To Each, Their Own...

Agnosticism:
(Greek: α- a-, without + γνώσις gnōsis, knowledge; after Gnosticism)
is the philosophical view that the truth value of certain claims — particularly metaphysical claims regarding theology, afterlife or the existence of deities, ghosts, or even ultimate reality — is unknown or, depending on the form of agnosticism, inherently impossible to prove or disprove.
(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agnosticism)

I was raised by a Christian mother and a father that spurned anything religious but had no real viewpoint, except that he had no tolerance for Catholicism, the religion in which he was raised. Despite my mother's deeply seeded Christian faith, she still taught her children the basis of other religious belief systems; thusly, she taught her children tolerance. It is tolerance that likely bred my agnostic philosophical views, particularly in regards to religious belief.

As whack as my mother is on multiple levels (you think I'm joking!), she somehow managed to bestow upon me some highly important values that I hold close to me. Tolerance, in multiple facets, is one of these values in which I find myself following daily. Whether it be tolerance of religion, culture, political viewpoints, etc. I often find myself chanting the mental reminder "to each his own". Although, it is days like today, Easter Sunday, where I find I have some difficulty with being tolerant of all others I come into contact with.

As I wake with my morning coffee noshing on leftover Tropical Dots that weren't used to make eyes and a nose on the Bunny Cake I baked last evening, I login to my current addiction, Twitter. I begin tweeting away at my tweople, and then suddenly, I get a tweet from someone that I don't even follow, nor do they follow me. The tweet had a link within it, which I clicked, that took me to a religious page explaining the purpose of Easter and what it really celebrates. Mind you, I joke about being a heathen, even a paganistic infidel, but it doesn't mean that I don't understand Christian scripture. I even understand the basis of multiple religious beliefs and holidays that are outside of Christianity such as Judaism, Islam, Hindu, et.al. So, why on earth does some bible-thumping, higher-than-thou, close-minded, psuedo-Christian think they need to "share the gospel" of THEIR Lord, Jesus Christ with me? ...Clearly, this is where tolerance becomes challenging.

In no other religion outside of the Christian faith have I experienced with such regularity "witnessing" being lunged toward me like I jagged chard of glass from a broken mirror. Mind, I often participate in regilous conversations with friends of varying cultures and backgrounds - I find religion fascinating. The practices, beliefs, stories, etc. - they all have both shared and unique perspectives that I greatly enjoy discussing. However, it is only the bible-toting that annoy the beejesus outta me and push my level of tolerance to such a degree that I cannot often contain myself. Why, you ask? Rather than holding an open conversation of religious viewpoints, they attempt to shove their gospel down my throat til I'm near choking and often are not open-minded to other perspectives or ideals. Their way is the "right" and "only" way. To this, I do not agree nor will I ever be converted.

So, if you're looking to "share the good word" or "spread the joy" or wanna ask me "WWJD?", I've heard it, I've discussed it and I really don't give a rat's ass what a simple carpenter would do in any given situation (no offense to carpetners, I have a fondness for them for other reasons ;o))

Happy Easter to those that celebrate and to my fellow heathens, don't overdo the chocolate!

Check this song out: FEAR, Ian Brown: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVJJ0UNhj5k
Very appropriate, thanks @DaveHammond67 ;o)

Care for a Nightcap?

Definition:

night-cap, [nahyt-kap], noun:
1. Sex (thinly veiled euphemism for)
Ex. "Would you care to come upstairs for a nightcap?"
Translation: "Am I getting laid tonight or not, lady?"
(source: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=nightcap)


Usually, rules and I do not get along. I fancy myself a traveler on my own path, neither a leader nor a follower. I simply am. I beat my own drum, walk left, stray from the right, tiptoe down the road less travelled, a rebel without a clue and so on. There are only two rules, or maybe credos is a better term, that I follow and do not stray from:

1. The Golden Rule
2. Don't date married men

Numero uno is fairly simple and straightforward. I treat others as I wish to be treated, or at least try my damnedest to do so. (Sometimes, stupid people are difficult for me. And by "stupid" I mean ignorant, selfish, close-minded, intolerant, racist and/or just plain dumb.)

