Have you ever noticed that there are certain places that NEVER seem to run at high levels of efficiency?
Like, you know, the Department of Motor Vehicles?? (They call themselves the Department of Public Safety now. HA.)
Let me tell you about my experience today.
So I went to the DPS last month to get my license. Blah de blah, everything was fine. I came home with a temporary license and went about my normal life. My regular license was supposed to come in 30-45 days but as time went by I noticed that it had not arrived.
Well a few days ago I was looking at the temporary license and figured out why. The mailing address listed there was my Portland address from over two years ago. I have NO idea how that happened. I'm not sure why the people at the DPS didn't catch it but I'm pretty sure the reason *I* didn't see it was because I was super sick at the time.
So.
I called the DPS.
And the lady I talked to informed me that I could not make the mailing address change over the phone. I would, in fact, have to come all the way back in and make the change in person. To which she added, "MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" (Ok, maybe not...)
But she did tell me I wouldn't have to wait in line.
*Dance, dance, happy singing, throwing of confetti and general fiesta*
No waiting in line like a generic cow awaiting slaughter. No standing against the inevitably white-washed wall, surreptitiously sneaking glances at the large, sweaty man behind you wondering if he is, in fact, the man your mother warned you about.
Joy of all joys!
So with my mother in tow I went to the DPS office today.
And was a little shocked to be given the exact same forms and directions as the person in front of me, along with a little blue ticket that had the number 17 on it.
So shocked was I that I immediately sat down like the good little cow that I was supposed to be.
Then the fire started.
It was a slow fire. The kind that stirs in your stomach and begins to creep up your esophagus until it's right behind your eyeballs and you can't tell whether or not the room has gone red or you're having an aneurysm.
So I cut in line and asked the not-so-nice lady with the preliminary forms about my phone call and promise of no line.
And she gave me the look.
The "one eyebrow raised, who-do-you-think-you-are" look. And very "politely" informed me that I was quite wrong.
And once again, I became an anonymous cow.
So I sat. And seethed.
I am an excellent seether.
I inwardly raged against the inept DPS agents and their lies and trickery, I raged against the token woman with the kid who won't stop crying, I raged against the token foreigners who didn't bring the right documents and can't understand why they're being sent home. I even raged against the tiny TV and the Weather Channel and their idiotic obsession with tornadoes. And what's with all the signs around the room? Like, "Please refrain from cell phone use during processing." "Processing??" First a cow, then some sort of unhealthy and disgusting cheese?
When it was finally my turn to see the actual DPS agent, I told her I simply needed to update my mailing address.
She told me to take off my hat and get ready to take a new picture.
What?
That's right. A whole NEW license instead of just an update to the last one.
And there was a REASON I was wearing the hat, people.
So instead of a no-line, 10 minute, divinely-orchestrated DPS dream trip, what I got was a 45 minute wait and a new license that will, no doubt, exquisitely display my unwashed hair and makeup-less face for all the world to see.
Not to mention the sweet and silent urge to pee that had crept over me while I sat there seething.
I have decided that I do NOT like the DPS.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Bemused
I just finished Maureen McCormick's autobiography. It's an exceptionally interesting, and quick, read. It's always amazing to me that you can "invest" yourself in a TV show and in a TV character and begin to feel like you know and like or even love him/her. You can spend hours and hours with a fictional person in the intimate space of your home, your bedroom, or your living room, and begin to feel like you actually have a stake in his/her life. It's not hard to understand how people with mild or moderate behavioral or mental problems can become obsessed with actors and actresses.
Don't go getting all worried on me. I'm not about to show up behind Hugh Laurie's house with a urine specimen jar or anything.
This book that Maureen writes is completely open and honest about her life, including everything from her years and years of cocaine addiction and drug abuse to her issues with depression to fighting with her brother for conservatorship of her father. I was just amazed at how much I didn't know about her. I'd always thought about her as the kid from the Brady Bunch and assumed she was just a "normal" person. (Well, as normal as Hollywood people can be, anyway.) You can never tell about people. Especially television people.
You know who else you can never tell about?
Mimes.
And clowns.
And people who walk around Disney World or other places in those giant animal costumes.
I had to do that once.
I worked at Focus on the Family for two summers when I was in college, in a soda shoppe called Whit's End in the welcome center. It serves food and drinks and maintains a 32 foot slide by making the kids put socks over their arms. (Please, just don't ask.) And part of the job required dressing up in this giant costume of Mr. Whittaker. He's a character who owns Whit's End in the radio (and now TV) series Adventures in Odyssey, a show for kids that Focus created. There were actually three costumes but I wasn't tall enough to be Eugene, the geeky teenager, and I was too tall to be the dog, whatever his name was.
Anyway. You had to have an escort with you when you were in costume in case some kid or teenager decided to attack you (which happened to the girl in the dog costume far more often that anyone else) and to help you put on and take off the giant head. The escort also had to make sure all the zippers and straps were done and that no parts of the real you were showing, and they had to steer you away from obstacles that you couldn't see. Unless, of course, your escort wanted to have a little fun with you. (And we were all great friends so this happened quite often.)
