Solution: I need to be Queen of the World. (Vote for me! I'll buy you Costco cookies!)
Oh well. It's the thought that counts. Actually, no. It really isn't the thought that counts. Whoever made up that saying (I'm looking at you Hallmark) it's a crock of shit. I think about things all the time and I still haven't won the Lotto and the dishes are still not done. So, clearly, the thought is shit. Real time action is what counts. Otherwise, my mom would be thrilled at how sparkley clean the house was and how cold, fresh, and mixed to perfection her cocktail was when she got home after work. And in all her euphoric glee she would prance on over to the Apple store like a magical Fairy Godmother (but sparkly and pretty, not that sweet old lady where the blue robe in Cinderella) and wave her magic
Putting things into play for this mini softball tourney (the "brilliant" plan) (you can't see me but my eyes are rolling heavenward) requires more than I had originally anticipated. Did you know to rent a softball field from the city, and to have an actual game on it, insurance is required? Well, now you know. And I do too. You're welcome. How to acquire this insurance, however, is info that I'm not so privy on. Thank goodness for my sisters help–she's a doer, not a thinker; so she counts.
Apparently I'm the ringleader to this circus of a softball tourney that I dreamed up (with the help of Crazy B.) (B is for Beautiful! But I'm jealous, so I shorten it to B.). I was informed this today by Sis. Apparently, I seem to "have it all under control" and "all planned out perfectly." Which is no surprise really, because I am a thinker after all, and making lists is my forte. Except now we've moved on the doing portion of this plan; and I'm more of a fluffy bunny cornered in a glass tank trying to click my ruby red slippers together to get out off the dinner menu of a 10 foot Python and back to Kansas where everything is black and white and safe (except for tornados, but whatever, I like rollercoasters. Bring it on). And in the terror of it all I have become a B. (and this time B. is not for beautiful).
My sister is helpful but she's a doer who packs a punch. I'm pretty sure she is both annoyed with me (the B factor) and pities me for lack of sanity. Anybody doing a poll on how many times I am going to
Perfectionism is my flaw. I heard the other day on a radio show that the person who is always editing lines will never get anything written. The majority of people have a picture painted of a perfectionist with not a hair out of place, a wrinkle in their clothes, and...damn near perfect! While that most certainly is an accurate portrayal of one type of perfectionist, but there is another type of perfectionist. This second type doesn't show up. Perfect is flawless, and if there is no effort, there is not opportunity for flaw. Show up and be perfect, or don't show up and remain flawless. It's a twisted logic but the idea of reaching perfection is a flaw in of itself. Obviously, if you have been paying attention, you see that I am the second type of perfectionist, the flawless one. (Eh! *elbow nudge* Eh! *elbow nudge* You like the way that sounds now don't ya!) Not to be fooled though, either type is hell.
Mom's 50th Birthday Mini Softball Tourney is my shot to show up; and I am absolutely terrified. (remember scared fluffy bunny in sparkly red heels) (No, I don't know where the bunny got ruby red slippers to fit her paws, google it.) Every time there is something that needs to be done there is an opportunity of flaws happening. On the other hand, the road to success is paved with trial and error. And wine. I'm pretty sure there is copious amounts of wine to be poured along the journey.
Wish me luck!