Write On - Forgetful

My awesome blog buddy Nicole of Tattoos and Teething Rings has her bi-weekly writing prompt up, and I figured I'd participate. Why not? It's for a good cause... the cause being her blog of course. If you haven't checked out her blog, why the heck not?

Anyway, the latest writing prompt:

2) Write about your worst personality trait or bad habit. Be honest; none of this "My worst habit is that I'm so kind to everyone...blah blah blah." Time to fess up! (And, since you are aware of this bad habit or trait, is there a reason you haven't changed?)

Easily my worst personality trait is that I am forgetful. In fact, in the spirit of this post, I forgot all about it.

Now, I don't forget everything. I have some very tight deadlines for work, for instance, and manage to meet them. I don't miss them and I do well to get my work done, sometimes early, usually right on deadline. I don't forget birthdays and anniversaries (no way!).

But don't ask me to tell you where I left my wallet or my keys at because I may not know off hand.

This morning, for instance, I went to the grocery store. Got in the car, backed it out of the garage, got on the street, put it in drive and promptly pulled over in front of my own house. Why? I forgot my wallet.

There are about three places where I put my keys and wallet, and if they aren't in one of those places, I will storm through the house, angry at myself because I forgot where I put them. It is beyond infuriating. Like this morning, they weren't in the usual place but rather in my backpack. I'd put them in my backpack yesterday, but of course forgot about it.

I forgot to charge my rechargeable triple-A batteries on Friday night so on Saturday morning, I didn't have them to put into The Garmin. But I figured it had one good run left in it. Of course, it didn't. Less than 10 miles into my 15-mile run, The Garmin died on me.

I'm so forgetful, it's amazing I manage to keep all of my running things in order. I've set aside space in my office for my running gear: The Garmin, the strap thingie my iPod goes in, headphones, body glide, things like that. Most of the time, those things actually find their way there, but sometimes I'm scrambling around the house at 5:45 a.m. looking for something.

If my limbs weren't firmly attached to my body, I would go about my business minus a digit or two.

Lists and things like that don't really work for me. Not sure why. I've actually forgotten where I put lists sometimes, shopping lists for instance. I've made lists before and then, as I get to the grocery store realized that I left the list at home. A lot of good that does.

I sometimes wonder if I closed my garage door on my way out. It's actually so routine and common to me that I don't remember actually closing it but my mind must wander when I do so because I always come home to a closed garage door.

One of my biggest fears before Yvie went to school was that I would forget to pick her up. Seriously. I worried that I'd just be going about my business and then realize that school had let out 30 minutes before. That too has never happened, but I still worry about it.

I saw this prompt on Friday, meant to get started and then it slipped my mind until this morning.

I guess that's in the spirit of this post, right? To have forgotten about it?

Write On - The First Meeting

Greetings all. It's been a busy morning and it will be a busy day, and I have lots to share with you in terms of running and some exciting things that I've been up to.

But I wanted to take time to participate in my blog buddy Nicole's Write On! series. Actually, this is the first day of it and being one of her trusty readers I bit when she posed this writing prompt and asked her readers to participate.

The prompt is simple: how did you meet your spouse?

And here's how LB met Mrs. LB:

I hadn't intended on meeting my future wife at my college newspaper. Like a lot of things, it just happened that way. I hadn't also intended on going back to the college newspaper for another semester. Back in college, junior college to be more precise, I was just meandering about, aimlessly taking classes and not really having a clear idea of what I wanted to do (and I didn't run either, I missed out on so many races!).

I was set against returning to the college 'paper for the Fall 98 semester. It just wasn't going to happen. I had gotten in some debates with the editor-in-chief and the newspaper advisor, and I didn't feel like the effort, work and long hours I was doing as sports editor were paying off. Also, I had a job in a small newspaper, working in their sports department, and I figured my time would be best spent focusing on that.

But I received an award in late spring of '98 that was two-fold. It came with money ($500 for the upcoming semester, certainly not chump change for me then, or now) but it also came with the stipulation that I needed to return to the school newspaper.

So I was back in, fate having intervened for me, only I stepped down as sports editor. I figured I'd let someone else do the job which I'd done for two semesters. I just wanted to write, and have space for a column here and there.

Sometime before the fall semester started, I heard about this wonderful sports writer who was also joining our staff. I was surprised and excited to hear it was a female, since female sports writers weren't the norm, and still aren't. But she had covered Division 1 college football and basketball and had even covered some professional sports, including the 1998 NBA Finals. With those credentials, I was impressed. Intimidated even. I had covered some things worthwhile, but nothing like those events.

I felt that this newcomer, whom I hadn't met in my first few trips down to the newsroom that semester, was probably wondering what we were all about, probably wondering what she'd gotten herself into. We were a rag-tag group of writers and editors, and some were more raggedy than others. We weren't really a tight-knit group but we certainly did spend some long hours together down there, cranking out the copy, formatting the page, trying to put out our bi-weekly editions.

On one trip down to the newsroom, I finally saw her. She was sitting in a chair and of course, being the shy person I was, I didn't say hello. Instead, I got to talking to another staff member, a photographer friend, and we got to talking about soccer. European soccer. International soccer.

"Oh, do you know Manny who works at Pete King's?"

The new writer had spoken up, and it was completely irrelevant to our conversation. Pete King's Soccer Shop was a local soccer store, but it pertained nothing to what we were talking about. We both looked at her and then looked at each other and continued our conversation, acting as if she hadn't said anything or wasn't in the room with us at all.

I didn't say anything to her that day, although my time there was brief. I didn't see the future Mrs. LB until a few days later, after I found out she'd been given the football beat. I was alone in the newsroom when she walked in, and I greeted her this time. I said "Hey football chick" and she said "hey soccer boy." I didn't know it, but that could easily have been strike two against me. Mrs. LB does not like the word "chick" nor does she like to be called names, any names, by strangers, particularly by those who ignore her.

She knew who I was (one fellow staffer had filled her in on some of the veterans in the newsroom) so I'm not sure if I introduced myself to her or not, but we talked a little bit about some things.

While ignoring her may not have been the most ideal way to her heart, it worked. She admitted that she thought I was a bit of a bad boy. Ha! .... I mean, she was dead on. The B in LB stands for Bad-ass, didn't you know?

Less than a year after I ignored her, we were married.

I don't ignore her anymore.