Because once the giant head was on you could only see through the black mesh screen that was Mr. Whittaker's mouth. And it wasn't very big. Or very see-through-able. And it was SO hot in there. Oh my GOSH. It was like Dante's Inferno. There was a place up at the top for an ice pack and a little fan that was supposed to blow the cool air from the ice down onto your head. Well half the time the fans weren't working but even when they were they didn't help. We also wore ice vests under the giant body suits but even they didn't work for too long. (Oh, and on a side note... Once those started to melt you had two enormous wet spots exactly over your boobs. Try going back to work the front counter looking like that and just see if you don't get creepy looks.)
One time I was in the suit and a woman handed me her baby so she could take a picture. I knew she had handed me the baby but I couldn't FEEL the baby at all. I had this huge body suit on, including a big round belly made of PVC pipe, huge gloves, a giant head, friggin' enormous shoes, I can barely see anything and I'm just praying that I can hold the baby long enough for her to take the picture.
I was NOT smiling when she told me to say cheese.
So see?
It just goes to show.
Either the Brady Bunch, clowns, or a giant Mr. Whittaker holding a baby, you just don't know about people.
Don't go getting all worried on me. I'm not about to show up behind Hugh Laurie's house with a urine specimen jar or anything.
This book that Maureen writes is completely open and honest about her life, including everything from her years and years of cocaine addiction and drug abuse to her issues with depression to fighting with her brother for conservatorship of her father. I was just amazed at how much I didn't know about her. I'd always thought about her as the kid from the Brady Bunch and assumed she was just a "normal" person. (Well, as normal as Hollywood people can be, anyway.) You can never tell about people. Especially television people.
You know who else you can never tell about?
Mimes.
And clowns.
And people who walk around Disney World or other places in those giant animal costumes.
I had to do that once.
I worked at Focus on the Family for two summers when I was in college, in a soda shoppe called Whit's End in the welcome center. It serves food and drinks and maintains a 32 foot slide by making the kids put socks over their arms. (Please, just don't ask.) And part of the job required dressing up in this giant costume of Mr. Whittaker. He's a character who owns Whit's End in the radio (and now TV) series Adventures in Odyssey, a show for kids that Focus created. There were actually three costumes but I wasn't tall enough to be Eugene, the geeky teenager, and I was too tall to be the dog, whatever his name was.
Anyway. You had to have an escort with you when you were in costume in case some kid or teenager decided to attack you (which happened to the girl in the dog costume far more often that anyone else) and to help you put on and take off the giant head. The escort also had to make sure all the zippers and straps were done and that no parts of the real you were showing, and they had to steer you away from obstacles that you couldn't see. Unless, of course, your escort wanted to have a little fun with you. (And we were all great friends so this happened quite often.)
Because once the giant head was on you could only see through the black mesh screen that was Mr. Whittaker's mouth. And it wasn't very big. Or very see-through-able. And it was SO hot in there. Oh my GOSH. It was like Dante's Inferno. There was a place up at the top for an ice pack and a little fan that was supposed to blow the cool air from the ice down onto your head. Well half the time the fans weren't working but even when they were they didn't help. We also wore ice vests under the giant body suits but even they didn't work for too long. (Oh, and on a side note... Once those started to melt you had two enormous wet spots exactly over your boobs. Try going back to work the front counter looking like that and just see if you don't get creepy looks.)
One time I was in the suit and a woman handed me her baby so she could take a picture. I knew she had handed me the baby but I couldn't FEEL the baby at all. I had this huge body suit on, including a big round belly made of PVC pipe, huge gloves, a giant head, friggin' enormous shoes, I can barely see anything and I'm just praying that I can hold the baby long enough for her to take the picture.
I was NOT smiling when she told me to say cheese.
So see?
It just goes to show.
Either the Brady Bunch, clowns, or a giant Mr. Whittaker holding a baby, you just don't know about people.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Broken... Something New This Time
My mom has some flowers outside in our backyard. Personally, I think they're kind of weird, but she really likes them. The technical name is Canna Lily but they're not really lilies. Sort of like how Rhode Island is neither a road nor an island. *Discuss* (If you don't know what I'm talking about go rent the Best of Mike Myers on SNL.)
Anyways...
She has 5 or 6 of them blooming at the moment so she asked me to go take some pictures of them. I like to take pictures of flowers, see. I have a lot of them. I take far more pictures of flowers and bushes and things than I do of people. This is because a flower will not stick it's tongue out at you the moment you press the camera button. Neither will it attempt to moon you.
Anyways again...
So I went out and took several pictures of the cannas with her camera and with mine. Her camera is extraordinarily expensive and does lots of amazing things. Mine I bought myself and just does a few neat things. But I love it. Because I worked and saved for it and it was the absolute best I could afford at the time.
It's a Kodak EasyShare Z885 and when I bought it for my birthday (and I had a coupon!) it cost me a little more than 200 dollars. It takes 8.1 megapixel pictures and can do, as I said, some neat things. It perfect and I've taken some incredible pictures with it. Visit my webshots account if you don't believe me.
My mom's camera has a neck strap. Mine doesn't. So I put her camera around my neck and my camera in her camera bag that I was carrying over my shoulder. Then I got a trifle spooked by a demon in the shape of a wasp.
