Gym Relationships

Having a bit of a running hang over I decided to head to the back of the gym and jump on the elliptical machine to work out the pain from a grueling half marathon from a few days before.  Typically, I avoid this section of the gym and go directly to the part of the gym that is only for the ladies. The “no man” zone of the gym has no TV’s, music, and the air conditioning is barely there, but it is worth it because this area of the gym is mostly deserted. However, this day I needed distraction of any type to get through thirty minutes of moving very sore, tired legs. Luckily, the men got to the TV’s.  Golf and baseball were already on, because when I work out I do think about watching golf. What girl doesn’t? Baseball being on the other TV was just a freaking bonus.

With all the stimulating things to watch on TV my mind wandered to the man working out a few rows in front of me on the stair stepper.  He had a pretty good rhythm going and I quickly became transfixed on his back. It was a little humid in the gym and he must have been working out for a while because his shirt was clinging to his body in a not unpleasant way, and the pace he was stepping was quite acceptable.  Not to mention his broad shoulders to waist ratio was notable, at least more than golf for me. I thought to myself that I will not only be able to commit to this workout, but quite possible enjoy it.

However, like most relationships the more difficult my workout became the more I began to scrutinize the stair stepping man in front of me.  As I looked more closely, I decided I wanted to see a little more definition in his back region that I was once so fond of.  I realized that his pace that seemed so strong and dance like before now seemed predictable and boring. And then I looked more closely at his style.

Stair stepping man had on a pair of cargo shorts on that went down to his knees. Not typical gym shorts and for the amount of time he was stepping, they did not seem that they would be comfortable at all. I also noticed he had two shirts on. Who wears layers to the gym, unless you are a wrestler trying to make weight for his upcoming match? Then I noticed his shoes. Stair stepping man was wearing leather sandals. It seemed that my stair stepping man might have just forgotten his gym clothes or likes discomfort…well, I will never know.

Our relationship was done. It was over.  I am not sure if it was the wearing of two layers and cargo shirts or the leather sandals. Or maybe life just got too hard on the elliptical for me. I have no hard feelings though. I think this was just what I needed to get through a difficult time, even it if was just thirty minutes. When I passed by him on my way out of the gym that day we both went our separate ways. They only thing I could hear was his squeaky, sweat soaked leather sandals walking behind me, although I might have imagined this.




Lifter Wanted

I have met many people in my life that look at a relationship as a way to “complete” themselves. I believe this is a wrong way of thinking, but who am I to teach anyone about relationships. All I know is I have never belonged to this camp and never will. Since I have been single for the past 4 years, I do envy those who are able to divide and conquer life’s obstacles. I do the opposite. I add to and fail to. And as a result, I seem to singularly white knuckle and clench my teeth until my dentist bugs me about that attractive night guard.

I, dramatically, throw up my fist and say never in defiance to the dreaded night gear, and my dentist just shrugs and says your protest will seem pretty silly when you crack a tooth. He might be right, but I have enough issues. I won’t even subject my dogs to the sight of a night guard when I’m sleeping. However, with no night guard, I do let me mind wander to what it might be like to have a partner of some sorts. My life is much like that of an ant. I find myself lifting several times my body weight and completing chores that are arduous and obligation filled. Just like a worker ant, I look after my young, find food and take care of my nest.

Most of my house projects don’t require skilled, paid labor. And I know when I need to hire professionals. I recently hired a bunch of guys who put on a new roof. I was not delusional enough to think that I could have done this myself, but my other house projects mostly can be done by me. I do need a person who can “lift” everything and anything. I realize I don’t like asking strangers, neighbors, or friends to lift for me and I need to be in some sort of arranged relationship. I am willing to hire this person or date them. If I hire them, I will ask them to just stand quietly in the corner until I need their services. If I date them, perhaps it would be the same set up.

I will commit to think deeply about hiring a “lifter”, dating for the service, or just learning to bend my knees more. And I will continue my previous line of thinking and not look for that “lifter” to complete me, but it will be damn close I have to admit. My ability to not lift heavy things is really the only thing getting in the way of me and my present happiness. If you happen to come by my home and see a random person standing in the corner, it’s best not to ask questions.

I Will Mindfully Not Be Mindful.

I don’t often write or think about things that happen at my work, because life is short. Thinking about my place of business outside of work just seems to make time out of work that much shorter.  I spend much of my time maintaining a mostly dead from the inside to the outside shell of a person.   Some might think they see a spark in my eye from time to time, but no, it really is just a random light reflecting on a perfectly numbed spirit.

