Life – Page 6 – Angel Wheeler

In Memory of My Dad #11

Every Saturday I share a story written by my dad while he wrote commentaries for his local newspaper in Northeastern Oklahoma, a.k.a. Green Country.

I saw him at a local discount store making his way between the kitchen products and the greeting cards. I was there picking up a birthday card for my sister, and I could tell from the stiff-legged gait that reminded me of the paisano bird or the road runner that he’d had a stroke.

I knew the walk too well, after suffering a crippling stroke myself a couple years back and sure enough, after we had howdied and shook, he informed me he’d had a stroke while umpiring baseball. This man had been wearing the tools of umpiring for thirty years and having a stroke was the farthest thing from his mind.

Blue still had his mental faculties and was still lucid and we talked about what we had to do to try to get back to 75 or eighty percent again. There is no getting back to a hundred percent after a brain attack, and Blue was looking at getting back to where he could umpire some slow pitch softball games where he wouldn’t have to wear all the equipment that goes with a baseball game.

Some may call the strokes that Blue and I suffered a stroke warning, but I can tell you that they are devastating to the victim. You are confused and usually can’t communicate with the care-giver and tell them what is bothering you. I have seen men in the rehabilitation center in Muskogee that couldn’t remember their name–sharp guys—they just couldn’t remember their name or what their nose or lips were supposed to be called.

It was terrible, and while some of the men were cheerful and upbeat about the whole thing, others were withdrawn and just gave up on the idea of ever getting back to any semblance of normalcy.

When you first feel the symptoms of a stroke coming on, you are confused as to what might be happening. That feeling of confusion doesn’t leave for many months. Perhaps you can bluff your way through like I tried to do, but you are better off to accept the stroke and get busy living. The alternative is awesome.

I always worked jobs that required me to be outside. I rough necked drilling rigs, was a boilermaker and hung “red iron” and was a troubleshooter for a major pipeline. I walked tall on the earth, and in my pride I was always ready and able to take care of my wife and children. All that ended when I had my stroke.

All of a sudden no one wants to hire you, medical insurance is just a memory. Thank goodness for the W.W. Hastings Hospital or I would be a charity case. It’s one time that being an Indian did me a heap of good.

Strokes occur when the blood vessels to the brain become clogged or leak blood. The narrowing of blood vessels over time or blood clots can result in the deprivation of oxygen to the brain resulting in a stroke. Leaks are less common and as in my case occur when a faulty blood vessel leaks blood into the brain housing group.

Then it’s MRI’s and brain scans, long waits for tests, trips to Tulsa and you are just praying this is all a bad dream and you’re going to wake up and be late for work again. But that is not to be, you’ve had a stroke now , you must deal with it.

Severity of a stroke depends on how long the brain is cut off from the supply of oxygen and the part of the brain that is damaged. Your motor skills are gone, your vision is impaired or it’s partially gone. Your face is drawn and your speech is impaired. One side of the body goes numb–in my experience, strokes that occur on the right side of the body are much more severe than those that occur on the left.

A good point to remember about stroke patients is that their brains are still in good working order, just scrambled around a little bit. Give him time and you’ll see that he is as sharp as ever. The only thing about a stroke is that it’ll take more time for him to communicate with you in a positive manner.

So Blue, I hope you make it back to umpiring. I also hope that I’m sitting there in the bleachers cheering you on or cussing you out depending on what the situation allows.

I found this following insight written on a tattered card that my son collected and it seemed appropriate for this column. It reads: “I’ve been bawled out, balled up, held down, held up, bulldozed, blackjacked, walked on, cheated, squeezed and mooched, stuck for war tax, excess profit tax, sales tax, dog tax, and syntax, Liberty Bonds, baby bonds and the bonds of matrimony, Red Cross, Blue Cross and the double cross; I’ve worked like hell, worked others like hell, got drunk, gotten others drunk, lost everything I had and now because I won’t spend or lend what little I can earn, beg, borrow or steal. I’ve been cussed, discussed, boycotted, talked to, talked about, lied to, lied about, worked over, pushed under, robbed and damned near ruined. The only reason I’m sticking around now is to see, what the hell is next.”