Numero dos, however, isn't hard for me to follow, I just wonder why married dudes seem to love me. I mean, no matter where I go, there they are - hitting on me. What up with that? Do I exude some sort of married-man pheromone that I'm not aware of? Dunno. But, what I do know is that this issue is not contained within US borders.

On my recent escapades to Ireland, not once, but twice (that I'm aware of at least) married men not only hit on me, but were quite serious about their intentions to seduce me. (And, yes, I just used "seduce me" in a sentence.) The first an Englishman, the other an Irishman. They were both positively lovely men. Had they not been married, I may have seriously considered allowing said seductions to occur. However, knowing that they were married, our encounters were left at harmless flirtation and innuendo - two things, admittedly, I'm quite good at.

Where this story becomes even more tantalizing is with the Irishman, Desmond. Des was simply lovely. Handsome, artistic, well-versed, non-pretentious, sweet... and married. It often seems the most interesting and intriguing men to me are married, which bites ass... and not in a good way! Des and I had a lovely evening in the hotel bar, which, in Ireland, will stay open the entire night for hotel residents. (I think my average evening ran to about 4AM-easy to do whilst in Ireland!) We even danced drunkenly, but surprisingly not hideously, to the Jazz band that was playing that evening. Great craic, indeed! (Not a typo, that would be "a good time" in Irish.)

Des decided to retire for the evening, probably a bit past 3AM. (Yup, I said "retire".) His friend and mine stayed a smidge longer, and then they both lingered off to their respective rooms. (I was hopeful that my friend was going to get some good, Irish nookie, but alas, she declined... don't' know what she was thinking!) I digress from my tale of Des and married-man woe... one cannot leave half a pint of Guinness, it's blasphemous in Ireland to waste the black gold goodness. So, I stayed on a bit in the bar chatting with some other patrons - well, I suppose being flirtatious and being hit on is a more appropriate description! But then, the barkeep waves to me and indicates by that universal signal of a fist to the ear with the pinky finger and thumb extended like a Hawaiian "hang loose" that I have a phone call. A phone call in the hotel bar? Odd. Thinking it was my friend wondering when I would be coming to our room, I take the call. However, it was Des... this is where it gets interesting...

Me: Hello?
Des: Hello, Samantha, it's Des.
Me: Well hello, Des.
Des: I was wondering if you might like to join me for a nightcap?
Me: (I'm smiling at being asked for a nightcap!)... Des, that sounds lovely, but I couldn't possibly have another drink!
Des: Then, maybe a coffee or tea?
Me: Ever-so sweet you are, Desmond, but I simply can't.
Des: I understand, but if you change your mind, I'm room 113.
e: Ok, Des. Good night.
Des: Good night, Samantha.

An interesting detail I have not previously disclosed is that Des and I never conversed about him being married. I suspected as much, but it was my friend that confirmed it. She had an in-depth conversation with him earlier in the evening while I was speaking with his friend. During their convo, she discovered he was married and apparently, he inquired as to the likelihood of my accepting his advances. (Yup, I said "advances".) She told him there was zero chance if he was married, as she knew from only two nights earlier and the experience with the Englishman about my "no married men" rule.

People ask me why I'm still single. Do I really need to elaborate on that?

My name is Samantha, and I'm a Twitter-holic...

When I wake in the morning - well, let's just say "when I wake" - I percolate some coffee, hit "power" on my laptop, let the pooch outside, login to my laptop, use the facilities, pour food in the pooch's bowl, grab a cup o' joe, let pooch back inside and proceed to open my email and my Twitter account in separate windows. I need to check my email, that's a reasonable given. The multi-window tasking between Twitter and email is so that I can obsessively toggle between the two so that I miss nothing on my Twitter page.

My name is Samantha and I am a Twitter-holic.

I love to Tweet to my Tweeps in Tweetdom... that might just fit in with "I once knew a girl from Nantucket"... but I digress... Tweeting has become more fun to me than Facebook (gasp!)... I never thought that day would come. It's fast, often witty or silly, sometimes professional (rarely) and often times just plain fun. Further, the 140 character limitation to a Tweet is far from limiting - it expands ones' creative juices by pushing a Tweeter to condense, rather, to simplify. One could even go so far as to say that Twitter is the Buddha of social media because of it's simplicity. (Is that pushing it? Maybe a smidge...)