This on first read might sound depressing, but this is a blissful state of functioning.  I like it. It makes me less of a whiner and I never need to “process my emotions” or to use the word “process” when talking about my feelings.  Or say things like, “give me a minute to “unpack” that when talking about a situation that may have been overwhelming. It just doesn’t happen to me.  I am not that deep.  As a kid and as an adult, I truly believe the childish saying, “I am rubber and you are glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.” The emotional part of my brain might have a healthy coating of Teflon.

Lately things have gotten a bit out of control at work and so busy that keeping up has become extremely difficult. I haven’t done the math because I am a social worker, but trust me the number of work assignments have gone up a bunch.  I realize that people deal with stress in very different ways. I put in more hours, run a few more miles, and maybe get a bit quieter. I am not sure if the added work makes me disgruntled or if I like being extra distracted by the additional load, maybe both.

It was thought that perhaps a mindfulness exercise would help our team manage the stress. I do understand the concept behind a mindfulness practice. It is suppose to improve stress tolerance, improve focus,   and a good practice could help with communication, leadership and work place morale. These all seem like great things.  However, sitting in a room with my co-workers with my eyes closed while engaging in a mindfulness medication exercise is the LAST thing I would EVER want to do.

I am perfectly okay with mediating, I am dreadful at it, but I am altogether fine with trying to incorporate this as a practice if it would be helpful. What I am not okay with is making it a group activity, especially with co-workers.  It reminds me of when I used to go to step class and I ended up behind a familiar looking posterior. The behind turned out to be my male boss. I picked another class after that day because I am certain it was just as awkward for my boss to have his employee behind him in step class with a clear view of his spandex. Some things just shouldn’t be done with your co-workers.

No. I don’t ever want to close my eyes, breathe deeply, and practice relaxation techniques with my co-workers. Actually, I didn’t participate. I sat in the room with my eyes wide open and watched my co-workers with their eyes closed doing the breathing exercise, while I drank my coffee. I was baffled that everyone did the meditation without question. Maybe, I am the unreasonable one, but I draw the line at being mindful with my co-workers.

I work extremely hard to be mindless at work.  Dropping the less and adding the full just seems like overkill. If the group mindfulness exercise continues I will work hard to remain numb, dead on the inside, and unenlightened.   Unfazed with wide eyes and coffee in hand I will continue to watch my workers participate, a bit guiltily I might add, but not remorseful enough to acquiesce. Not yet, not ever.


Hell Yeah.

I have pretty much always known I was going to Hell. Whether it is a designated hot spot below or a cold hole on earth, there will most definitely be a place there with my name on it. I have been “saved” countless times as a youth by an over-zealous believer who must have sensed my overwhelming evil, and she might have been on to something.

I have daily infractions that I add to the list that will seal my inevitable doom to the damned. The list might include the following: I cook pasta in a sauce pan some days. I think people who say they “read the book” and actually listened to the book on audio book as cheaters. I judge bike commuters who take the light rail train with their bikes. I think they might be fake bikers who have an unnaturally attachment to their bikes. My car happens to double as a trash can. Presently, my yard consists of more weeds than actual grass. Just a few reasons my angel wings will be traded for devil horns when I approach the pearly gates. Some might think the above list seems to be petty, but it all depends on if your God is a bit uptight. Mine is.

On most days, I try to live intending not to offend, insult, rub the wrong way, or even be seen. I like to go unnoticed and when I do go unnoticed, I consider this to be an accomplishment. I once was a member of a gym for 5 years, and for the first 4 years not one person ever acknowledged my existence. It was pure bliss. If I could have a super power, it would be invisibility.

What does my quest for invisibility have to do with going to Hell? They might be two different things, but I find that when I am more outgoing I tend to make horrific life choices and this impacts my express pass to Hell. So, I tend to keep to myself and enjoy time with my daughter, and by enjoy time I mean… corrupting my daughter ever so slightly.

She recently showed me a video of this parrot who would not say anything but, “Fucker”. I wasn’t even upset that Ella was listening to a bird saying a swear word. She hears much worse from her mother. But in all honesty it was the way the bird said the word that was funny, but not so much the word itself. I am assuming the bird was a He, because of his foul mouth. He, the bird, would string out the word like F..U..C..K..E…R… and he would almost whisper it. I, now, wake my daughter up in the mornings, some days, by standing outside her door, sticking my head in her room ever so slightly and whispering F..U..C..K..E..R. She’s a light sleeper in the mornings, so even a whisper wakes her up. We do giggle when I do this, but it doesn’t make it right. I am certain this will be on the list offenses that will keep me aglow in life after death.