So I was on my way inside, and was kicking off my shoes and my camera fell out of the camera bag and straight onto the concrete patio, where it bounced twice and came to rest face down. (The shoes were not mine, really. They were my dad's. The same ones that caused me to trip the other day. I've decided they must be unlucky.)
I just about had a heart attack.
As you have probably guessed, my beautiful little camera is no longer functional.
When you turn it on the viewer shows a pink screen with lines across it. If you take a picture, it comes out pink with lines across it. I've never seen anything like it. The pink looks like Pepto-Bismol. It's absolutely revolting.
I'm devastated.
You can't have a job during nursing school, you know. And mine (hopefully) will begin in January. And I have been so sick that I haven't been able to work. So here I sit, at TWENTY EIGHT, completely dependent on the charity of my parents, completely penniless, and now completely devoid of my beautiful, perfect, splendidly gorgeous and fantastic camera!!
I'd cry but I'm afraid that might send Barney into a fit of hysteria. He's very sensitive.
Well I hope the start of the weekend is better for the rest of you. Here's a picture of one of the damned flowers to get you going:
My Webshots: http://community.webshots.com/user/sunnyag04?vhost=community"
Anyways...
She has 5 or 6 of them blooming at the moment so she asked me to go take some pictures of them. I like to take pictures of flowers, see. I have a lot of them. I take far more pictures of flowers and bushes and things than I do of people. This is because a flower will not stick it's tongue out at you the moment you press the camera button. Neither will it attempt to moon you.
Anyways again...
So I went out and took several pictures of the cannas with her camera and with mine. Her camera is extraordinarily expensive and does lots of amazing things. Mine I bought myself and just does a few neat things. But I love it. Because I worked and saved for it and it was the absolute best I could afford at the time.
It's a Kodak EasyShare Z885 and when I bought it for my birthday (and I had a coupon!) it cost me a little more than 200 dollars. It takes 8.1 megapixel pictures and can do, as I said, some neat things. It perfect and I've taken some incredible pictures with it. Visit my webshots account if you don't believe me.
My mom's camera has a neck strap. Mine doesn't. So I put her camera around my neck and my camera in her camera bag that I was carrying over my shoulder. Then I got a trifle spooked by a demon in the shape of a wasp.
So I was on my way inside, and was kicking off my shoes and my camera fell out of the camera bag and straight onto the concrete patio, where it bounced twice and came to rest face down. (The shoes were not mine, really. They were my dad's. The same ones that caused me to trip the other day. I've decided they must be unlucky.)
I just about had a heart attack.
As you have probably guessed, my beautiful little camera is no longer functional.
When you turn it on the viewer shows a pink screen with lines across it. If you take a picture, it comes out pink with lines across it. I've never seen anything like it. The pink looks like Pepto-Bismol. It's absolutely revolting.
I'm devastated.
You can't have a job during nursing school, you know. And mine (hopefully) will begin in January. And I have been so sick that I haven't been able to work. So here I sit, at TWENTY EIGHT, completely dependent on the charity of my parents, completely penniless, and now completely devoid of my beautiful, perfect, splendidly gorgeous and fantastic camera!!
I'd cry but I'm afraid that might send Barney into a fit of hysteria. He's very sensitive.
Well I hope the start of the weekend is better for the rest of you. Here's a picture of one of the damned flowers to get you going:
My Webshots: http://community.webshots.com/user/sunnyag04?vhost=community"
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Barney
I just drenched the right arm of my shirt. How?
Well it's pouring down rain. Thank you, Tropical Storm Hermine. And my dog, Barney, needed to go out and potty.
But the rain drips really heavily in front of the door and he doesn't like that. He refuses to walk through them. So he required that I hold the door open with my hip and hold the umbrella just outside it so the heavy drips wouldn't get on him.
He's fine with the rain, see, just not the big drops.
And he's also scared of the umbrella.
So holding the door open with my hip, my arm sticking outside with the umbrella, I had to coax him out the door while firmly encouraging him not to drink the rainwater that was puddling just outside.
Then he likes to "mosey" back inside.
So I'm wet, he's wet, the umbrellas stuck to the screen door and I'm wearing my Dad's old tennis shoes like when I was a toddler and proceed to trip over the nonexistent laces.
I felt like I was in a Marx Brothers movie.
And then my puppy wags his tail at me and would very much like a cookie.
*sigh*
Who can resist that?
Well it's pouring down rain. Thank you, Tropical Storm Hermine. And my dog, Barney, needed to go out and potty.
But the rain drips really heavily in front of the door and he doesn't like that. He refuses to walk through them. So he required that I hold the door open with my hip and hold the umbrella just outside it so the heavy drips wouldn't get on him.
He's fine with the rain, see, just not the big drops.
And he's also scared of the umbrella.
So holding the door open with my hip, my arm sticking outside with the umbrella, I had to coax him out the door while firmly encouraging him not to drink the rainwater that was puddling just outside.
Then he likes to "mosey" back inside.
So I'm wet, he's wet, the umbrellas stuck to the screen door and I'm wearing my Dad's old tennis shoes like when I was a toddler and proceed to trip over the nonexistent laces.
I felt like I was in a Marx Brothers movie.