~R.L. Briggs

UP

Remember when Freedom was just a baby, trying to fly out of the box?

Now here she is perched on my foot, while my leg is crossed.

But that’s not high enough. So to my knee she flutters.

Next is the arm of the chair I’m sitting in.

Then the back of the chair that she runs me out of. She just can’t quite get high enough.

She’ s a bit of a nuisance. If I squat to familiarize myself with the other chickens, she flies on my back or pecks me in the butt.

But it’s okay, I’m a bit of a free bird myself.

Although she’s only a chicken, if we look close enough I think there’s a lesson to be learned from this Barred Plymouth Rock hen-to-be.

Don’t stay down low with all the other peeps pecking around for the same ol’ piece of grain life throws you.

If you got a dream or a goal in sight:

Wake up.

Then look up.

Reach up.

Then flap your wings and flutter up.

If you don’t make it the first time, cheer up.

Flap your wings harder and keep it up.

Never give up.

There’s a perch somewhere just for you, and you’ll look good sitting on it.

In Memory of My Dad #7–Golf

My dad was a golfer. There was usually a set of golf clubs in the back of his work truck, just in case. As a little girl I remember times when he’d suddenly remark, “Let’s go hit some golf balls.” Oh the joy I would feel. I was going to get to golf! So he’d grab his clubs and that handy little golf club picker-upper and we’d head to large park or walk across to the empty field across the street. I quickly learned I wasn’t there to golf with my dad, but I was sent to get the balls after he’d hit them. He’d holler at me, “There’s one to your left, or farther, go farther.” I never even got to swing the club.

Here’s a story written by my dad about golfing:

You may hear women complain of being a golf widow. Big Deal. It’s you the golfer who is hurting. It’s your hands that are numb and bleed at night, it’s your back that aches and twitches. Your legs are sore and your neck is sunburned almost black from hours of standing over the golf ball. You are in a mortal panic, it’s you who is one of the walking wounded.

When you play a good round of golf, you are deathly afraid that you can’t repeat the swing your next time out. When you play badly you think, “why couldn’t I have been born a mule, then I could get some use out of all this green grass.”

You say to yourself, “I don’t need this kind of suffering,” but you know that you’ll be back tomorrow and that’s what makes the wonderful world of golf so exasperating.

Golfers like to wear shirts with small animals emblazoned over the pockets. Penguins. Alligators. The small Polo horse and rider. I have many shirts with the alligator logo. Once playing in South Texas I hooked a ball far into the left rough. When I went into the jungle grass looking for the ball, I spied an alligator with a shirt that had a little golfer over the pocket. I don’t even think he was a member of the club either.

I used to play a pretty decent round of golf, but since having this stroke, anytime that I don’t fall out of the golf cart is a good round. I could play the game with a broom stick and a road apple now and still score as good.

You’ve got to look good to play the game halfway decent. I have a pair of green canvas golf shoes and an oversized Reebok Sweatshirt, and a pair of wide shorts that end just below the knee. Billy Brewski calls it my grunge look. I may play to a thirteen, but I look like a three out there.

Shoes are more important than “top of the line” golf clubs. Especially if you are just starting out in golf and walking a lot of holes. You need to invest in a good pair of golf shoes if you are going to take the game seriously. Cheap golf shoes have crippled more men than Madonna. I first started to play the game of golf with a pair of shoes bought from Sears-Roebuck. They were a putrid black and red check against a cream background. I liked to have crippled myself before investing wisely in a pair of Foot-Joys.

Better yet, take an already broken-in pair of shoes to the cobbler and have them converted into a pair of golf shoes. Say to the cobbler, “I’m giving these shoes to a friend, the lucky stiff. He don’t know how lucky he is getting to play golf everyday while I’m at work.” This may get you a price break from the cobbler. Now he may only charge you $17 instead of the $20 for the $9 job that he is doing on you and the golf shoes. Also you won’t feel so bad when you throw the shoes away and swear off the game for good after shooting a light running 85.

