So I did. I drug my butt out of the house last night for the first time in awhile and went to play in a free poker tournament at a bar I used to frequent. It took all of my gumption and courage to actually go and once there I was reminded of why I so rarely hang out with real live people. They are weirdddd.

So that you understand, this poker “tournament” is hosted by a company that offers such things at various restaurants every single night of the week at lots of locations in my local area. It’s free to play and the prize is usually a gift cert to the restaurant you are playing at. This particular venue hosted bull riding, pool tables and dancing on top of a game of cards so that, while seated at our card table you were forced to try to see the cards with flashing strobe lights and the sounds of “Boot Scoot Boogie” blaring in your ears (I am a girl who happens to know how to Boot Scoot, so I’m not saying that in a derogatory way, just so you get an idea of the concentration level or lack thereof in the game.) The man to my left was adorned with tattoos and was intent on giving off an impression of poker superiority, an end to which he horribly failed at. Each time he found himself one-on-one with another player at the table, he talked about his hand and how he had read the opponent’s hand and on and on and on in such a way that it was easy to see he actually knew very little about the game (he never forecasted the opponent’s hand correctly) and always ended up with a terribly losing hand of his own. He also thought it was clever to show me his hand when I was out of play as if I wanted to see how badly he played the game. The woman to my right was distinctly the opposite. She was intent on managing our table according to WSOP (World Series of Poker) rules. When a player across the table from me threw in 20 chips, it may or may not actually be a bet of 20, he may have needed change out of the pot, so it was difficult with the way people threw in their chips to always know what the current bet was, and who was next to wager, or who was even in the hand. Queen of the Table would correct people who wagered incorrectly, would stop play if we went out of order, and even rose up to divide the chips in a pot that she wasn’t a part of!! Um, honey, we’re in a BAR where you can barely see or hear and we’re playing for a gift cert. I think he can string bet if he wants to. No one is really paying attention anyway.

So, with 24 people who started the tourney, I went out when there were about 10 left. I actually went all in on a hand that I figured I’d lose but I had had my fill of second-hand smoke and the Rules and Regs of Poker under such conditions.

I also got my eye full of men in wife beaters, scantily clad women who really thought they were sexy dancing to Shania Twain and a woman who thought she was so good at riding the bull she’d stand on it barefoot and ride. Um, yeah, about that head injury..

Will I go back? Probably. I like to play cards. I got to dance once or twice. And the place wasn’t packed like it is on a Saturday night, which I enjoy. I do wish the smoke didn’t have to be a part of the atmosphere, however as I have a raging nicotine headache today. But it is a good reminder of how strange some people are. I hope none at the table went home to blog about me.

I could say a hundred things today but none of them seem to matter.

I miss LM. I miss him terribly. It has been a month and I have until the end of this one before I will lay eyes on him again. Today, it seems too much to ask of me to wait. I just want him home.

But for all the ways his experiences this summer has stretched his soul and touched his heart, I will leave him be.

Becoming a mom, and the process of childbirth was far easier and less painful than being a mom.

I’m still reading the classifieds and working all the angles I know to make a move back “home”. I am. But I don’t know if God’s decision last week was a “No” or a “Not now” and so in light of that, I’m not sure where that leaves me “in the meantime”. I hate my job. I do perhaps 10 minutes of work during an average 8 hour day (absolutely no exaggeration there). I was recently told that I can’t read a book at my desk (despite having NOTHING to do) and so my feelings of apathy and discontent continue to grow. But why would I change jobs here in PA if I really just want to change jobs and move to MI? But if I’m not moving to MI, shouldn’t I be trying to find a more fulfilling job here? And I still want a house, a single family house with a small yard. I do. But if you put in my mortgage requirements and my zip code (even the surrounding area, which would increase my commute significantly) there are ZERO properties available. Single family homes in my neck of the woods do not come close to being affordable to me. So, I stay where I am? But I’m having troubles with Gabe (still, yet, forever) on the leash and that makes me want to move even more.

Maybe God didn’t want me to have that job in Michigan and I’m okay with that, but I’m certainly not happy with where I am, either. Something’s gotta give as they say and I’m just not sure what. I could stay in the condo and deal with that lifestyle except for the dog issues. Do I give the dog away? My heart can’t fathom doing that! I can’t move here, I can’t afford to. Do I try to change jobs so I’m happier during the day even if that means having such a short stint on my resume?

Perhaps what I need is further explanation from the man upstairs. It would seem that he, like the dog trainer, isn’t getting my emails. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Somebody open up The Book of Answers and tell me what to do here!! (please?)

Word came via the post today that I was not selected for the position I interviewed for in Michigan. I am at peace about it. I feel like God will lead me where and when He wants me and until then I’m right where I should be.

Thank you all for your good wishes and prayers.

I realize there’s some big blogging conference (BlogHer) going on somewhere right about now but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I attended my tenth high school reunion. I don’t care to do it again.

To that end, I applaud those who blog simply to blog. Those who write because it makes a difference in themselves, not because they think 40 readers will find it funny or because they hope to quit their day job to blog professionally. I read some of the “big time” blogs, but the minute they ask me to fill out a survey for their advertisers I realize their heart isn’t in the same place that mine is. I write simply to write. I don’t care if I have 2 readers or 22. I don’t always comment on what I read and I don’t expect everyone to comment on what they read here. It just is. And that is just perfect for me.

And that is why, every day, my favorite blog is Oliver. Void of pretention or intention it simply is joy.

