Perfection is a Mind Fack

More than 7 weeks ago I had a brilliant plan for my Mom's 50th Birthday. My excitement was through the roof, I'm talkin' like a 13 year old meeting 'N sync in 2001 excited. And now? Notsomuch. Why are my plans so much better in my head than out and about in the real world? It's too bad I just can't invite everybody inside my mind so we can rock this event like the EPIC FUNTASTIC BRILLIANCE it is suppose to be.

Solution: I need to be Queen of the World. (Vote for me! I'll buy you Costco cookies!)

Oh well. It's the thought that counts. Actually, no. It really isn't the thought that counts. Whoever made up that saying (I'm looking at you Hallmark) it's a crock of shit. I think about things all the time and I still haven't won the Lotto and the dishes are still not done. So, clearly, the thought is shit. Real time action is what counts. Otherwise, my mom would be thrilled at how sparkley clean the house was and how cold, fresh, and mixed to perfection her cocktail was when she got home after work. And in all her euphoric glee she would prance on over to the Apple store like a magical Fairy Godmother (but sparkly and pretty, not that sweet old lady where the blue robe in Cinderella) and wave her magic wand credit card and announce to the Apple bottom people (no really, I think they have apple shape bean bags to sit on) (and if they don't, they need to get on that.) that Daughter (that's me, PrettyWitty) needs an iPad! And just before the swipe she take a glance over her shoulder, at the lovely iPhone 4, and tell the Apple Sales Dude, "one of those too." And we would all live Appley happily ever after. But thoughts don't count.

Putting things into play for this mini softball tourney (the "brilliant" plan) (you can't see me but my eyes are rolling heavenward) requires more than I had originally anticipated. Did you know to rent a softball field from the city, and to have an actual game on it, insurance is required? Well, now you know. And I do too. You're welcome. How to acquire this insurance, however, is info that I'm not so privy on. Thank goodness for my sisters help–she's a doer, not a thinker; so she counts.

Apparently I'm the ringleader to this circus of a softball tourney that I dreamed up (with the help of Crazy B.) (B is for Beautiful! But I'm jealous, so I shorten it to B.). I was informed this today by Sis. Apparently, I seem to "have it all under control" and "all planned out perfectly." Which is no surprise really, because I am a thinker after all, and making lists is my forte. Except now we've moved on the doing portion of this plan; and I'm more of a fluffy bunny cornered in a glass tank trying to click my ruby red slippers together to get out off the dinner menu of a 10 foot Python and back to Kansas where everything is black and white and safe (except for tornados, but whatever, I like rollercoasters. Bring it on). And in the terror of it all I have become a B. (and this time B. is not for beautiful).

My sister is helpful but she's a doer who packs a punch. I'm pretty sure she is both annoyed with me (the B factor) and pities me for lack of sanity. Anybody doing a poll on how many times I am going to  spontaneously combust randomly burst into tears from now until August 21st? I'd be on the ball if thoughts were worth a damn. (I am an avid thinker.) My sister is the kind of woman who gets things done. She's all about the effort and the check box marked on the to do list. She is not a perfectionist; she is a productive-ist. (Yes, I make up my own words. Learn 'em and Love 'em.)

Perfectionism is my flaw. I heard the other day on a radio show that the person who is always editing lines will never get anything written. The majority of people have a picture painted of a perfectionist with not a hair out of place, a wrinkle in their clothes, and...damn near perfect! While that most certainly is an accurate portrayal of one type of perfectionist, but there is another type of perfectionist. This second type doesn't show up. Perfect is flawless, and if there is no effort, there is not opportunity for flaw. Show up and be perfect, or don't show up and remain flawless. It's a twisted logic but the idea of reaching perfection is a flaw in of itself. Obviously, if you have been paying attention, you see that I am the second type of perfectionist, the flawless one. (Eh! *elbow nudge* Eh! *elbow nudge* You like the way that sounds now don't ya!) Not to be fooled though, either type is hell.

Mom's 50th Birthday Mini Softball Tourney is my shot to show up; and I am absolutely terrified. (remember scared fluffy bunny in sparkly red heels) (No, I don't know where the bunny got ruby red slippers to fit her paws, google it.) Every time there is something that needs to be done there is an opportunity of flaws happening. On the other hand, the road to success is paved with trial and error. And wine. I'm pretty sure there is copious amounts of wine to be poured along the journey.

Wish me luck!
XO
PrettyWitty

Learn Something New Everyday

Sometimes when I'm trying to be creative with photoshop (trying being the operative word here) I have the computer read articles to me.  The articles just didn't sound right in a male voice so I went to the system preferences, onto the options for speech and lo and behold there a tiny people in my computer!

It wasn't just a male voice reading to me.  Bruce has been reading to me this entire time! But that's not all! Not only do I the options of having Bruce, Alex, Junior, Vicki, Victoria or Agnes read to me but there is also the option of reading to me in a "hysterical" voice, "bubbles" voice, "good/bad news" voice...the list goes on.

Guess how I spent my entire day.

That's right, super productive.

In other news, my abs are a little sore today.

Party Thoughts

I like parties.  The drinks, the fun, the fun drinks, the general merriment in the air and...–well, it's mostly the drinks.  However, I am not a fan of throwing parties.  When I say "throwing parties" what I mean is when a party takes place at my house–these parties are not (ever) my idea and I am not (ever) the host. I just happen to live at the house where all the family parties are at like the one being thrown on Saturday.