To have a good time on the golf course it is imperative that you get to the course bright and early. You can’t have much fun on the golf course at night, unless you are accompanied by a blonde and a blanket, and are waiting for a Drambuie front to move in. Of course this kind of stroking and putting isn’t recognized by the USGA.

The first order of business when you arrive at the course is to order a Slo-Gin fizz. This will steady your nerves and stop the churning of your stomach from the night before when you made the golfing date show up bright and early to have a good old-time. It will also help relieve the pressure on your sternum so you can make at least a partial shoulder turn without tearing something loose deep inside of you.

Next move. Find out who you made the golf date with the night before. Greet everyone you meet with a big smile and a huge “Hi there.” Soon you will see someone else with a puzzled look on his face, saying, “Hi there” to everyone he meets. It’s 8 to 5 this is who you made the date with the night before.

Get on the first tee and follow tradition, lie about how you are playing. Say “my handicap is a thirteen, but I’m playing to a nineteen.” Then the other golfer will tell a couple of lies himself and the games are ready to begin.

Forget about playing even close to your regular game. It’s the deal you make on the first tee that counts. Keep the bets small, never more than a $2 nassau. Then lose about $6 or $8 bucks maneuvering your opponent into the unenviable position of buying lunch. On a good day you can come out ahead by $8 or $10 using this ploy.

Advice is always prevalent on a golf course. The best I ever heard was when a guy came in after shooting about 150. He asked the members of his foursome what he should give his caddy following the round. “Your clubs,” was the answer he got.

So go on out on these unseemly warm days we are having. Remember these few rules and you’ll have a good time. And if that don’t work, say to heck with the USGA—-grab you a blonde and go at night.

In Memory of My Dad #6

It’s Saturday. Which means I’m thinking of my dad today.

He died on a Saturday.

My sister nailed it when she compared it to a new born’s age. You count every day of their life. Here in the beginning stages of my dad’s passing, and our grieving, we count each day too. It’s been 12 days, It’s been 18 days. We have now entered the week stage. Five weeks. Thirty-five days.

I have a storage building sitting in the backyard of my mother’s house. It was the very first thing I bought, outside of a car. My uncle owned and ran a portable building shop and he sold me a building for $600. I, being very young, but needing a place to store my stuff when I moved back in with my mother, paid him $50 a month for a year until it was paid for. Interest free.

My dad asked to store some boxes there once. The building just sits. No one ever adds to or takes away.

Today something compelled me to go to the building. I opened the heavy door, cautious of waspers that sometimes fly about. I pulled the heavy door open, stepped inside, and the Texas panhandle wind blew it shut, leaving me in the dark. Outside, I saw a rake lying near and propped it open. Inside were boxes from my highschool years, old clothes, a box of carebears from my childhood, an old couch and chair, a desk, and several boxes belonging to my dad.

They were labeled in his handwriting: Important papers, Colored Bottles and Teapots, and of course Books.

I love his handwriting. But more than that, I love his writing. His actual writing. So often the people who knew him and speak of him, talk about his words. Just today at my garage sale, an old co-worker of his spoke of how he could write and use words so well. I know that his special friend Jane fell in love with him through his commentaries in the local newspaper before she ever even met him.

Being a “writer” myself, I was thrilled when I opened a box and found his stories from his stint at the newspaper, and then I found a journal. A small, light green spiral bound Mead notebook. On the cover is printed in his hand NOTES #1 Journal. The inside cover reads in cursive The Journals of Bob, and printed on the back cover is The Journals of Robert lee—soldier, statesman, Author. My mom always cautioned me about keeping a journal. Others will someday read your innermost thoughts and feelings. I’m anxious to read this journal, but I’m also excited. I’ll hear from him again. His words will live on.

I do believe my dad lived longer than he ever thought possible. In the Important Papers box, there was a manilla envelope filled with printed computer articles with titles such as “Brain Basics: Preventing Stroke”, “Guidelines for Management of Ischemic Attacks”, “Practice Guidelines for Acute Stroke” that my sister had mailed him in 1998.