And then my puppy wags his tail at me and would very much like a cookie.
*sigh*
Who can resist that?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
By myself
Last night I dreamed that my sister and I had mistakenly driven to Trenton, New Jersey. We were both quite scared and lost so I suggested that we pull over into a Wendy's so I could get my GPS out and get us back home. My sister (Jennifer) got out to go get herself a drink and then came running back to the car and pounded on the window telling me to let her in. So I reached over to unlock the doors...
... and proceeded to spill an entire glass of water all over my nightstand. I wish my dreams were not quite so vivid.
Anyway. The biopsy came back normal. So I do not have duodenal cancer. Yippie, right?
Well in a way I guess you could say I'm relieved and rather glad.
But in another I was actually rather discouraged and even... disappointed.
You're probably thinking, "You crazy idiot. No one WANTS cancer. What kind of a psycho are you??"
Well I don't WANT cancer. I WANT for whatever this sickness is to have a NAME. Because when it is named it can be cured. Unless you know what something is you can't go about treating it.
At the moment I am adrift on a boat of sickness in a sea of exhaustion and pain without a sail. I don't have any oars and my crewmen all jumped overboard because, let's face it, intestinal distress is nobody's friend.
Sometimes I get the feeling that people think I should just jump into the water and swim for it. Like I'm in the boat because I want to be. And I could leave if I really tried hard enough. I don't think they see these invisible 80 pound weights the Gremlins tied to my ankles.
No land in sight.
No breeze for the non-existent sail.
Just me in a boat. And I'm sure the toilet is going to stop working any day now.
I know what you're thinking. I'm feeling sorry for myself, right? And that's pathetic and I shouldn't do it.
Well I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Even sick and tired I'm far better off than most people.
But I sure do wish I had some answers.
And I wish I didn't feel so...
Alone.
... and proceeded to spill an entire glass of water all over my nightstand. I wish my dreams were not quite so vivid.
Anyway. The biopsy came back normal. So I do not have duodenal cancer. Yippie, right?
Well in a way I guess you could say I'm relieved and rather glad.
But in another I was actually rather discouraged and even... disappointed.
You're probably thinking, "You crazy idiot. No one WANTS cancer. What kind of a psycho are you??"
Well I don't WANT cancer. I WANT for whatever this sickness is to have a NAME. Because when it is named it can be cured. Unless you know what something is you can't go about treating it.
At the moment I am adrift on a boat of sickness in a sea of exhaustion and pain without a sail. I don't have any oars and my crewmen all jumped overboard because, let's face it, intestinal distress is nobody's friend.
Sometimes I get the feeling that people think I should just jump into the water and swim for it. Like I'm in the boat because I want to be. And I could leave if I really tried hard enough. I don't think they see these invisible 80 pound weights the Gremlins tied to my ankles.
No land in sight.
No breeze for the non-existent sail.
Just me in a boat. And I'm sure the toilet is going to stop working any day now.
I know what you're thinking. I'm feeling sorry for myself, right? And that's pathetic and I shouldn't do it.
Well I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Even sick and tired I'm far better off than most people.
But I sure do wish I had some answers.
And I wish I didn't feel so...
Alone.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Because I love you
I was informed last night that my cherished blog is all but dead.
Shocked and sickened as I was, I had to admit it was quite true. I haven't posted anything in 3 weeks for heaven's sake!
Being sick certainly does take a lot out of you. I'm not sad, as some people might surmise, I'm just not well.
At the moment I'm waiting for some biopsy results. Waiting is an altogether unpleasant affair. I've decided that I dislike it intensely. I've always considered myself to be a rather patient person but I've about had it. Soon I shall storm the doors of the nearest medical facility and demand immediate ANSWERS! (Right....)
So anyway... Not much energy today so I thought I'd just post you a poem that I wrote a few months back. It will show you that my state of mind is as good as ever, though my physical body might be slowly trying to do away with me.
Much, much love to you all, my faithful friends, followers and beloved minions.
Shocked and sickened as I was, I had to admit it was quite true. I haven't posted anything in 3 weeks for heaven's sake!
Being sick certainly does take a lot out of you. I'm not sad, as some people might surmise, I'm just not well.
At the moment I'm waiting for some biopsy results. Waiting is an altogether unpleasant affair. I've decided that I dislike it intensely. I've always considered myself to be a rather patient person but I've about had it. Soon I shall storm the doors of the nearest medical facility and demand immediate ANSWERS! (Right....)
So anyway... Not much energy today so I thought I'd just post you a poem that I wrote a few months back. It will show you that my state of mind is as good as ever, though my physical body might be slowly trying to do away with me.
Much, much love to you all, my faithful friends, followers and beloved minions.
I’ve giggled and giggled
And giggled some more
I’ve rolled across carpets
And over bare floor
I’ve laughed till my face hurts
And my abs were sore
And even howled wildly
When called a great whore.
I love to grin wildly
It’s mirth I adore.
And so now to laughter
This ode I must write
To all things quite silly
And ne’er things contrite
They make me feel happy
And high as a kite (or weed, but I digress)
So I raise now my glass,
As this poem I recite,
“Merry Christmas to all
“And to all a good night!”