So, I ask, is it wrong to be a Twitter-holic? I suppose like any addiction, as long as it's not interfering in my daily life, work, relationships, etc. it's ok, right? I mean, people can be functional alcoholics... I can be a functional Twitter-holic. Besides, no one yet has said to me, "would you get off your damn Twitter page already and stop Tweeting!"... oh wait, actually, they have...oops... I digress again... Clearly, I possess a gift for justifying damn near anything as a positive. Is it wrong? Nope.

I am proud to call myself a Twitter-holic. Come, follow me and join the cult of my Tweeple: http://twitter.com/samanthai

Breakfast of Champions...

I'm fighting off cooties that invaded my system whilst jet-lagged... buggery bastards! Which is the only reason I seem to be up far too early in the morning. It's still dark - I don't like waking up in the dark. Darkness is for two things: 1. Debauchery, 2. Sleep. I was doing the latter, then woke up starved. I suppose a couple squares of leftover pizza, no matter how delicious, isn't enough dinner... well, there was the Widmer Hefeweizen I consumed along with it... well, before it... but I don't think I followed the Widmer with enough grub. So, what does one consume at 5AM on a weekday?... Honey Nut Cheerios. Hit the spot, they did! Now, if only I could go back to sleep... I don't think at 6AM on a Tuesday morning there's any debauchery to be found... well, if there is I probably could find it. But, alas, I need more zzz's...

"Laid Off" is not the kind of lay one hopes for...

My company announced today that 500 people will be laid off come the first week of May... not the kind of lay I ever hope for. And now, I get to sit in idle anticipation of whether I will be one of the doomed to befall the proverbial axe. "Idle" is not in my usual repertoire of abilities, and I doubt that it will be in this case either. I've already done those "proactive" things like updating my resume, updating my LinkedIn profile and sending emails to my uber connected, career-driven compadres... so, now what? I suppose a responsible person would review their budget and begin slashing away. And yes, I'm certain to do that... but not tonight.

This evening, having already begun the opposite of idle positioning (ooh, I sound so freaky corporate! - I don't know whether to be impressed with myself or grossed out!) I opted for a more, one could say, idle behavior... having a beer. Yes, as you have likely read in previous posts, beer is a new love of mine. It's a rather new relationship, but I have high hopes for it. So far, beer has not done me wrong, leading me to believe we might be a match made in heaven! Well, that might be pushing it, but seriously, a good relationship of any kind in my world is reason enough to raise my glass high and say, "I'll have another!".

A Nocturnal Symphony

She prepares for sleep in the usual routine,
Teeth to be cleaned - hair to be brushed - face to be washed.
Dreamily wondering what lies in wait for her,
The images that will
Wake her.
Shake her.
Haunt her.
Or, maybe yet, her dreams will take her
to new places and spaces.
She wonders if she dares to dream of a dream so free?
She wonders if these dreams could ever be?
She brings the soft towel to her face,
gently patting the water away.
She gazes upon herself in the mirror,
fresh and clean.
Deciding only that her dreams will be as they may,
Without lucidity, aniticpation or remorse.
They will be, as they were meant to be.
Yet, somehow, in that mirrored image,
Hope continues to find a place,
Warmed gently within her breast.

S.

The "Rules" of Dating Should Be Abolished Because...

They're shit! Who developed "dating rules" and why do people think we need them? Aren't they simply the "games" everyone talks about hating? Why can't a bloke call me in less than 3 days time? Why can't I call them and ask them out for a pint? (I'm still speaking in Irish terminology, it's somehow less harsh than our American English...) And may I add simply, why do these never seem to apply on holiday? The men in my life less than 1 week ago were simple, easy and clear to understand. Both in what they wanted from me and what I wanted from them. -Wait there one moment - no, I'm not speaking of "hooking up", that's easy and a universal communication across languages and borders. I'm speaking of the 2 marriage proposals I received or the new friends I made or the ones I met that "if only I was living there, or them here..." that kind of stuff... I dunno, maybe things simply are easier on holiday because you're not expecting anything.

