Scraping The Plate Clean . . . And Then?

In a previous post, I wrote about scraping my plate clean.  As soon as I did that, a flood of new adventures came my way. There has also been a bit of lonliness from my fairly strict adherence to avoiding male friendships. . . although, life has become so much less complicated!  I hate lonliness, but I think I dislike confusing, complicated interactions more — a revelation it took 44 years to reach.  It was my birthday last week.

Now that my plate is clean and has extra space, I can’t figure out what to put on it.  Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis.  Today, there was a photo shoot for my trainer at my house.  I was the trainee — I think the back of my arms and one of my cross-trainers will be in the pictures.  The same photographer did a shoot for an article about my invention last year.  I thought his name was John, so I kept introducing him as “John” today.  He gave me his card at the end of the shoot, right before he walked out the door. Okay, his name is not “John.”  In fact, there isn’t even anything “John-like” about his name.  I am becoming my mother! 

I insisted that Business Girl read The 4 Hour Work Week so that we could come up with a joint “muse.”  We have a plan to eventually retire together and hire a joint caretaker, named Goldie (yes, we’ve already named her . . . which is a good thing because I probably won’t remember anyone’s name by then).  Business Girl thinks she has found Goldie in the form of a duo named Waleska and Kevin.  Waleska cleans and Kevin organizes, decorates, and cooks.  They cost $350 per week.  We need to find that muse.  Hello, Business Girl, you need to finish reading the book or you’ll be retiring alone!

My teenage daughter and my mother have each been running negative narratives about me (to me) – sometimes, in unison. . . usually occurs at the dinner table.  It’s really fun — I think that is why I was able to eat an entire pizza last night (very constructive on the eve of a photo shoot with your trainer). 

Before the shoot this morning, my mother emerged from her room (my former dining room) and told me not to put “so much white under my eyes.”  I wasn’t wearing any make-up under my eyes – it was salty pizza puff.  I had toad eyes.
I tried to cover the balloons under my eyes with make-up, but then I had old-lady puffy and wrinkled eyes.  My solution was to keep turning my head away from the camera during the shoot.  That worked for a bit until my trainer told me to stop it because I was messing up my form. . . she must not have noticed my gigantic, bulging eyes.   

I showed my mother the nice blog I wrote about her and she told me to use it as her obituary (not the response I was going for).  Then, I noticed that the same blog was picked up and put on a page about pet supplies. . . Hmmm.  CLICK HERE to return to the website.

KudoSurf Me!