- Kymberlie ~ WriterOfTheStorm.com
- Kymberlie Ingalls is native to the Bay Area in California. She is a pioneer in blogging, having self-published online since 1997. Her style is loose, experimental, and a journey in stream of consciousness. Works include personal essay, prose, short fictional stories, and a memoir in progress. Thank you for taking a moment of your time to visit. Beware of the occasional falling opinions. For editing services: http://www.rainfallpress.com/
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wow, what a day..
Started off just fine. My mojo was chugging right along – woke up, showered, the hubby even remembered to turn the shower head so it wouldn’t blast me in the face. In any marriage, isn’t it the little things that make a big difference? So, there I was, all sparkly clean and feeling groovy. Knocked out a post on this blog you’re reading. Headed out the door to a beautiful, breezy day for lunch with one of my favorite people.
Now I’m on the freeway, traffic is good, tunes are blaring, the wind is rushing in to cool my face and ruffle my hair, giving the windblown, sun-kissed model look to an already decent hair day. Lunch was ordinary but yummy all the same. We headed over to a nearby shop and made good use of our female shopping genes.
Then I’m back in the car and ready to head for home. Hip is hurting but I’m dealing with it. Before I pull away, I check for emails on my handy dandy mobile device.
How is it that just one jackwad can ruin an entire day? I know, I know. “Only if you let them!” you’re saying in your head, thinking I’ll hear you over the internet if you think it loud enough. Bullshit. I didn’t let him. He did it all on his own, sent out his email full of crap, and wrecked my day. I mean, I could try and ignore it, but it’s just not me. The whole way home it rattled around in my head, chasing my mojo in a silly little circle until it jumped out with a BOO.
But, the good news is, I’m not going to sit around feeling like a punching bag. I’ll take my fall, dust myself off and crank the stereo back up. Sooner or later, someone will ease my bruises. Someone will sing to my soul. Much like a Vegas high roller, the odds are in my favor.
“Oh, she may be weary. Young girls they do get weary… all you gotta do is try .. try.. a little tenderness…”
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
I feel bad for our President. Really, I do. Not that I follow politics, you all know this. But he has had such a daunting task from day one of repairing this country, and has been given nothing but disrespect and angry disappointments hurled in his face in return.
is in a state of despair, and disrepair. We rallied in the election of 2008, with the promises of “change,” and “hope.” I don’t think President Obama understood the weight that these two words carried when they came out of his young, earnest mouth. I think he grossly underestimated just how far down in the shameful depths this country has sunk. United States
For decades, we lived high on the hog – buying up houses at prices we couldn’t afford, sinking dollar after dollar into cars we don’t need instead of shoring up our public transit systems for the day we might really need them (Here in the Bay Area, the BART and bus systems are laughably ineffective).
We spent freely with credit cards that have become the bane of our existence with their life-altering “scores.” Credit has become so important in this country, one now can’t get a job without that magical number.
We’ve mistreated our teachers, stripped the police of their superhero powers, overlooked the importance of a nurse to a doctor, and we look down upon our blue-collar laborers with a sneer as if they don’t work harder than any fat cat executive. The difference? One pays a fortune for the piece of paper his job depends on, the other is dealt a misfortune for keeping a country moving. Emphasis is now on celebrity, and idiot contests on television. We are a nation of empty fame and false talents (steroids, anyone?).
What I find to be tragic is that the jobs this country was founded on – the factories, the farms, and the independent businesses – they’ve sadly slipped into their cave. Only fifty years ago,
had a dream. It was a fine dream of generational jobs, of values, of a hard-earned dollar well-used. Jobs were our most important commodity, and something to strive for. America
Now our jobs are going, going, gone. They’ve been sent up north to
, overseas to Canada , and mass-produced in India . And what do we do, in our grand China tradition? We hate on those who’ve taken the jobs, when the truth is – it’s not their fault. They’re living our dream because its been handed to them on a platter. We should be rallying once again, and fighting those giving our jobs away. Hate on the corporations, and their decisions, if hate must be doled out. Although, I don’t recommend going all Palin and putting the crosshairs on anyone. America
And now the President implores us to create jobs. Yes, please do. I only beg that we don’t create them, then yank them away to send elsewhere. Give us back our dream. Re-open the factories that stand like a forlorn patriarchal ghost in a desolate, depressed town. Not only do we need to find our spirit again, but the backbone and balls to go with it.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
I’ll tell you this – I hate popping pills. White ones, round ones, big ones, yellow, blue, purple and green. The Skittles of the pharmaceutical world.
All of my life I’ve never had much interest or need in medication of any sort, even over-the-counter. But as I’ve aged, and my idiotic antics have caught up with me (yes, gratuitous mention of The Unfortunate ATV Incident, again), and my body betrays me with diseases, syndromes and injuries – sometimes the meds are a rude-awakening necessity.
I manage most of my pain without any medicine. I’ve been in physical therapy for two years, and Lori is an awesome therapist who listens, lectures, and is better for my body than any pill I could swallow. My chiropractor shoots straight with me, assists me with homeopathic remedies, and doesn’t try to convince me one leg is shorter than the other. Working with my endocrinologist, little magic tablets are the only way to lower my through-the-roof blood sugars. I’m not perfect with diet and exercise, but limp along, literally and figuratively. So why is it when I cave to the pain and finally make it go away, this sinful luxury known as Vicodin leaves me feeling like such a failure?
We are a pill-dependent society, without a doubt. There isn’t a problem anywhere that someone doesn’t have a distraction for. I don’t say “cure” because we all want to believe in the snake-oils but the truth is we are deluding ourselves with most of them. What I don’t understand is how we can discover the miracle pill of growing thicker eyelashes, but still can’t cure cancer after all these years.
At least we can bat our pretty little glazed eyes as we lay dying.