Why can't things be as simple when one is home? All this ranting is begging the question, isn't it? My rant derives from my annoyance at providing my mobile number to a man that very clearly was eager to have it... and I haven't heard a peep, a ring or a text. Frankly, I want to know a man is eager to date me. And also, women only think men are "too eager" when they aren't all that interested. So, what the fuck? I say to all you men out there, if you're truly interested in a woman, stop your lollygagging about because you think you have to follow some stupid rules and simply go for it, will you!

Aer Lingus... The only way to fly a "mile high"...

Now, what you've all been waiting for... tawdry tidbits from the jet path to Dublin. I don't think one claims their seat upon a plane in those tiny little coach nooks and says to themselves, "I'd like to have a good snog with the stranger sitting next to me." Well, maybe you do, but I can't say I ever have. I usually get stuck by the stinky old guy wearing essence of moth balls eau du toilette or the whiney lady that doesn't fly much demanding a fresh pillow because who knows what "type" was using it before her. Worse yet - the booger-laden toddler wanting to kiss you with banana goo all over them - my personal favorite. To my astoundment, a handsome and witty bloke, oddly from Indianapolis, sits right beside me, laughing with other friends also on the flight. This never happens to me.

To protect the not-so innocent, we'll call him Michael for the purposes of my story. (No, the point is that it isn't his name nor is it remotely close, but feel free to guess all you like.) Michael claims his seat beside me, making some comment to his friend behind us using such language as "fuck" in his wording. Concerned that I was offended (haha) he apologizes and I reply, "what the fuck for?" Michael smiles, laughs and proclaims "this is going to be a good flight" - to which, I concur with a smile. We begin chatting almost immediately and he shows me some fun apps on his iPhone - I may have been drooling over his technology more than him at first. Then he comments about checking what Match.com has for him before take off. I said, most plainly, that they will have shit for him - complete shit. It's a sham with the same useless people month after month and to stop wasting his money. He laughed and we began talking about anything and everything. Once we're in the air and the bar cart approaches, he asks if I'll have some drinks with him. But of course, I reply! So, 2 bottles of Merlot for me and 2 bottles of Chardonnay for him. (Yes, I mocked him for his sissy wine choice, but there's only so much one can do when choosing from an airplane bar cart.)

This is the part were things get a bit fuzzy, as far as how things went-down, that is. Of course, we did request 4 more bottles of wine at one point, to which our lovely Irish flight attendant obliged most kindly. I don't remember how we got there, but suddenly, we're having a lovely snog and I have no complaints whatsoever, nor does he. I believe Michael started things moving along and I recall feeling it was quite normal in a way, more like comfortable, I suppose. And then, of course, the duty-free cart came along and lookie there! - A bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream appears. We weren't supposed to consume it on the flight, but, ummm, we did... all of it. It was lovely and already the best flight ever... and then, the lights went down and the blankets were drawn high...over my head at one point... over his at another... one of us always keeping a look out for flight attendants and random passersby. Discussions of a full-fledged mile high membership were at the helm, but we had certain challenges which need not be delved into... female challenges, let's say. So, we were happy enough with a hearty snog that required unzippering, unbottoning and creative maneuvering in wee coach seats.

Before we had a chance to notice, we were landing. We traveled through customs together, went for a smoke and a coffee whilst I awaited the arrival of my travel companion and he waited for his connection to Shannon. We exchanged information and have chatted since. Truly, a wonderful voyage and the only way to fly almost a full "mile high".

Blue Moon... without a care in my heart...

I saw a Blue Moon last night, err, I mean drank several Blue Moons... lovely lager, but it's no Guinness. And frankly, I could tell by looking at the Guinness in the bar last evening that I didn't want it. It was lighter and didn't require special pulling from the tap - who wants to drink that? My Guinness drinking will stay in Ireland where it's pure, sacred and delicious. I also owe my Twitter mate @SteveHealy some whiskey drinking... my girl Tanya was so in shock from my beer need that she simply couldn't go on any longer last night. Well, she was jet-lagged and a bit weary, but the shock didn't help - you can see it in the pic...

Beer... a newly acquired desire...

