I have one enemy

Remember, gentle readers, how just a few weeks ago I regaled you with lovely stories of my one friend? My one awesome friend who loves me in spite of myself? I also told you about the family I adore, the best friend who I love, the hubby who thinks I'm pretty swell. Beyond that, there are a great number of folks who think I'm pretty OK too. A nice kinda gal-one of those 'give you her shirt' types.
Well, tonight folks, you get the darker side of things. Because, it seems, I also have one enemy. One person in the world who apparently loathes the fact that some 36 years ago two X chromosomes came together to create...well...ME! Now, to understand the true absurdity of this situation you'd have to understand this-I do not think in all my years I have spoken to this person even one time. I'm not even sure that I've been close enough to him to give him the flu if I had it, much less a salutation of any kind. On a normal day I don't give this person so much as a single thought. No decision I have ever made, be it personal or business, has in any way been due to the existence of said person. But apparently, said person wishes me wiped from the face of the planet. In all honesty, I think this person dislikes me to such a degree that if given the chance he'd personally drop and atomic bomb on my head, and dance on my ashes.
Said person takes every opportunity to malign and slander me, to attack and abuse me. It's enough to boggle the mind, I can assure you. You see, this person and I compete in a way, and he has chosen that the way to build himself up is to tear me down. We are apparently in the third grade.... I can't really decide how I should feel about it. Should I be flattered? If I wasn't doing something right I wouldn't be worth the effort. Should I be angry? No one enjoys having their name maligned. Should I laugh? I mean really, it's just hilarious if you look at it objectively. Should I simply not care? Is that kind of behavior even worth notice? Or, should I learn from it?
I think that last option is really best, don't you? I mean, I cannot do a single thing to change the behavior of another, and it's foolish to waist time and breath trying to. I will never understand the behavior, as I can't imagine treating anyone else that way. So, I'll learn from it. I'll learn that words do hurt, so I'll not hurt another with mine. I'll learn that excelling at what you do and loving the people you do it for will not be appreciated by everyone, and that's OK. And most importantly, I'll learn that there is nothing and no one in the world who will stop me from following my heart and doing what I love. I do what I do out of a desire to better the lives of those with whom I come into contact, and to perhaps be an encouraging light in a world where there is too often too much darkness. So, I'm going to press on and continue, and leave that enemy of mine to watch.

Stick A Fork In Me

You have, gentle readers, learned many things about me over our few brief months together. You have learned that I love all things fuzzy and furry, all things leafy and lively, and that I adore Mr. Big Prize. You have learned that I have one sibling, one amazing Little Miss, and one really fabulous friend. What you haven't yet learned is what I am not, so here it is; I am NOT a cook. This cannot be stated in strong enough language for you to fully comprehend my meaning. I am SO not a cook that I only have a kitchen because it came with my house. Real estate agents tell me it would absolutely destroy my property value to eliminate it all together, but to me it's a horrendous waste of some very valuable square footage. In all honesty I'd much rather move the refrigerator to the bedroom and expand the master bath right on through where the range once stood. I get far more excited about dual shower heads than double ovens. This may or may not surprise you, but if you knew my mother, it would absolutely stun you. My mother is the culinary equivalent of a Mad Scientist. Of course instead of beakers, wires and screws her laboratory is filled with whisks, measuring cups and spices. And the creations which come from her laboratory don't walk out to wreak havoc on mankind, oh no, they waft out to entice the senses and wreak havoc on my waistline. Seriously, she's a veritable genius in all things gastronomic. It would therefore stand to reason that I would have inherited both her love of and her ability in the kitchen. I did not. I believe this is because there is a basic difference in my personality and my mothers. She is both meticulous and patient, and I am neither of these things. No matter how many times she may have baked a certain pie she always follows the recipe. She measures out her ingredients to the infinitesimal degree, and completely understands the difference between "folding" and "whisking". The result is always spectacular, and I do envy her ability. She tried her hardest to turn me into the next great Iron Chef America, but it just didn't take. The only real claim to culinary fame I can make is that my mothers chocolate pie with homemade crust and meringue was a major part of the wooing and winning of Mr. Big Prize, and I did prepare those by myself...with my mother looking over my shoulder. But still, I claim it proudly. While I may not have become the next Julia Child there are a few very basic rules of cooking that did manage to stick in my dietarily dyslexic brain, one of which is that you have to stick a fork in it to see if it's done. You know what I'm talking about, and you've probably done it. Let's say you are cooking a cakey-brownie-spongy sorta thing, and you need to know if it's finished. You cannot tell by looking at it. Very often cakey-brownie-spongy things look all golden and fabulous on the outside but the insides are all mush. You can insert said fork, and if it comes out gooey your goodie needs a few more minutes, clean means you are prêt à manger (ready to eat). So it is with life-is it not? Well, this week, I've had a "stick a fork in me I'm done" week.
It started out well enough, but as it went along it just seemed to spiral downward. We all have those weeks, the weeks where it seems like everyone you contact takes their personal issues out on you, whether you have anything to do with their personal issues or not. No one is happy/satisfied/content with the work you've done, the things you've said or the amount of effort you've exerted on their behalf, and it seems that there is just absolutely no end in sight. I know that this too shall pass, and what I am even more certain of is that no matter how horrific my week seems to be there are thousands out there for whom life is truly horrific. My petty issues and concerns are nothing in comparision to the concerns of hundreds of thousands of my fellow man. How can I have had a "bad week" in a week where so many lost their homes, their families and all that they held dear in one of the worst natural disasters we've ever seen? The truth is that my life, though often frustrating and always exhausting, is magnificent. My problems are miniscule, and perhaps my sole purpose for being is to comfort those around me who are having bad enough days or weeks to take their frustrations out on me.
So, I'm going to take a long hot bath, try to get a good nights rest, and start it all over again tomorrow. But for right now, go ahead and stick a fork in me, I'm DONE!