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There isn’t much that can rouse me in the morning. Not my Alexa blaring music at full volume, nor my Sonic Bomb alarm clock with its bed shaker attachment under my pillow, nor my Pavlok electrocution watch that zaps me. Suffice it to say, I’m NOT a morning person. Continue reading
Getting up in the morning is probably one of the least favorite things I have to do in a day. It does beat the alternative but still is so hard for me to do. I loved working, but having to get up early in the day was what I hated the most. Once at work, it was fine, but oh that desire to sleep in was so tempting. Today I am forced to get up earlier than I would like to, but having two dogs 1. Want to do their morning routine which includes emptying their bladders and 2. Eating. They are ruthless in expressing their needs to the point that getting up is easier than hearing their constant warning that they want me up. Continue reading
I’ve trained myself to be a morning person. But I am naturally a night owl. I was born to a night owl and raised to be a night-loving person. My mom loves to watch t.v. until the wee hours of the morning.
When I was a child, a favorite memory is laying on the sofa with my mom, nestled behind her legs, head on her butt watching “Love American Style” on Friday nights and “Soap” on Saturdays. I’ve read until the birds began singing more than once a few times in my life. I’ve worked hard to make myself get up in the morning–to be a morning lark. It is pretty simple. You just have to go to bed earlier. That sounds easy. But really, it is HARD. But here are three steps that I use to get myself to bed at a reasonable time… Continue reading
As of this writing, there is only one thing that gets me up in the morning and that is my alarm clock.Â
What keeps me up at night is my greatest challenge right now. My bed is comfortable, my room is cool and inviting, and I love having my dog on the bed with me. So what’s the problem you might ask? Continue reading
As a child, I experienced the typical fears: fear of the dark, fear of talking to people, and fear induced by watching scary movies. These fears would often provoke anxiety and lead me to do irrational things, such as running through dark areas of the house to stay in well-lit areas or hiding under Grandma Is’s skirt if someone tried to talk to me. While my current fears don’t paralyze me or cause anxiety, they are thoughts that trouble me.
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Being afraid is a total-body experience for me. I sometimes feel like the mother duck who always wants to know that all of her ducklings are ok and safe. This feeling dates back to my first memory of being frightened. I was five years old. Dad was a salesman for a meat packing company. He would be on the road all day long and made it a point to always be home at night. Continue reading
When you are scared, do you run or react?
Just the other night, I ascended the stairs from our family room to retrieve a pair of glasses. Walking through our dark dining room towards the front door, I encountered a dark figure standing in front of me. With a can of fruit in hand, I screamed bloody murder and prepared to throw the can at this person, then push the figure against the wall, hopefully out the door. Luckily, I realized it was my sister. Unable to reach me by phone, she grew worried and came over to check on us. Wow, she almost got a can of fruit between her eyes.
Since I was young, people have called me different names. Some were based on my real name, others on how they saw me. I don’t know why I got each one, but here are a few I remember.
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It was Johnathan Stecker who made my life as a sixth grader miserable. Tallish and cool, he rode a BMX bicycle, a Mongoose that he was very proud of. Before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Heimerl, our teacher, assigned us a prompt to write the story behind Norman Rockwell’s picture “Thanksgiving”. His narrative depicted a BMX bike crashing through the room, glass shattering, and guests screaming, captivating everyone with the vivid sound effects in his writing. Continue reading
As a child, nicknames seem to run rampant. Kids like to pick apart anyone and everyone’s names to either tease or torment them.
My name is Sandra, Sandy for short. The only time I ever heard or hear the name Sandra is if I am in trouble or someone is upset with me. Continue reading