And written in his hand on the outside of the envelope in a red pen are these words:

In these, my final years, I believe in Love.

I also believe in Kindness, Tenderness and Mercy.

I believe in The goodness of mankind.

I above all believe in family.

I must never let my life be ruled by drink or drugs. I must never let my happiness depend on the thoughts, whims or demands of another person.

I swear that I will never forget the goodness of Truth and honesty. I will always remember the harshness of life…And, I will always know its warmth.

I have known its Love.

Bob

’98

55 years, and holdin’

2 or 3 strokes

Each Saturday after today, I’m going to share a story from my dad.

Until I run out of stories.

Or Saturdays, whichever comes first.

The Funeral

This morning I opened my eyes and the world was still turning. It still is, and more likely than not, it will continue to do so. Everything is real. Nothing has been a dream. Although it seems surreal, we laid my dad to rest yesterday in a beautiful service. A service I hope he would’ve been proud of. My sweet husband J-Dub said even though funerals aren’t cool, that was the coolest funeral he’s ever attended.

My dad’s nephew, Kevin, delivered the message and told stories that reflected his life. Although many weren’t told, or couldn’t be, I hope they are being told somewhere. Remember stories only happen to those who can tell them. Tell your stories.

My dad had a t-shirt he loved to wear and wore often. It read, “Being Bob is my Job.” Everyday was Saturday to him, and all he had to work at was just Being Bob, and he did it like no other. His nephew spoke about him being Bob the Parent, Bob the Patriot, and Bob the Provider, providing us with an abundance of laughter, joy and memories. A beautiful slide show remembered his life. Bob Seger sang, “Like A Rock” and that’s what he was. As strong as he could be. My brother Stan said he was a Superman, and that’s true, nothing could get to him.

The Patriot Riders, a group of veterans, honored him by lining the walkways and leading the procession of cars to the graveside. A very long procession of cars, I might add. His sister Jeanne said Bob would’ve enjoyed knowing he stopped all that traffic.

His pall bearers donned Hawaiian shirts in his honor, I know he would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

The Marines played Taps and presented the flag. It was a proud moment.

At the conclusion a white dove was released.

It lifted itself to the heavens, I watched it as long as I could, and then it was gone. Just like him.

His friends have made a facebook page in his remembrance, and it is a comfort to read the stories and see the love people had for him. One friend wrote it perfectly, “It is clear that Bob was well-loved, and has loved well.” How true, how true.

The tears that pour down my cheeks and fall on this keyboard aren’t tears for my dad. Why cry for him? His struggles are over. My tears are selfish tears. Tears of hurt. Tears of loneliness and sorrow. Tears of missed opportunities and dashed plans. I am grateful to have had nearly 36 years with this man.

This man who held me, laughed with me, encouraged me, danced with me, who never judged me, never spanked me, who gave me horsey rides and sloppy kisses and insisted I was rubbing them in instead of rubbing them off, who prayed for me, who believed in me, who taught me the important things without knowing it, who loved me bigger than Hog Eyes and Sauerkraut, Alabama. (I’ll have to tell you the meaning of that someday).

I know I’ll see him soon, but I can’t see him today. I’ll have to wait and press onward. He would want me to.

The prayers of friends and loved ones have reached the ears of God, and He has carried me and my family past this hurdle. But as I gaze down the road I’m traveling today, all I see is a path of hurdles ahead. tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. Today. Right now. We still need your prayers, please.

When hanging up the phone or in emails to him, he would tell us, “Love you back.” I hope he knew how deep my love was for him, and still is.

Love you back, dad.

P.S. The pics of the funeral are from the Patriot Riders, https://picasaweb.google.com/Proudnamvet/BobBriggsUSMCVietnamTahlequahOK3211?feat=directlink#5579597761663225378

Giddy Up Oomm poppa oomm poppa mow mow

Yesterday I got my hair done.

Or rather, yesterday I got ma har did.

Today I’ve changed my name to Elvira.

And not because we have similar bosoms. Trust me on this.

Let’s just say my hair is a bit dark.