On a recent trip to home, my sister was listening to David Sedaris on audio. I have already read everything that David Sedaris has written. My sister and I listened to a story, called “The Rooster”. If you haven’t “READ” this story it’s about David’s brother who swears a bunch all the time, but he also swears in normal conversation while talking with his father. I, of course, started mimicking David’s brother while talking to my sister for the rest of my time with her. It would go something like this, Bitch! You better drive safe, Mother Fucker! The main point of the sentence structure is it has to start with Bitch, and end with Mother Fucker…insert whatever you like in between.

Let’s fast forward to Easter Sunday. I received a Happy Easter text from my sister, so I naturally responded, Bitch! Happy Easter, Mother Fucker! I didn’t even think about my response until I noticed that my sister’s text was a group text. So, yes, my fate is sealed. I am absolutely headed to Hell. If I was teetering on the scale between Heaven and Hell, I believe that text just tipped the scale in a downward direction. My hair in that heat and humidity won’t be good.

So, where do I go from here? I will continue to judge myself harshly, grow more weeds than grass, cook in whatever pan might be clean, and use curse words because I find that they add a flare like a good accessory does to jazz up an outfit. And I will pack light for my afterlife, with only a bathing suit and flip-flops. This will allow more room in my bag for my anti-frizz hair products.

Snow More!


I was informed today that Portland just might get another snow storm. My former self loved snow. I would approach each Portland winter with my fingers crossed that we would get snow, since it is such a rare occurrence.  Most winters I would be disappointed with old man winter. If it did snow it would be less than an inch.  My daughter would attempt to sled on grass. I always would feel a bit sad for her thinking that playing in the snow was sledding on cold, muddy grass with a few icy snow flakes and making 6 inch high snow man was normal. However, this winter after a few ice storms, a BIG snow, and 9 snow days later from school…I can say my winter dream of participating in the precipitation is fulfilled. The groundhog’s prediction of six more weeks of winter is officially rejected, and I am not accepting its credentials of rodent to be enough to pass as a meteorologist.

In the past, I would have so much joy and anticipation at the thought of snow. Back in my college days, I would end up in bars if classes were cancelled (which was rare). To clarify, classes being cancelled was rare, me ending up in bar during a snow storm was not.  When I moved to Philadelphia, I would again end up in a bar with a nice fire place, when the city would shut down for snow. It was glorious to walk down the vacated city streets during a snow storm.  Then I moved to Portland, snow in the city was a rare event. It was so rare that when it would snow I would get the urge to throw in something a little special to my bar experience, maybe a strip club.  I can’t explain why naked ladies factor into my life when it snows, but it can’t be just me.

Today, I am so against the snow, I am willing to write the President to suggest he write an Executive Order forbidding a single snowflake from entering Portland for the rest of 2017. Otherwise, I believe I might be on the verge of a freak out.  It could be quiet, and on the inside maybe. My freak out might even be in the form of a twitch or a weird twinkle in my right eye.  Or it could be an epic tantrum, if I wake up tomorrow with snow on the ground and Portland Public calling snow day number 10.  I’m afraid even naked ladies won’t lift my spirits this time;)


2017, You Look Fabulous!!!

Every year, I promise not to make any New Year’s resolutions and stick
to the tried and true tradition of lowering my standards. By not
having high standards I tend to not get disappointed. So, every New
Year’s Eve I raise my glass and toast to even lower standards from
last year. One might think that I would be eating out of dumpsters and
drinking out of mud puddles by now, but I do draw the line at such
things. However, I wouldn’t decline a garbage bag full of the “it”
restaurant’s left overs that might be tossed in the trash anyway, but
that could be another story. My standards are low, but they have
served my easy going nature, and  my quest for nothing. However, 2016
has been a tough year to chew and swallow.

Last year, I did have an unspoken goal to compliment people. It
started off great. I paid a compliant to a co-worker, I really liked
her boots. From there, I thought that once a day I would compliment any random individual. I didn’t have to know the person, I just genuinely had to like something about them enough to compliment. Sounds easy enough, right?  Well, it lasted one day, and
then I lost my nerve. I am a bit introverted, so putting myself out there like that wasn’t the most comfortable. So, instead of expressing my likes at random strangers openly and out loud, I would compliment them “silently” in my own mind.