(wait, I think that was the weed talking…)
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Bewildered
Good morning loyal readers!
Did you think I died?
Well close, but no cigar. In my rather feeble state of health I have all but forsaken this cherished blog of mine.
When I had mono I could lie in bed and type. But in this house I have to sit bolt upright in a supremely uncomfortable chair in the computer room. Once I'm in here I don't really feel like discoursing.
But I'm truly sorry to have left you all hanging. And for once, I'm not being sarcastic.
My doctors don't know what's wrong with me but they know it's NOT my gallbladder, adrenal glands, liver, etc. I'm having some more embarrassing tests done in about two weeks to see what else it might or might not be.
I've really been doing you all a favor by keeping you out of the loop, see. The last month would have read like this:
Pain, sleep, pain, sleep, oh look at my dog isn't he cute, pain, sleep, sleep (ah, fooled you didn't I?) bath, pain, sleep.
Are you tired of all of this sick talk of mine? Tired of always reading about how I'm falling apart in some way?
I appreciate your sympathy.
Believe me, I'm quite tired of it myself.
I look forward to the day when I'm back to my normal, acerbic self and can continue this blog as I used to.
Won't that be fun?
Until then... You'll have to find an Uncle John's Bathroom Reader or something.
Did you think I died?
Well close, but no cigar. In my rather feeble state of health I have all but forsaken this cherished blog of mine.
When I had mono I could lie in bed and type. But in this house I have to sit bolt upright in a supremely uncomfortable chair in the computer room. Once I'm in here I don't really feel like discoursing.
But I'm truly sorry to have left you all hanging. And for once, I'm not being sarcastic.
My doctors don't know what's wrong with me but they know it's NOT my gallbladder, adrenal glands, liver, etc. I'm having some more embarrassing tests done in about two weeks to see what else it might or might not be.
I've really been doing you all a favor by keeping you out of the loop, see. The last month would have read like this:
Pain, sleep, pain, sleep, oh look at my dog isn't he cute, pain, sleep, sleep (ah, fooled you didn't I?) bath, pain, sleep.
Are you tired of all of this sick talk of mine? Tired of always reading about how I'm falling apart in some way?
I appreciate your sympathy.
Believe me, I'm quite tired of it myself.
I look forward to the day when I'm back to my normal, acerbic self and can continue this blog as I used to.
Won't that be fun?
Until then... You'll have to find an Uncle John's Bathroom Reader or something.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Blessed
Over the weekend, on Saturday, more specifically, my family and I went to the Hobby Center in Houston to see the play Wicked.
My wonderfully charming older sister Jennifer and her husband Adam bought my ticket for my birthday. So the present itself was delayed a bit but I didn't mind at all. Especially since everyone in my family has seen this particular play and I never had.
So after the hair-raising few minutes of not knowing if we were going to be seated in time to see Act I (thanks again for that, Jeffums...) it was an absolutely FABULOUS experience.
I don't know if you've ever seen Wicked, but it's definitely worth watching.
It deviates slightly from the The Wizard of Oz, though, so if you're a purist of Judy Garland's you might want to think twice about it.
And Frank Baum's books aren't anywhere NEAR the finished product so if you're a classic literature fanatic you'll have to go in with a suspension of disbelief attitude.
And just don't even get me started on "The Wiz."
No, really. You don't want to open that box.
But it's a marvelously witty, humorous play and Stephen Schwartz did all the music so the songs are the kind that give you goosebumps. I've awakened every morning this week with one of them stuck in my head. Not a bad gig, really.
Then after the theatrics we went to Artista, the gourmet/fancy/incredibly expensive restaurant that's attached to the theatre.
Like most eating establishments of that kind it's highly overpriced but the food IS rather exquisite. And we all enjoyed ourselves quite thoroughly.
But here was the best part:
I went with my family.
My FAMILY.
My two sisters, their husbands, and my parents.
And we had SO much fun.
It was just as fun as if I had gone with a group of friends. (Well, that may be a SLIGHT exaggeration, but seriously, not much of one.)
This is why I've titled this posting as "Blessed."
I am incredibly fortunate to be able to spend hours upon hours with a group of people to whom I am related and not grow weary of their company.
Now, in all honesty, that does not always happen. We have our family issues just like everyone else. Sometimes Christmas is awkward, sometimes dinners are silent, etc., etc.
But most of the time we get along really well. I am SO glad that I am friends with my sisters and friends with both of their husbands and that we can all hang out as a "team" with my parents sometimes and just have a big old blast.
And when you throw in my extended family, as we did a few weekends ago at my cousin's wedding, WELL then! It just becomes a hysterical melee of raucous shenanigans! And who doesn't like that??
Hug someone you're related to today, people. Life is a short, precious thing. It should be spent with those you love and those who love you.
*tear* Now I'm all sentimental. I must go put on some Michael Bolton and take a nice bubble bath.
My wonderfully charming older sister Jennifer and her husband Adam bought my ticket for my birthday. So the present itself was delayed a bit but I didn't mind at all. Especially since everyone in my family has seen this particular play and I never had.
So after the hair-raising few minutes of not knowing if we were going to be seated in time to see Act I (thanks again for that, Jeffums...) it was an absolutely FABULOUS experience.