A week before my 35th birthday, I walked into the wine and spirits shop last night for an indulgent bottle of wine (the highlight of my weekend, I expect). In one short sentence, the clerk raised my spirits and provided me with the highlight of not only my Thursday, but perhaps my whole week when he said, “Can I see your I.D.?”

According to George:

The sign at the pool meant to indicate “No Running” was confidently translated by George to mean: “No Picking Your Butt at the Pool”.

Lying in the hammock together under the shade of an oak tree in the backyard, with a fresh cut lawn under our feet and a cold drink in our hands, I whispered to George, “Isn’t this heaven?” George shook his head no, “This isn’t heaven” he said. I said, “But it’s like heaven cause I feel so happy being right here together with you.” George reiterated, “This is NOT heaven.” I said, “What do you think Heaven is like?” He said, “It’s not a happy place.” I said, “No?!” He added, “it’s underground.” Realizing he was perhaps confusing Heaven with another eternal destination I suggested, “Do you think you’re thinking of the other place? The place where the Devil lives? What’s that place called?” George proudly proclaimed, “China!”

Bear was explaining to George that he had to attend a funeral on Monday so he wouldn’t be home right after work, he’d be home after George was asleep. George asked how come he had to go to a funeral. Bear explained that someone had died. George wanted to know who died. Bear said it was someone he knew when he was growing up. George wanted to know if he was older than Bear. Bear said no, he was younger. George wanted to know if he was bigger than Bear. Bear said, no, he was probably a little shorter. George wanted know how much shorter he was than Bear; “Did he come up to HERE on you?” Bear said no, but he probably came up to HERE on him. George asked why he died. Bear said, “cancer.” George exclaimed, “Everyone dies from cancer!” and then quickly qualified with, “well, not everyone. Not Army people. They die because they get shot, not because they have cancer.”

I commented to George that he must have decided to change his name again because his shirt said “Tommy” on the pocket. He said, “No!! My name is George!” I said, but it even says “Tommy” on the tag, so it must be your name if it says it in two places! George didn’t believe me that his tag said “Tommy” so we turned his shirt around so he could see the tag and see that it did, in fact, say “Tommy” (Hilfigger). And that’s how George got his Mafia name: Tommy Backwards.

Okay, okay, okay!!!! So, about that whole ‘I hate the library’ thing….

The “unknown” book that I picked up, I can’t put it down. I’m about ¾ of the way through and I know I’ll finish before the day is done (I can’t help it!!)

By the way, it’s called “Wrapped in Rain” by Charles Martin.

Disclaimer: I have had many a friend recommend a book that I hated. To this day if I tell my sis about a great movie, she knows never to rent it as she probably won’t like it. To say I’m in love with a book in no way indicates that it would be widely embraced by normal book-loving people.

Awhile ago, I posted on my desire to relocate. Mum’s been the word ever since as I have put my resume out there and tried to ready myself for all a move back to the Midwest would mean. I’m still not at a talking point as of yet. You can refer to this post if you need to. But I feel as if I’m sitting on the balancing point right now. It’s either going to work, or it isn’t. And if it isn’t, while that isn’t a life sentence, I think it would indicate a postponement of some duration. I feel very strongly that God has led me towards this end. If this door should close I would have to give pause to the message. I should know more in a week’s time. In the meantime, have an incredible weekend! Get out of doors for some portion of it (even if it’s hot, even if it’s rainy). Hug the people that you love. And if you’re the praying sort, perhaps mention my name once or twice.

Last night I did something I haven’t done in nearly 15 years. I went to the library. Sorry, I should have made sure you were sitting down before I shared that shocking news, I know. I have read all the books I have, I have sold all the books I have and I’m in withdrawal so you could say my hand was forced. (When I told my sister I went to the library, I am certain I heard her gasp.)

I rarely set foot in a bookstore knowing what book I wish to purchase. I’m a browser. I like to look at the books; I like to read a sentence or two. I like to read recommendations by the bookstore staff. I wasn’t sure I would have a similar experience at the library so I visited Amazon.com and looked at their most recent recommendations for me (and fought my inner demons to not put each and every one into my cart and ship them overnight to my door. Sigh. ) I headed off to the library with a list of about five books, not knowing what I might find.

Upon entry, I headed straight to the check-out desk to obtain my library card. A painless process, it turns out, I had a card in hand within five minutes and was set free into the vast array of books. I quickly found the fiction section and prepared myself for the rush of adrenaline that comes when my eyes feast upon shelves and shelves of new, pristine books.

But these weren’t. They were used, dusty, dirty books. And there wasn’t really that many shelves of them. And they weren’t turned to face me so that a cover or title might catch my eye and beg me to read. And there weren’t any lists of suggestions, “If you love James Patterson, try…” I held my pessimism in check and with list in hand went searching for the titles I had written down. None of them were there. I found a shelf of “New Books!” and looked sideways at all the titles hoping something would jump out at me, but it didn’t. I was frustrated with the Damn Dewey Decimal system for covering up parts of the titles or authors of the books on the binding. I finally picked up a book by one of the authors on my list, although not the book I had hoped to start with. And in an effort to feel successful, I picked up another book, completely unknown to me, so that I might at least feel as if I had found CHOICES among the shelves.

I checked out.

I went home.

I felt defeated.

There is something to be said about marketing and product placement. There is something to be said about the atmosphere of a Barnes and Noble that draws me in far more than the death-like stillness at the Public Library. There is something, even, in the scent between the pages of a brand new book.

I’m reading the two books I picked up. I am. I am trying to overcome my need for “new” and to try to simply enjoy a good read no matter what the pages look like.

But it’s not easy. And I don’t like it.

I miss my books.