Hello there, you don’t know me, but I really like your shirt. Can you take it off, because I think I like your abs.  Okay, you might think that this compliment is
over the top, but they don’t know or hear the thoughts in my head, so
I could get down right creepy if I wanted. There is no need to judge.
Oh, hey random person, I love that sweater. Where did you get it? Can
I have it?  So, I silently complimented people’s hair, boots, eyes,
muscles, nails, choice of food, choice of partner, running gait…the
list is endless. I was like the Santa Claus of compliments. I got
really good at the mindful compliments, but never instituted the
actual appreciation out loud. I think of it as random thoughts of
kindness, but no action necessary. Perhaps, I am a apathetic

The way 2016  is ending has made it extremely hard to keep up my
silent contribution to mankind, and leaves me looking forward to 2017.
I am tempted to not lower my standards, yet again, because I believe
that I just might be at my rock bottom of accepting crap and and
consuming it because it happens to be the same color as chocolate. I
was doing so well just accepting the cards that have been dealt, and
thinking that the outcome must be in someway the universe making
me payoff my karmic dept. I have a big one, it seems.  So, in 2017 I
will make goals, not resolutions. I will do things. Hell, I might even
decide to date and learn to fly a small plane.  I will also commit to
continuing my silent compliments of others, because it seems to work
for me. So, if you see me out and about and I’m staring at you
deeply, don’t fret. I might be complimenting you.

Jingle Hell

The day after Thanksgiving I was in my local coffee shop grabbing a quick cup of coffee while I was on my way to work. As I walked in the door, I was assaulted with Christmas music. I understand that it is customary for businesses, radio stations and really everybody to start to play Christmas music before the turkey is even cold. But as my ears were being raped with holiday cheer, my brain was trying to determine just how I was going to cope with this reality and how I was going to survive the next month. I already have a slough of self harming rituals that I perform on a weekly basis in order to continue to exist on this planet.  I’m not sure I can squeeze one more in my already full  daily schedule. It is a balancing act that includes  so many things that I could go on for days and days listing them one by one.  The one thing that my daughter pointed out that I have been doing unbeknownst to me is talking to myself, a shit ton….morning to night. I am not certain what I say to myself, but I think I mostly repeat, “Are you fucking kidding me? several times throughout the day, especially when I am looking in the mirror, but the mirror and the phrase are not mutually exclusive.

However, this Christmas music situation is adding a hint of desperation to my mood that I don’t remember being present in past holiday seasons.  I feel like someone who is allergic to the sun, like a vampire. But it’s not the sun, it’s festive melodies. I have a over the top reaction, like I just might die if I can’t make it stop. I find myself almost cursing at the tunes, like a irrational teen. If I hear Christmas music I must turn it off if I have the ability or flee from it if I have no power to quiet it down. I don’t believe I will have the mental fortitude to holiday shop in a public place this year. I might make it only 20 minutes before I am on the hunt for a sharp object to cut myself to relieve the heart crushing anger that this cheerful music stirs.  I know what you’re thinking, Christmas music and blood don’t go together, but I disagree. If I wear green and cut just a little, the blood, I think, will really put me in the holiday spirit.

I realize it’s not even December yet. I know that I haven’t begun to run this Holiday marathon. Oh, Sorry,  this Christmas marathon. I didn’t mean to offend any Christians out there. I believe that I might need to start a desensitization program to sink into this holiday season slowly, like I do when I take a nice warm bath.  My hope is that the music will start to resemble the  stifled moans that come from my cold dark heart, and I will disregard the music  like I do the moans and go about my normal day, numb and robotic. I want to approach the harmonized over-commercialized arrangements like I do with  people  I happened to know and whom I really don’t care for, or unpleasant medical procedures. For example, I recently got a shot of cortisone for a overuse injury. This was not something I liked, but I tolerated this just like I do when people talk to me in elevators about the weather or when strangers talk to me about their health conditions on public transportation.  I don’t like it, but I don’t get rabid. However, holiday music is my Achilles heel, the thing that makes me feel like Kirk Douglas in the movie, “Falling Down”. For now, I will just consider this a condition and will proceed with caution. If you happen to see me in the next 29 days and if you have a spare Xanax, feel free to slip it in my Christmas Stocking or directly into my  fancy holiday Starbucks cup.  Heck, I will even try to catch in my mouth, like a dog, if you throw it in air as an early Christmas present. I did put it on my Christmas list, but I believe that I didn’t make the cut on Santa’s nice list this year, so I am not holding my breath.