I’m including a picture (not of my bosoms).

So when you see me at The Walmarts you won’t say stupid things like:

“You colored your hair!”

or “Whoa! Your hair is different”

Gotta go now, meeting someone at the Hungry House Cafe.

High Ho Silver, Away!

The Memory of a Sound

I recently purchased this magazine.
I say recently, but it was way back in 2010.

I have no idea why I would purchase a magazine called Do it yourself, since I don’t do anything myself. There must have been something that caught my eye on the cover, but now…..who knows? This is one of those mags that if you have nothing to do all day except create adorableness from egg shells and paper, this is your heaven.

It does have some extremely cute crafts in it.

See, I even dog-eared this page on crafting with felt. Felt makes me happy. Not that there’s even a remote chance I’ll be frolicking with felt in the future.

This is an old railroad tie used as a mantle. I love it. We have a similar piece of rustic roughness found in an old building that we are going to use as a mantle in our little trailer house on the prairie. Maybe in 23 more years or so.

But the point of this whole post is this:

These canisters.

My old grannie had an ugly-as-sin, avocado green tin canister just exactly like the one in the back of this picture.

It sat on her countertop next to the stove, and she sometimes stored goodies such as homemade peanut butter cookies in it.

I remember stealthily trying to lift the lid off to sneak a cookie or treat. The “swoosh” of the lid coming off the canister echos in my head. I would try not to make a sound, and inevitably always would pling, plang, and gong one against the other, giving myself away. Like sneezing during a game of hide-and-seek.

Sometime during my childhood, we got a new step cousin in the family. He wasn’t one of us, and I remember treating him as an outsider. When memories like these flood back, I always try to blame my sister. But truthfully, I don’t know who was the instigator of being harsh with him. It could’ve been my idea, or my cousin’s (his step-brother) or my sister’s, regardless I remember the four of us being outside huddled under a tree, being ugly to our new family member and telling him that “WE (the privileged real grandchildren) knew our grannie’s secret hiding place for goodies and that he had better be nice or we wouldn’t let him know.”

I wish I could go back under that tree and change that conversation. I hope he doesn’t remember. I’m ashamed.

Seeing these burnt orange canisters in a magazine stirred something inside me. I asked my mom, who now lives in my grannie’s old house, if she knew where that avocado green canister was. She said it was around there someplace. Then about one week later, I received a call, and lo and behold, the little criminal she has living with her (another story for another time) was cleaning out the garage and it turned up.

Here it is. On my kitchen countertop by my stove.

It’s not in as good of condition as the orange ones in the magazines.

Why I have this in my house, in my blue and yellow kitchen, is something that I must explore deep within my soul. And maybe discuss with my therapist, which happens to be Marie, my school librarian.

Why, when I am desperately trying to simplify and minimalize, did I bring this old junky, unfashionable, semi-unpractical item out from the dust and mire of a dirty garage to sit purposeless on my already cluttered kitchen counter?

Why do I sometimes go to my kitchen for no other reason but to lift the lid just so I can hear the pling from my childhood?

I know why.

It’s so I can see my grannie sitting in her chair with a poodle on her lap.

Or standing at the kitchen counter pressing out the peanut butter cookies. She would let me mash on the cookie dough with a meat tenderizer to create the little indented designs and then sprinkle sugar on top when they came out of the oven, soft and warm.

I’m suddenly having a peanut butter cookie hankering.

And I need a tissue.

My New Old Truck

I’ve been on the hunt for an old truck.

It’s on my list .

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#6 says “Drive a restored classic pick-up.

I had an idea for something like this.

Or even this:

But instead, I got this:

when my husband came in the other day and said, “Hey babe, I got good news for you.”

Of course my interest was piqued right then and there.

“My buddy, Ol’ Earl is going to give you a pick-up.”

Give is the operative word here. At this point, I should have come to my vehicular senses and realized that a truck that is going to be given away probably didn’t win first prize at the Car Show last weekend.

J-Dub says it’s nice, as he draw the word out for emphasis. There isn’t a tear in the seat, it’s clean. It’s niiiiiiiiiiiice.