I'd like to reiterate that I do like parties.  It is just nice to be able to go to a party when you are ready and then leave when you're done.  It's not very comfortable when somebody shows up, family or otherwise, and I am in blue polka dot jamma pants and my hair looks like I got in a cat fight in the back alley of a dive bar (apparently, I dream about jazzercising) and I am stuck in the kitchen for all the world to see until I've scooped all the avocado out of the avocado skin (this is as close to "cooking" as it gets for me).  The only thing remotely appealing about this picture are my eyelids.  Eyeshadow always looks better the next day, if only the under eye mascara and sleep* weren't tainting The Look.

This [not so] pretty picture coupled with pre-cleaning and post-cleaning are just about the main reasons for my lack of enthusiasm for these events.  I suppose there are advantages, like not having to worry about parking.  If my very cute heels are wreaking havoc on my feet I am at liberty to change them.  When I get cold my own jackets are available to me.  And I can drink without having to worry about driving home, borrowing pajamas and brushing my teeth with my finger.

All these Pros, and the one con of cleaning (alone) took the cake. That, ladies and gentlemen, is an Avid Lazy Ass.  I should be one of the features in the Freak Show at the Circus but I'm too lazy to apply.  I would be a hit too. Imagine all the people that would come to see me so they can say to their self, "Oh wow, I'm not that lazy." and feel better about their own lazy habits.  I would be boosting self-esteem across the nation and make my mark on this world!

But then that wouldn't make me very lazy now would it? I will just stay true to myself and keep my ass  on the couch and put it off one more day like the Lazy Ass Procrastinator I am.


* "sleep" is what I call that cakey stuff.

Bad Words

There are those 4 letter words that offend people like shit, fuck and bitch.

('4 letter words' is a figure of speech.  I can count.)  

(Except when I'm drinking.  When I'm drinking I cannot be accountable for anything, which is why I'm such a fan of alcohol but that's another post for another day.)

These '4 letter words' are not offensive to me, (Clearly.) but there are words that get my knickers in a twist.  And not in a good way.  One is a place where education and learning is supposed to happens it begins with an S and ends with an L. 

And another is what English teachers torture students with to get reading material because, apparently they are above getting free books at public libraries or reading blogs like regular poor people.  I think they make students do the E-word to make themselves feel better about their spelling, punctuation and grammar skills.  Ordinarily I wouldn't blame them for trying to feel better about themselves and get some free reading material where they get to pick the topic because everybody deserves a little self-confidence about their skills and not everybody likes the library because homeless people shower in the sink on Sunday mornings.  Perhaps they have overdue books that they need to pay off or are allergic to dust.  Whatever the case may be English teachers are on My Shit List for assigning these torturous e-words and picking on my run-on sentences.  My sentences are gonna run a marathon one day and who's gonna have the last word then?! That's right. MY athletic sentences that run-on for miles. 

It's a skill.

It's that dreaded time of the year for me and my colleagues.  It's F-time with a week of E-words.  A stressful week indeed. One of my teachers tries to jazz it up by calling the e-word a "Festival of Knowledge," but this little missy will not be fooled with this trickery of verbage.  I know the symptoms of the e-word.  Where there are number 2 pencils and scantrons there are no Festivals.  Festivals involve liquor. 

I'm pretty sure. 

...well, this can be arranged.  Where did I put my flask... I better get to "studying." 

*wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge*

Mad Skills

Over a year ago I was sitting bored in my office cubicle, What a fool I was for complaining about school. Learning is great! What I would give to go back to school & not work anymore.  How could I think school was such torture? Just pay attention and do the assignments–total cake walk.  I disapprovingly thought of my former self while I e-mailed my friends, googled myself, pondered why the lines on lined paper are blue instead of pink or green and pretended *ahem* while I was hard at work all day.

But now. Now, I remember.  Essays, Exams and homework (Oh my!), these are now the bane of my existence.  School follows me out of the classroom into my home and everywhere in between; this ghastly Ghost of School haunts me, nags at me relentlessly until the homework and studying gets done (which is basically every minute of everyday but we'll get to that in a minute).

It's like a damn gnat at a BBQ–just buggin'!

No paycheck at the end of the week. No, all of your efforts are met with a grade and the next gnat assignment.

It's blasphemy! Blasphemy I tell you!!

On the bright side, my return to school has refined one particular skill.

Procrastination. (Well, and drawing stick figures.)

It's true dear reader, I, Pretty Witty, am a master in the Art of Procrastination.

Had an essay to write this weekend.  I started a blog. And (Oh yes, you better believe there is, indeed, an AND!) brainstormed nearly every detail of a party that is 3 months out. Naturally, these details will be set aside until it gets down to the wire when these details magically transform into annoying ghostly gnats.  (It's a gift.)

*yawn*

I'm sleepy now, I will just finish up the essay in the morning before class.

Don't try this at home folks, I'm a professional.
(Pro-Procrastinator, not sleeper.  You should definitely try sleeping at home.)

Breaking the Ice

I spent ALL this time coming up with a name for this blog and the banner...and then it comes time for posting and POOF! I got nothing.

Such is life.

Introductions are always hard. It's like a job interview. You build a resume, apply, get The Phone Call, carefully pick out your most professional you-know-you-wanna-hire-me outfit (without looking desperate, of course), practice your answers to the typical questions in the mirror (come on, I know I'm not alone on this one!) and then you get to your interview and POOF! Blank Mind.

Welcome to Pretty Witty.