I don't know if you've ever seen Wicked, but it's definitely worth watching.
It deviates slightly from the The Wizard of Oz, though, so if you're a purist of Judy Garland's you might want to think twice about it.
And Frank Baum's books aren't anywhere NEAR the finished product so if you're a classic literature fanatic you'll have to go in with a suspension of disbelief attitude.
And just don't even get me started on "The Wiz."
No, really. You don't want to open that box.
But it's a marvelously witty, humorous play and Stephen Schwartz did all the music so the songs are the kind that give you goosebumps. I've awakened every morning this week with one of them stuck in my head. Not a bad gig, really.
Then after the theatrics we went to Artista, the gourmet/fancy/incredibly expensive restaurant that's attached to the theatre.
Like most eating establishments of that kind it's highly overpriced but the food IS rather exquisite. And we all enjoyed ourselves quite thoroughly.
But here was the best part:
I went with my family.
My FAMILY.
My two sisters, their husbands, and my parents.
And we had SO much fun.
It was just as fun as if I had gone with a group of friends. (Well, that may be a SLIGHT exaggeration, but seriously, not much of one.)
This is why I've titled this posting as "Blessed."
I am incredibly fortunate to be able to spend hours upon hours with a group of people to whom I am related and not grow weary of their company.
Now, in all honesty, that does not always happen. We have our family issues just like everyone else. Sometimes Christmas is awkward, sometimes dinners are silent, etc., etc.
But most of the time we get along really well. I am SO glad that I am friends with my sisters and friends with both of their husbands and that we can all hang out as a "team" with my parents sometimes and just have a big old blast.
And when you throw in my extended family, as we did a few weekends ago at my cousin's wedding, WELL then! It just becomes a hysterical melee of raucous shenanigans! And who doesn't like that??
Hug someone you're related to today, people. Life is a short, precious thing. It should be spent with those you love and those who love you.
*tear* Now I'm all sentimental. I must go put on some Michael Bolton and take a nice bubble bath.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Blank
Well you're all probably wondering where I've been.
You HAVE been wondering that, haven't you?
I thought so.
Well I'm very terribly sorry for not writing. But see, now that I'm back in my parent's house I am restricted to using the internet in ONE room. And this particular room is not conducive to letting my creative juices flow.
Why, you ask?
It's because I'm staring at a blank wall.
Yep.
It's a nice wall. Lovely shade of beige.
But it's blank. Nice and blank.
And so I feel similarly when I attempt to write anything.
Even now I can hear the crickets chirping away.
*chirp chirp*
See? You hear them too, don't you?
But it is nice to be home again. For the moment I have no job and my summer class has not started so it's very much like being on vacation. And I happen to get along with my parents quite nicely so that's another bonus.
Here's the other reason for the absence of writing-like material: I've been ill.
If you're shocked I just have one question for you:
Have you been paying attention at ALL to these postings??
My body apparently hates me. Seriously, it seems hell-bent on doing me in. First the mono in April and May and now this. And the "this" will remain nameless because it's disgusting and I'm not sharing. Let your mind wander where it may.
Then there's the rather rare neurological disorder that people my age aren't supposed to have. And of those people I'm in the lucky 3% that have the doubly-rare kind.
I also have weird bumps on my head. But let's not go into that.
See? The little men running my insides have pushed the auto-destruct button and are now laughing maniacally as I try to manually override the system.
(I may have watched a lot of Star Trek growing up...)
But sick or not, I'll try to get back to my regularly scheduled posting.
Because I know you miss me when I'm gone.
Right?
You HAVE been wondering that, haven't you?
I thought so.
Well I'm very terribly sorry for not writing. But see, now that I'm back in my parent's house I am restricted to using the internet in ONE room. And this particular room is not conducive to letting my creative juices flow.
Why, you ask?
It's because I'm staring at a blank wall.
Yep.
It's a nice wall. Lovely shade of beige.
But it's blank. Nice and blank.
And so I feel similarly when I attempt to write anything.
Even now I can hear the crickets chirping away.
*chirp chirp*
See? You hear them too, don't you?
But it is nice to be home again. For the moment I have no job and my summer class has not started so it's very much like being on vacation. And I happen to get along with my parents quite nicely so that's another bonus.
Here's the other reason for the absence of writing-like material: I've been ill.
If you're shocked I just have one question for you:
Have you been paying attention at ALL to these postings??
My body apparently hates me. Seriously, it seems hell-bent on doing me in. First the mono in April and May and now this. And the "this" will remain nameless because it's disgusting and I'm not sharing. Let your mind wander where it may.
Then there's the rather rare neurological disorder that people my age aren't supposed to have. And of those people I'm in the lucky 3% that have the doubly-rare kind.
I also have weird bumps on my head. But let's not go into that.
See? The little men running my insides have pushed the auto-destruct button and are now laughing maniacally as I try to manually override the system.
(I may have watched a lot of Star Trek growing up...)
But sick or not, I'll try to get back to my regularly scheduled posting.
Because I know you miss me when I'm gone.