We go to pick it up. Rather, we attempt to pick it up. J-Dub grabs a can of starter fluid ’cause Ol’ Earl says it’s a cold natured bleepity bleep.

I crawl behind the wheel.

The problem with these old trucks and me is even with the seat pushed all the way forward, I can barely get the clutch all the way to the floorboard. I’m going to have to put a pillow behind my back or something.

J-Dub gives it a squirt of starter fluid. I pump the gas and turn the crank.

It rr-rrrr-rrr-r–rrrrr-r-r–rrrrrr-‘s for a while.

But nothing.

So J-Dub gives it some more squirts. I pump the foot feed some more and crank it over.

Rrrrrr–rrrrr-rrrrr-r-r-rrrr-rr-rr–r-r–r-r-r.

But nothing.

So J-Dub gives it some more squirts. I pump the gas and turn the key, and pump the gas some more.

And then we catch it on fire.

I mean literally.

Not that it fired up, but now I think I know how that term originated, but it caught on fire.

We (I mean Jason) put out the fire with a couple bleepity bleeps as I rushed for my camera.

We don’t give up easy however. A measly old fire isn’t going to deter the two of us. We tried some more, with no success, and then gave up.

Within the next few days, Ol’ Earl changed the fuel filter. He’s niiiiiiiiiice. So tonight we went out for Picking up the Truck: Take Two.

It had been sitting on a battery charger, so my hopes were high.

After hunting for the key for a good 10 minutes, and a few more bleepity bleeps out of Jason, a few more pumps on the gas, a few more turns of the key, a few more rrrrrrr—r-rrrrrrr–r-r-rrrrrrrrrrr–r-rrrrrrrrrr’s and it fired right up.

Then died.

Then a few more pumps of the foot feed, a few more turns of the key, a few more rrrrr-r-rrrr-r-r-r-rrr-r-r–r’s and it fired up again.

And died.

Third time is always the charm.

So now I’ve got a truck.

It’s not restored.

It’s not classic.

Heck, it’s not even legal.

But check out the stereo system in this thing.

Now that’s what I’m talking about.

Headless Chickens Need Not Apply

Today the phrase “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” is an understatement of the millennium.

And one that I hope I never, ever witness.

I cannot bear to see this beauty without a head.

I’ll cry.

Or this one.

Have I mentioned I’m getting chickens delivered March 14th? Oh, I have? Only 3 gazillion times you say. Sorry. It’s just that I’m busting at the seams.

The next two weeks of my life are a whirlwind of busy-ness. I have been dreading these last 2 weeks of January. Some days I find myself wanting to step into a time machine and travel to February 1st, but then I’d feel compelled to push forward to March 14th, for reasons obvious. Surely.

During the next 10 days, I am going to be out of my classroom for 5 of them. Three of those days I will be learning all about Title I schools. My school is heading down the Title I path, which means that 50% or more of our student population qualifies for free or reduced lunches. We are the final campus to move this direction, all other schools in my town are already Title I, which tells you a little bit about the demographics of my little town of 17,000 people.

The other 2 days I will be out testing my second graders one by one. Three times a year, we get substitutes to teach our class while we sit individually with each student and assess their reading, writing, and spelling abilities. It is arduous on both them and me. So planning for a substitute and then catching up, to only plan for a substitute again makes me feel like a headless chicken.

Adding to these work responsibilities is this little thing called life. Cleaning house, cooking meals, being a wife, keeping up with my postaday blogging challenge, keeping up with my exercise plan and buddy I’ve already fallen behind with, remodeling a trailer house and packing and moving. I’m beat already. Finished before I started. Stick a fork in me. I’m done.

I’m sure many others can certainly relate to the busy-ness of our existence.

Today the calendar date glares at me reminding me I am two days late for the Beth Moore Scripture Memory Team. Every month, on the 1st and the 15th, we choose a verse from the Bible to memorize. Jesus used scripture when tempted by Satan. It is the sword by which we do battle.

