writers block

i don't like to think of myself as a one track mind person. i would like to think of myself as this more evolved being that can set aside one problem and work on several other things- you know, the back burner theory.  

the older i get, the more i find myself fixated on one problem at a time, dog on a bone, not letting go until it's fixed.

what do you do when the thing you're fixated on isn't something you're really game to talk about?

if you end up like me, you're staring at a giant pile of writers block.

welcome to my week.

i'm not one to shy away from airing dirty laundry. i'm not one to shy away from revealing (usually embarrassing) personal details of my life. there are some things however that are *shockingly* off limits to me.

unusual concept.

so instead, it ends up being trivial dribble vomiting out in some sad attempt to strike another vein of writing or venting or giving voice to thought.

does anyone else hear the jeopardy theme song right now?

i've been addicted to the tv show numb3rs lately- if you're not familiar, the FBI uses a math specialist to formulate all sorts of fancy algorithms to solve crimes. i understand less than half the show, can't stand a few of the main characters, but i'm still somehow totally addicted.  the main character, whatever his name is, has a certain flaw that drives me NUTS: it ALWAYS looks like he has a dip in his lip. something about the way he talks, the way his mouth is shaped, i don't know, but it always looks like he's half a can of skoal in.

GROSS.

i hate chew. loathe. it smells like an old first aid kit to me. always has. back in the days of marriage he chewed- always disgusted me.  

more disturbing: i've run into more and more women lately who chew. I GET IT- it's not that much different from smoking. what's the difference between a guy and a girl smoking? so what's the difference between a guy and a girl chewing?

it's GROSS for both, but there's something even just an edge beyond about women chewing. maybe i'm sexist about some things. i'm ok with that. seeing a guy with a skoal ring in his jeans is one thing. seeing a girl with a skoal ring? no thanks.  seeing a guy with a spitter in a bar? thanks for not spitting on the floor at least.  seeing a girl with a spitter? ew. seriously, just ew. never understood it, never will.

went out to a western bar out in the valley last week called the roadhouse. yes, patrick swayze lives on. this  place is almost as bad as the before. packed full of every horrible stereotype eastern washington/northern idaho is known for. everything from real cowboys in their dirty baseball hats and worn out ropers to the city slickers in their polished stetsons and never scratched tony lamas. CAN'T MAKE THIS UP: saw a girl with a mudflap girl tramp stamp tattoo. nothing says super sexy like a mudflap girl right there in the middle of her buckle bunny back.  you know what i mean when i say buckle bunny, right? take your typical bar fly, put her in pigtails, too tight jeans, some kind of tied up flannel/plaid shirt, add a crappy cowboy hat, and she'll be going home with the biggest belt buckle in the bar ever. single. night.  the bartenders are typical bitches that ignore everyone but their friends or whomever happens to be yelling the loudest, the drinks are overpriced, the way the bar is run is sketchy at best, and the dj (dj camo) is playing the WORST mix of country music possible AND repeating half the songs by the time the night is over. the bar, of course, wouldn't be complete without a mechanical bull oh so cleverly named "yo mama" again- CAN'T MAKE THIS UP. unfortunately, there's enough business to keep this place open at least a little while, even as bad as it is.

THE POINT- there is a point. saw more WOMEN with chew in one night than i've ever seen. EVER. spitters were left on our table by people heading to the bathroom who were *gag* scraping the dip out of their lip and throwing it on the floor as they walked by.

i'm a country girl. correction: i'm a rural girl. grew up in a small town. bought my first pair of boots in high school. i was never a farm girl, never a ranch girl, purely one of the people that just liked to wear the clothes. had the high waisted wranglers, the keyhole cut out sleeveless shirts, the boots- this was back in the day when i had a midriff that didn't look TERRIBLE if it happened to peek out a little- not that it had much chance with those jeans.  i went to work at a power plant where jeans and boots were required work wear. to this day my boots are still my most comfortable shoes, even when half the uppers on my favorite pair were chewed off by a dog years ago (the design was discontinued so i can't get new/replacement ones). i've never milked a cow, i've never bucked a bale, i've never shot/killed/skinned/cooked my own meat. i have no idea how to churn butter or cook a meal for 18 farmhands or if farm life actually is different than it is in the Farmer Boy book. 

so maybe i'm missing a legit part of country life. maybe there's something real farm girls know that i don't. i'm a city slicker. i'd rather read books that muck a horse stall. the idea of crawling up in a hayloft with a cowboy while a BIT inciting is outweighed by the idea of how many spiders there are and how itchy the hay would be.  whatever it is i'm missing, I'M OK WITH THAT when it comes to chew. i'm good. ya'll can keep your long cut death in a can to yourselves.

SEE, this is what happens when you hit writers block. a rambling diatribe on how i'm not a country girl and i hate chew. 

i'm off to drink a glass of pasteurized, processed, sanitized, chemically enhanced milk now.  i've seen what happens when you drink milk straight out of the cow. i'll save that for when i REALLY need to lose 20 pounds in one day.