I've never been a beer drinker. In my 36 years, and counting... just not-so quickly, I may have consumed about 5 beers in that time. But then, my feet touched upon the green covered, rock-filled soil of Ireland, and I grab a Guinness. I didn't even start out slow - went straight for that heavenly, black stout with a head thick enough for a good pubtender to make a shamrock design from moving it under the draught in a glorious, slight, artistic motion. I'll attach a photo - it's some of the best art I've ever seen. Ok, maybe that's a bit much, but I found it remarkable. I entered into a new world that I had never delved into, nor had the inclination - beer land.

Now, it's approaching 6:30PM CDT - beer time. One of my very dearest girls, Tanya, is in shock. She, of course, is a beer drinker. Connoisseur might be pushing it, but she knows what she likes and what she doesn't like, much like her men. I sent her a text the other night while she was traveling for business that stated "I'm drinking a beer, it tastes really fabulous". To which, she replied, "I'm going into shock and don't know what to say". - For Tanya to be speechless is of equal proportions shock-wise to Brad-jelina or Madonna announcing they are discontinuing the practice of adopting African babies. Jaw-dropping proportions.

Historically, I have opted for the likes of Cosmopolitans (to which, I must state, that I adored them long before those idiotic "Sex and the City" bitches made them popular) or my old stand by - Bacardi Gold and Diet with lime, if you please. Then, I learned the beauty of wine. Ahh, the rich reds of a Cabernet Sauvignon or a rich Sangiovese - mmm, the delight is making my mouth water! But right at this moment, the likes of maybe a Blue Moon Lager sounds perfectly wonderous.

I realize now that I tempted and teased about my airplane "ride" in my previous posting. Well, that will have to wait yet again. For, as many have known before me, it's beer time and that cannot wait, even for the tawdriest best of stories.

What a lovely saturday... for a nap...

I'm still feeling a bit jet-lagged from my Irish adventures. Of course, maybe if I wasn't up until 4AM drinking pint after pint of Guinness goodness and seeking debaucherious tales to tell, I might not be so god damned tired. But, I am, and that's why it was a good holiday as well. Yeah, I'm sure you want to know those tales... I'm wanting to share, that's half the fun! But, nappie-by first... then, I'll start with the airplane ride. Yes, my debauchery began en route from Chicago to Dublin. Fucking best flight I've ever taken.

I'll leave a teaser for you... you know how the overseas flights turn the lights down, very romantic, and they give you blankies to snuggle up in? It's very convenient after 4 plane-sized bottles of wine (per person, of course) and wickedness abounding in the minds of two able bodied adults... more to come... no pun intended... maybe a little ;o)

Mmmmm... breakfast

As time passes, you will learn that I adore a big, hearty breakfast on the weekends. There's something about it - eggs, American bacon, pancakes.... delicious goodness! I'm off to do just that. After spending nearly 2 weeks in Ireland and having Irish breakfast every day, I'm in serious need of a glutinous American version. Yum.

Poetic Introduction

I mentioned poet, right? Here's an introduction to my words. I don't expect them to be liked or disliked, or even understood. Poetry is highly subjective, it's all good if you think it's shit. It's even better if you dig it.

Off on a Jungian Bender

Many questions come to mind,
Can I be terrified
while at peace with mine?
An oxymoron at very best,
not surprising, although undressed.

Launching backwards - Introspection.
Seeing forward - Retrospection.

Finding the space that hides my blame,
taking shape within my brain.
My muscles ache from lifting weights,
the literal kind
inside my mind.

Time to venture out of doors,
walk the dog and stretch these muscles
Tight -
Like Atlas' shoulders
Shrug me off
to stretch my legs

S.

And so it begins....

I'm a frustrated writer, and well, frustrated cubicle dweller - how about I just say frustrated in general?? Yeah, that'll work. I've been considering this blogging thing for some time. In such consideration, I pondered "why would anyone give a shit what I have to say?" I don't have the answer, but what I do know is that I'm nuts, whacked, eccentric, hot-stuff, sometimes opinionated, always wrong, usually right, strong-willed, able-minded, and often misunderstood. I'm chalking this up to an online journal of bullshit, rantings, ramblings and nonsense. I mean really, why does everything need to make sense all the time? It doesn't, so why pretend that it does? Exactly. Glad we're on the same page...har har... yeah, puns happen, much like shit does.