When does wedding season stop?

I was AT a wedding on Saturday night (number 2 of 3 for November) and I got a text message from a good friend saying he proposed to his girlfriend and thus was engaged.

I'm going to need to take out a loan.

That’s more fucking like it.

As of late, the office I’ve been doing most of my work at is pretty conservative.

Very conservative, actually. There’s not a whole lot of cussing around. And when there is, it’s censored. As in people literally will say, “What the H?”

Coming from an ad agency background, this blew (and continues to blow) my mind.

We casually damned with divine endorsement, we let shit freely fly from our lips, and hell was almost a way to say hello.

But now, swearing isn’t as universal. It’s pushed under the rug where only a letter or two can escape.

I actually find the abbreviating more offensive. I mean, that poor little thought is just left dangling in the air.

But yesterday, oh glorious yesterday, someone dropped an F-bomb of Hiroshima proportions. And it felt oh-so-good.

That particular “fuck” was more shocking than they usually are. Because it was so out of place. So beautiful. So packed with raw emotion and helplessness and anger, but with a fighting spirit that the letter F on its own just can’t convey.

I felt jazzed. I wanted to reply to the obscenity. “Shit yeah!” But the looks on my surrounding coworkers, the looks of unabashed shock, stalled my verbal celebration.

So I relived the scenario in my head for the rest of the day. Every time, I’d have a more colorful reaction. “Yeah, bitches, let’s do this.” “That’s a good damn point. “I’m right the fuck with you.”

Alas, I couldn’t. And as long as I’m being aware to other’s (pointless) sensitivities, I’ll never get to express myself in the four-letter way. At least in the office.

Please don’t talk to me right now.

Most would consider me an extrovert. I like to talk. Love to listen. And am usually pretty happy when there are a few people around.

But I’m not always a walkie, talkie, machine of love.

Sometimes, I don’t want to engage in any form or level of communication. This sometimes is when I’m in the bathroom.

Yes. I’m human. I understand everyone else is human and I’m fully aware that other humans know what my human body is doing when I’m being as human as possible behind closed doors.

Even despite all of this understanding, I still consider this super-duper-private time.

So don’t talk to me.

Because I don’t want to talk to you.

It’s bad enough that stuff is coming out of the south end. Don’t make the north end have to do work, too.

Just let me be for a few moments. We can talk while washing hands.

I promise.

This is why I love being an adult is awesome.*

I ate pumpkin pie for breakfast.

And it was delicious.

(Although my sweet fiance tried to talk me out of it because he wanted me to have a healthy breakfast. And I love him for that. But I'm an adult! And I can eat pie for breakfast on a Sunday if I want to!)

*I also had it for dessert. All of this sugar is messing with my sentence-crafting abilities.

I may look silly, but I can run circles around you.

I’m officially one of those people.

You know the type. The freak in the gym who is too good for regular running shoes. The weirdo wearing those newfangled sneakers that look like gloves for feet. The pompous exercising hippy who thinks that aired soles and gelled cushioning do more harm than good.

The fashion victim on the treadmill.

Call me what you will---oddball, sasquatch, nerd. Just know that this tool in her freaky fingered shoes will run circles around you.

I love these damn shoes. Even if they’re ugly. Besides, I’m not really concerned about how I look in the gym. I’m concerned about how I look outside of it. And I don’t plan on wearing my monkey paws to the store.

Yet.

Nevada has a sweet quarter.

I love quarters. Since I was a kid, I collected the bicentennial drummer quarters (I have over thirty, in case you were wondering).

So when the U.S. decided to roll out the every-state-gets-its-own-quarter initiative, I couldn’t be happier.

I love paying with cash for the sole purpose of seeing which quarters I get in change. The problem, though, is that I rarely pay with cash.

So while reaching into my coin purse today for some 25 cent* pieces, I pulled out a quarter and decided to look at the back.

What I saw was a piece of art, as all state quarters are intended to be but rarely accomplish.

Nevada’s beautiful quarter features sinewy horses galloping amidst the mountains. A bright sun with long rays is rising over the scene, adding life and vibrancy. And the whole picture is book ended by luxuriously flowery branches.

It’s gorgeous.

And it’s going into my coin collection.

*Didn’t keyboards used to have the cent symbol over the six?

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The writer gave up. She had written about every subject she could think of. She had typed every word she knew. And now she removed her hands from the keyboard, from her pencil, from her writing.

She left her chair and made her way to the nearest window so she could watch the rain slide down the glass. And she could pretend the drops were alive and she could hear their delightful squeals—much like she used to daydream in the back seat of her mom’s car as a child.

As a particularly swollen drop made it’s way down, gathering other drops during its decent, the writer heard a voice.

“Inspiration comes from odd places sometimes,” said the Muse from the other side of the window.

The writer cast her eyes upwards, matching the gaze of her creativity. “I haven’t seen you in a long while, old friend.” The writer pushed herself away from the window and turned away. “I thought you had abandoned me.”

The Muse had taken a seat at the writer’s chair. Her long legs were crossed and her delicate hands sat upon her knee. “I could never abandon you.” The satin words flowed from her like perfumed oil. “I love you.”

Angry that the Muse had been absent for so long, but fighting with a tinge of delight at seeing her old friend, the writer had to turn away again. Through tight lips she attempted to growl, “Don’t leave me again.”

The writer slowly pivoted to glance at her Muse but her eyes locked on the now empty chair.

Full of ideas for the first time in months, the writer returned to her chair and the words flowed from her. Like perfumed oil.