Right?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Belated 2
It's Thursday already! So I lied on Monday when I said I'd update you yesterday. I'd invite you to sue me but I'm afraid one of you might actually do so. Then you'd win and the police would come and repossess my newly acquired singing, dancing turtle alarm clock. (Yesterday was my birthday)
He simultaneously does the can-can while singing "When the Saints Go Marching In" and repeatedly lifting and lowering his top hat.
Do you believe me?
You're sillier than I thought.
So my dad and I are safely back in College Station. We managed to drive 34 hours in 2 and a half days in relative peace and good spirits. If you're not impressed there's something wrong with you.
This past weekend my cousin Meara got married in Spokane, Washington. It was a beautiful wedding at a winery. I loved the venue, thought my cousin looked absolutely gorgeous and had an absolutely fantastic time sitting around and chatting with my family members. We are a fun group, let me tell you.
My only problem with the weekend came from my hotel room.
And dear lord, what a problem to have.
Ever been to the 70s? Or the very early 80's?
See I feel quite fortunate that I was either entirely absent or too preoccupied with gestating to notice those years.
But this weekend I got to experience what it was like to live there.
My hotel room was straight out of the disco era. Like with huge, heavy, dark wood furniture, brown fake marble counter tops, brown tile in the shower, deep green carpet, etc.,etc.. And the smell!! It smelled like no one had been IN there since the 70's! Or that they had decided to keep with the theme of the room by using expired chemical cleaners.
I looked around for a dead rodent but I never found one.
And I was in the VERY back of the hotel. Like, my room was the very last room before the exit sign and the doors to the outside.
Now all the rest of my family were cloistered together in the modernized, updated rooms a few corridors away. I have no idea how I got stuck in the ghetto. Perhaps they sensed my "tough as nails" interior.
That must have been it.
He simultaneously does the can-can while singing "When the Saints Go Marching In" and repeatedly lifting and lowering his top hat.
Do you believe me?
You're sillier than I thought.
So my dad and I are safely back in College Station. We managed to drive 34 hours in 2 and a half days in relative peace and good spirits. If you're not impressed there's something wrong with you.
This past weekend my cousin Meara got married in Spokane, Washington. It was a beautiful wedding at a winery. I loved the venue, thought my cousin looked absolutely gorgeous and had an absolutely fantastic time sitting around and chatting with my family members. We are a fun group, let me tell you.
My only problem with the weekend came from my hotel room.
And dear lord, what a problem to have.
Ever been to the 70s? Or the very early 80's?
See I feel quite fortunate that I was either entirely absent or too preoccupied with gestating to notice those years.
But this weekend I got to experience what it was like to live there.
My hotel room was straight out of the disco era. Like with huge, heavy, dark wood furniture, brown fake marble counter tops, brown tile in the shower, deep green carpet, etc.,etc.. And the smell!! It smelled like no one had been IN there since the 70's! Or that they had decided to keep with the theme of the room by using expired chemical cleaners.
I looked around for a dead rodent but I never found one.
And I was in the VERY back of the hotel. Like, my room was the very last room before the exit sign and the doors to the outside.
Now all the rest of my family were cloistered together in the modernized, updated rooms a few corridors away. I have no idea how I got stuck in the ghetto. Perhaps they sensed my "tough as nails" interior.
That must have been it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Beat
Good evening my faithful, flawless, fearless followers!
I am in Colorado Springs tonight, halfway through the two and a half day journey from Boise to College Station. My dad and I drove 14 hours today and we are both TIRED.
So!
This posting will be short.
Incredibly short.
Unbelievably short.
So short you're almost finished reading it.
Once I am in Dallas tomorrow I will probably write something more, updating you on the wedding weekend and just how fantastic it was to see all of my remarkable relatives. Because the wedding was beautiful and wonderful but the best part, for me, was the talking, laughing and hanging out with the family.
Oh, and the 70's room of doom, death and dismemberment. And "stank".
But more on that later.
Lots of love, lords and ladies.
(Check out my alliterative skills here, people. I mean, seriously!)
I am in Colorado Springs tonight, halfway through the two and a half day journey from Boise to College Station. My dad and I drove 14 hours today and we are both TIRED.
So!
This posting will be short.
Incredibly short.
Unbelievably short.
So short you're almost finished reading it.
Once I am in Dallas tomorrow I will probably write something more, updating you on the wedding weekend and just how fantastic it was to see all of my remarkable relatives. Because the wedding was beautiful and wonderful but the best part, for me, was the talking, laughing and hanging out with the family.
Oh, and the 70's room of doom, death and dismemberment. And "stank".
But more on that later.
Lots of love, lords and ladies.
(Check out my alliterative skills here, people. I mean, seriously!)
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Barking Mad
So here's the thing: I love dogs. Love them to pieces. Not literally, of course. That's disgusting.
And at the moment there are four of them (dogs, that is) staying/living in the same house with me. None of them are mine, but then the house isn't either. Just like the luggage I was talking about a few days ago.
Are you sensing a pattern in my life?
Anyway...
I've been living with two of them for the last year and have gotten rather used to them. I don't enjoy being awakened by them on a consistent basis but have consoled myself with the knowledge that it was a temporary situation. The third one is only staying here for a few days and is just upset because he's out of his element.
So three of these four dogs are barking machines and it's driving me crazy. CRAZY, I tell you. The kind of crazy that makes you want to go out and buy a marshmallow gun.
