s fault that I don’t have better eating habits.

Sure, I’m a little persnickety about the kinds of vegetables I’ll eat, but a short list is better than none at all, right? It’s not like I don’t choose a salad for a meal at least once or twice a week. I just can’t quite manage it when I’m at home and the blame is exclusively on my ‘fridge.

I do buy fresh veggies, you see. I’ll pick out some lovely, crisp green beans with every intention of lightly sautéing them with some butter-flavored cooking spray, a lot of garlic, and some slivered almonds. Or I’ll get broccoli so I can steam it just so – tender, but not soggy or limp – in my rice cooker. I’ll even buy salad fixins in an attempt to approximate some of my favorites (the Savannah Chopped Salad from McAlister’s comes to mind: greens, grilled chicken breast, dried cranberries, cucumbers, sliced almonds, bleu cheese, evil death berries tomatoes [for folks that – unlike me – will ingest them in their larval stage], topped with a tasty, tangy shallot vinaigrette). Barring that, some grilled shrimp, chicken, or salmon atop a simple Caesar salad will do (but only if there’s plenty of parmesan cheese, of course).

Why is it, then, with such delicious plans at the ready do I end up throwing out noxious brown, dripping science experiments a week later?

MY REFRIGERATOR.