The first time I ran a marathon a woman I barely knew told me to give myself a coffee enema two days before the race. Say what? Uh hu. You read that right – a coffee enema.
“It will clear you out so you don’t have to poop on the course,” she said.
There’s a lot of (bare with my intentional pun here) crappy advice floating around this world. Butt, (I know, another one, I can’t help myself), then again, because there are so many different people with so many different ways, perhaps there really isn’t such a thing as crappy advice – perhaps it only appears that way because our perceptions are thus so …
They key, is to always know that advice is only that – advice. A suggestion, if you will, on how to do something. But in the end, you have to live your life – you have to make your mistakes, and experience your triumph … and the best advice anyone ever gave me was to always, always, always, keep perspective – because if you can do that then you will never lose yourself.
Oh, and for those of you that have continued reading only because you want to know if I actually gave my self a coffee enema, rest assured, I did not. And I managed to run that marathon without any trips to the port-a-pot.
Today’s post inspired by The Daily Prompt: Powerful Suggestion – “What’s the one piece of advice you wish someone had given you a year (or five, or ten …) ago?” Note, this is a repost from well over a year ago, but as I’m running a marathon tomorrow, I thought it rather appropriate. Go ahead, wish me luck – I’ll take it : ) AND NO … I will not be partaking in any form of a coffee enema. Thank you very much.
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I didn’t learn much from my grandmother – and I don’t have a bank of fond memories to fall back when I think of her. But, while it goes without saying that she was from a different era, it wasn’t the generation gap that kept us from being close. It was pure personality rooted in two very, very different upbringings. She was (literally) fresh off the boat from the “old world”, married at thirteen to a much older man, became a mother at fourteen, worked more hours in a day than I ever would in a week, scrubbed soiled clothes on a washboard, and counted her money down to the very last coin. Me, on the other hand, I was born right here in the privileged United States, was concerned about nothing other lip gloss and movie stars at fourteen, and to this day have yet to balance my checking account (not a good trait, but true nonetheless).
BUT. While I never learned much from her, I did learn one thing that has served me well over the years. Not in everyday conversation mind you, but behind closed doors, under my breath even, I can mutter an entire paragraph of insults without anyone else having a clue what I’m saying because my grandmother was a master linguist. Not only did she know Gallic, and maybe some German, but she was fluent in pig Latin. Fluent I tell you. So thanks to her, to the stranger that fries me when they cut me off in line or just plain fries me, I can tell them – I can spew and they haven’t a clue. If anything they think I’m crazy. And it surprises me – because I can’t be the only person that knows this long forgotten language. Or can I? Isn’t there someone out there, someone anywhere that knows pig Latin? Anyone … Oesday anyoneway elseway owknay igpay atinlay? And for that matter, why doesn’t Rosetta have a course on pig Latin? Perhaps I should suggest it – stay tuned. Coming to an airport near you, Rosetta pig Latin.
Today’s post (albeit kind of upidstay) is brought to you by The Daily Prompt: “Take That, Rosetta! If you could wake up tomorrow and be fluent in any language you don’t currently speak, which would it be? Why? What’s the first thing you do with your new linguistic skill?” OH, and IF I could learn another language it would be Italian. And then I would be able to speak Italian pig Latin and the world would be at my feet : )
Remember the Kenny Roger’s song, “Coward of the County”?
“… Promise me, son, not to do the things I’ve done.Walk away from trouble if you can.It won’t mean you’re weak if you turn the other cheek.I hope you’re old enough to understand: Son, you don’t have to fight to be a man …”
I grew up with those lyrics. And many similar “story” songs by the likes of Loretta Lynn, Ronnie Millsap, Marty Robbins, Roy Clark, The Statler Brothers (yes, we’re talkin’ County AND Western here folks). To this day, I love that kind of music – of course most of these artists were singing these tales of woe long before music videos became mainstream. I think maybe I liked the genre so much because my brain had to fly off on a tangent and create the characters in my imagination … similar, I suppose, to writing the fiction that I do now. Continue reading
I have never been on the front lines of discrimination. Never felt the sting of nasty eye stares because my skin is a different colorthan the purveyor of a store or other establishment that I’m in. Never overheard whispering from onlookers wondering “what makes her think she can shop here?” But hey, I live in America. I’m white. And I’m not gay. I’m not overweight. And I don’t show any signs of outwardly obvious religious affiliations. From the outside looking in, I’m a poster child for the Aryans. Hell, the Nazis would have loved me – but you know what? That’s kinda scary. No. It’s really scary. And quite frankly, I don’t like it. Continue reading
Where can you jump out of an airplane (sans parachute) and live? Or run naked through a rainforest, be alive during the Renaissance, scale over the top of the Himalayans, be loved by a pirate?
Where can you sail with the Vikings, fly to the moon, run on a beach with Sebastian Coe, be fed by Julia Child, meet Nelson Mandela?
Where can you try everything you’ve ever wanted to try, suffer immense pain, experience profound triumph, walk in someone else’s shoes for once –
The movies. Of course. Don’t actors have it awesome? Today’s post inspired by The Daily Prompt: The show must go on – “If you were involved in a movie, would you rather be the director, the producer, or the lead performer?” Me, yep, I’d be an actor – especially if someone would bring Starbucks to my trailer everyday :) Oh, and do my hair too … that would be nice.
I loved high school. I mean hey, I had the world at my feet and a fully deployed umbrella over my head. What wasn’t to love? I had a lot friends, a nice house and a closet chalk full of fabulous stuff. BUT. For as much as it pains me to admit this … there is one particular thing that, whenever I think about it, still carves into my side like a frickin’ knife. A dull painful knife at that. (And no, this isn’t going to be a post about losing my virginity or attending my first kegger – what? Now you don’t want to read? Now that there’s no promise of teenage promiscuity I’ve lost your interest? Oh come on – this is better – really – because it still pisses me off and because after you read it you’ll want to throw something at my stupid little teenage self.) Continue reading