I guess I have been burning on empty for a while now. It has been difficult to realize just how drained I have been feeling, because when I’m this fried all judgement and insight must have dried up months ago. Lately, I wake up from my dream state on most mornings by hitting my alarm a little too hard, and sink into to my daily realization that others might call hopelessness. I wake, work, leave, and repeat. Sometimes I dream that it’s Friday only to wake and realize it Wednesday, these days are the most challenging. My job lately feels a little like the mailman’s mail bag during the holidays. The cases have been piling up and the deadline to deliver remains the same regardless of the amount that I have assigned.

I must have been comfortably miserable not realizing how tapped I was muddling through my day by day getting things done just by sheer pissy angst. I walked out to my garden after a long day to do some maintenance, and I was immediately stressed out by my vegetables. I stood there staring at all of them, and was sure they were staring back pleading with me in their own semi-aggressive way to either be picked, watered or eaten, in what order I am not sure cause I couldn’t quite hear them over the even louder voices in my own head.

My first thought was consistent with how i feel about work, I asked my veggies out loud, “How am I going to keep up with all of you? Why are so many of you due at the same time?” At this very moment I realized I was 24 hours away from a much needed vacation. Gardening is, typically, not the straw that breaks the camel’s back, right? However, I was standing in the middle of my garden having a conversation with my vegetables, probably a little more loudly than I initially anticipated. My cases are due, my reports are due, and now my veggies are DUE. I attempted to remind myself that vegetable are not DUE…they are RIPE , and this became the mantra I repeated to myself as I picked my nagging veggies this evening burdened with the thoughts of what I was going to do with all of them.

I immediately packed my bags upon returning from my garden. I found homes for all of my veggies that had to leave my garden that evening. I think they all found their forever homes. As for me, I realize I am the one who is due, and I am rehoming myself for the next week. I have zero standards or goals, because when I keep the bar low I am rarely disappointed. The plan is to sit and stare for 7 days. Maybe, I’ll decide not to use words at all and just point and grunt for 7 days. My utopia is a place where combs and brushes are not necessary and there is no judgements made by just how long I lay in bed, laying and staring, not to be confused with the sitting and staring portion of my vacation. The only thing that will separate my days is when is it time for the coffee to stop and happy hour to begin, and the only burning question will be is when will I fit in a run. Will the run happen after the laying and staring or before the sitting and staring portion of my day? Who cares? If I happen to see you I will point and grunt “hello” as I slowly jog by.

ParaElla Strep-Activity


I decided to let my daughter sleep with me last night since she is a bit sick. The 10 feet of distance between our two rooms is sometimes too much for my racing mind to handle. Having her closer seemed like a good idea, so I wouldn’t have to guess about her throughout the night. However, I was frightened awake around midnight by someone that looked like my sweet Ella, but this version was crying and barking like a seal. She spoke fast and stared at me urgently speaking in a language I mostly did not understand. She was insisting we needed to leave the house, trying to pull me from the bed. She would break into English that I could understand at times, but would drift back to the crying, seal barking mode while looking wildly into my eyes, pleading with me in this strange language insisting we leave the house.

It was about midnight when this occurred. The only place, I knew of, open at this hour on Thanksgiving was Safeway. I thought to myself, I doubt she wants to go to Safeway. But on the other hand, Ella didn’t eat much today. We spent the morning at urgent care. Ella was diagnosed with Strep throat. Ella only ate a bit of Jello, some rice and a couple bites of pie. Ella’s Thanksgiving feast was less than we had anticipated. Perhaps, she had caught her second wind and knew that we only had about 30 minutes until Safeway closed.

In this very creepy interaction, she continued to cry, bark, and speak in this unknown language. When she did not get the desired response from me she would dry heave. Well, I then would react firmly stating, “Ella, or whoever you are, if you are going to vomit, you are NOT going to do it in my bed, and then she would insist she would not. She then would continue the process of barking, crying, and wanting to leave the house.

After a period that seemed far too long, I was able to get this little demon to lay back down. I, however, was freaked out and wide awake. The creature that laid beside me snored loudly like there was something dark trying to get out. I pondered putting the little poltergeist back in her own bed, but didn’t want this child, coming at me from behind, tapping me on the shoulder with another demand. I’d much rather see her coming and wrestle her off. As I finally managed to doze off, on cue Ella sat up again crying and barking like a seal with the demand of leaving the house, ending in the dry heaving. After getting Ella back to bed for a second time, I considered calling a priest with a ample supply of holy water and perhaps a few ghost hunters. I thought, at the least, they could  watch Ella as I get just a few hours of sleep, they seemed skilled for such. They might even consider such a task mundane.