I awoke this morning thinking of my upcoming duties, feeling the heaviness of responsibility weighing on my shoulders and my prayer was simply, “Thank you and help!”

I need refreshing. I searched for a memory verse that would tell me to come to the Lord for refreshing, to call on the Lord and he’ll give me energy to endure, to rest in the Lord, which I found and He will, but the verse that spoke to me did not tell my to lay down and rest. It did not say massages and pedicures are in full order.

Dang it.

It did not tell me to take 3 hour naps. Not even 2 hour ones.

It told me to be an active participant rather than a passive recipient of the refreshing I desperately need.

Proverbs 11:25 screamed itself at me this morning.

“A generous man will prosper, he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed.”

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but rather what I NEEDED to hear. How many times do I selfishly think to myself or worse, complain to others:

I have so much to do.

I can’t get it all done.

I’m so behind.

When rather I need to stop thinking about myself and say,

Look around.

Who needs your help today?

What can you do for someone else?

Who in your little world needs refreshing?

And then refreshing shall come.

May you find your needs met today.

Love,

Five Reasons Not to Have a Blogging Buddy

Five days ago an idea for bloggers to pair up with a blogging buddy went out over the world wide web via wordpress, the site that hosts this blog. This is an effort to motivate, uplift, and encourage bloggers to keep up with the commitment they have made to blog in 2011. Much like an exercise buddy who will hold you accountable, unless you are both weak-willed and convince each other ice-cream and beer sounds better than jumping jacks and bicep curls. Within minutes of this post, bloggers from around the world were holding hands and skipping in circles. I stood on the edge of this online playground, watching the happy bloggers, scared to get in the game for fear of rejection or dashed hopes.

I am approaching this like everything else I approach in life, with fearful trepidation. This idea of a blogging buddy both intriques me, yet scares me. I did a little pondering and came up with a few reasons why I’m still sitting on the swings while everyone else is playing kick-ball.

Five reasons I’m scared of having a blogging buddy:

1. I’m afraid they won’t be committed. They might say at first they are going to post a blog daily, but are they still going to be as enthusiastic come May 17th?

2. I’m afraid I’ll end up with a moron. You know, someone who can’t use there, their, and they’re appropriately. I might have to let loose my inner teacher on them.

3. I’m afraid I’ll get a buddy who thinks Jesus is a fake. Then I’ll have to worry about their soul in addition to their blogging.

4. I’m afraid my buddy will be a completely superficial fashion blogger who will tempt me to buy new clothes of which I’ve decided I am buying no new clothes in 2011. I am simplifying my wardrobe, not adding to it.

5. I’m afraid I’ll have nothing in common with my buddyand won’t be able to intelligently respond to his posts about nuclear war heads and/or guitar riffs.

Again today I searched through the 800 plus comments of people wanting blogging buddies. I clicked on a couple of blogs that I found interesting, but alas they disappointed. Perhaps I’m taking this a little too seriously. Afterall, this is a blogging buddy, it’s not eHarmony. I don’t have to marry this person, just read their blogs for Pete’s sake. But I’ve been on bad dates before, and my past experiences are reminding me how painful this blogging buddy experience might turn out to be. There is still 11 and a half months left in the year. Eleven and a half months to blog daily and encourage someone else to as well.

But I faced my fears today and went ahead and walked out onto the playground. I’m five days late but I put myself out there to see if I could still get in the game.

This is my post.

Hello, I’ve been perusing on this site some, trying to find my “perfect” match. I’ve been blogging daily, even when it’s hard, even when I don’t want to, even when I’m super busy, and I want someone who appreciates and possesses the same commitment. My blog is http://www.chroniclesofarocketsurgeon.com and it is about my life as a fumbling earthling. I tell stories mostly, try to make people laugh once in a blue moon, and blog about simplifying my life. I would like a blogging buddy, but to be perfectly honest, I’m scared of getting paired up with a moron or someone who lacks commitment, or someone who we later find out we have nothing in common. So please, if you want to choose me, don’t break my heart 🙂

Appealing, isn’t it? This might help to understand why I didn’t marry until age 29.

I’ll keep you posted.