I was super grateful to make it through the night and wake up to a nice sunrise this morning. I felt like I survived a night in a haunted house. Ella, of course had no recollection of the events of last night. She seems to be feeling much better today. I surmise the activities of last night were related to her illness. However, just to be safe I’ve decided to head out to my local Christian supply store for some emergency stockpiles, I seem to be fresh out. I am wondering if they have any exorcism kits for dummies on sale for Black Friday.

9 Years of Burn

I was at a point in my life where I was exhausted. On my way to work I would walk by and smell you. You smelled amazing. I was always curious about you, but I didn’t think you were my taste. But that smell either became more persuasive or I was just weak with fatigue. I finally decided I would give you a try. It started out innocently enough, a latte here and there, at first. But soon enough I was hooked. Soon I was frapping, capping, getting double and triple of you, and pouring ice over you when it was warm outside. I really couldn’t get enough. In the evening, before I would go to bed I would become excited at the thought of meeting up with you again in he morning. My standard latte eventually turned into an Americano, I didn’t need milk taking any of the glory away from you. I then began to buy some locally roasted beans that I would grind for the mornings. I would drink my home brew and then grab a quickie on my way to work. Life was good. You put the manic in my hypo. You made me want to conquer the world during the 20 minute rush that only you seemed to give me. I needed you. I was dependent. You knew how to get me to that perfect level of agitation and yet still make me supremely productive. Some type of black magic, maybe. However, in spite of how hooked and addicted I was, you were just not good for me. You gave me a 9 year stomach ache with raging, searing heartburn. To be honest, I blamed everything else when the doctor asked and I eliminated everything from my diet worth living for, except you.

Recently, I had to make the heart-wrenching decision to break up with you. It has been four weeks. The most devastating part of this story is how much better my stomach feels. I mean this is just awful news. How could you be the cause of such gastrointestinal upset, when you are so incredibly perfect in every single way. I cannot tell you how heartbroken I am that I have to live my life without you. I still smell you everywhere. I have found myself standing outside of the Starbucks I used to frequent, wondering if the baristas miss me? I leer from the outside looking in watching them stand in line to order. I watch them drink from those white cardboard cups with their names spelled incorrectly.

I have thought about not letting any of them have you and have half the urge to slap the cups out of their undeserving hands, but this is Portland. I would be exhausted. There is literally a coffee shop on every corner of every block, I can’t take on this kind of attitude, can I? No. I am not a vengeful person. Next time, I will just lick the glass when I linger too long watching every sip they take while I am on the outside looking in. I promise it won’t be an angry lap at the window, but more of a longing kind of lick with a hint of taunting. I hope you consider this fair.

I would tell you that I can’t sleep, but this is just not true. I am sleeping fine for the first time in 9 years. I would say I am a mess and can’t eat, but again no. I can finally eat  without thinking that perhaps I mistakenly swallowed shards of glass and chased it with some sort of cleaning agent. However, I life without you doesn’t seem possible. You made me feel alive or maybe it was just awake, but isn’t that the same? Presently, I have replaced you with Chamomile. This is like going from ridding in a high-speed train to being pulled in a carriage by an deceased horse. I truly am trying to love the one I am with, but shit just got real boring. Oh sure, I do try to do new things with Chamomile to try to keep it exciting. I put it in a fancy mug and throw some honey and milk in it. I’m thinking about adding a donut into the mix occasionally, but I am afraid that the Chamomile will just be the third wheel. I have doubts that anything good will come from a menage a trios with my tea.

I haven’t completely given up on our future, though. I am hoping that great scientific minds will come up with a way that I can consume you in a way that will bypass my stomach all together. I have not heard of anyone snorting you or smoking you, but I haven’t done a thorough internet searched yet, to be completely honest. I have heard of the coffee colonic, but I fear that if I made this part of my normal morning routine it might interfere with my work schedule a bit. Perhaps, I will consider this for birthdays and holidays. Until then I will continue to walk into my kitchen and stare breathlessly at my empty coffee pot. I promise to remember the good times, and then weep silently into my cup of Chamomile, maybe the salt will spice it up a bit.