Because you don't exactly want to hurt the small yipping thing that's keeping you awake at three am but you wouldn't mind bopping it on the nose with a small fluffy projectile that would end up making it delightfully sticky.
So because of all this barking at night and non-sleeping I am exceptionally cranky and tired. And I find that those two particular traits do not make me more inclined to be nice to small noisy animals. I consider myself to be a rather nice person in normal circumstances. But keep me awake for too long and I just might have to maim you. Or consume large amounts of Unisom, but I digress...
The only nice thing about this whole situation is that the fourth dog is a cute little puppy. He's rather soft and nice and doesn't actually make much noise. I have yet to want to 'mallow him.
Tomorrow I head up to Spokane to attend my cousin's wedding. And honestly, the thing I'm most looking forward to is a night of uninterrupted sleep. Yes, relatives are lovely. And yes, weddings are joyful and blah, blah, blah. But all I really want at the moment is to lie down at night and not hear anything that has four legs.
God help the hotel patron who brings his dog with him. That's all I have to say.
"Next week on 'Criminals gone wild,' we bring you the story of a local woman who appears to have gone insane after several nights without sleep. Police caught the woman after she had broken into several homes, shaved frowny faces into the owner's pet canines and disappeared. No valuables were taken."
And at the moment there are four of them (dogs, that is) staying/living in the same house with me. None of them are mine, but then the house isn't either. Just like the luggage I was talking about a few days ago.
Are you sensing a pattern in my life?
Anyway...
I've been living with two of them for the last year and have gotten rather used to them. I don't enjoy being awakened by them on a consistent basis but have consoled myself with the knowledge that it was a temporary situation. The third one is only staying here for a few days and is just upset because he's out of his element.
So three of these four dogs are barking machines and it's driving me crazy. CRAZY, I tell you. The kind of crazy that makes you want to go out and buy a marshmallow gun.
Because you don't exactly want to hurt the small yipping thing that's keeping you awake at three am but you wouldn't mind bopping it on the nose with a small fluffy projectile that would end up making it delightfully sticky.
So because of all this barking at night and non-sleeping I am exceptionally cranky and tired. And I find that those two particular traits do not make me more inclined to be nice to small noisy animals. I consider myself to be a rather nice person in normal circumstances. But keep me awake for too long and I just might have to maim you. Or consume large amounts of Unisom, but I digress...
The only nice thing about this whole situation is that the fourth dog is a cute little puppy. He's rather soft and nice and doesn't actually make much noise. I have yet to want to 'mallow him.
Tomorrow I head up to Spokane to attend my cousin's wedding. And honestly, the thing I'm most looking forward to is a night of uninterrupted sleep. Yes, relatives are lovely. And yes, weddings are joyful and blah, blah, blah. But all I really want at the moment is to lie down at night and not hear anything that has four legs.
God help the hotel patron who brings his dog with him. That's all I have to say.
"Next week on 'Criminals gone wild,' we bring you the story of a local woman who appears to have gone insane after several nights without sleep. Police caught the woman after she had broken into several homes, shaved frowny faces into the owner's pet canines and disappeared. No valuables were taken."
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Bye Bye
Yesterday was my last day working at the Garden City Community Clinic/Genesis World Mission.
*sniff*
I'm SAD about it! I was driving away and suddenly remembered why I used to feel like investing yourself in things was not worth it. I think it's a common syndrome in military children and other types of people who move around a lot. It's kind of a self-protection thing. If you don't really care too much about anyone or anything then it doesn't hurt so much when you eventually have to leave.
That's all well and good. But a few years ago when I stopped being such a broken and miserable person I left that theory behind me. Because being invested in things is the only real way to experience true love of anything. (Wow, I'm super eloquent today. Watch me go!)
And I have a lot of people to thank for that realization. They're all people I met in Portland at Multnomah; people that I love dearly.
So working at the clinic has been so amazing. I've written about it before I know, but here's a recap:
It has a small staff but when clinic hours are running all the nurses, doctors, pharmacy staff, psychiatrists, social workers, financial counselors, etc. are volunteers. So the clinic serves the population of Boise/Garden City that have no access to insurance and fall into a certain income bracket. They can come to the clinic and receive free medical care, including access to specialists like cardiologists, physical therapists, radiologists, etc, and receive free prescription medication. (Or if they can afford it they can get the $4.00 ones from WalMart.) Anyway it's just the coolest place in the world to be. The people there really need the help that the clinic provides and the vast majority of them are super grateful to get it and are overflowing with thanks.
All I did was patient check-in/out. So I made appointments, helped them with paperwork and moved charts around. And I did some special projects occasionally. Nothing incredibly important, but still a cog in the machinery. And I loved it. LOVED it. I loved the patients, loved the doctors and nurses, and especially loved the permanent staff.
And yesterday was my last day. *sigh*
But it was a pretty fantastic experience. And once I'm a nurse I'm totally going to find something similar and volunteer there.
As cliche and cheese-covered as it sounds, I think the volunteer part was the best part. There's something fantastic about helping someone else and getting nothing out of it for yourself but the knowledge that you've helped. (Ack, someone save me from myself...)
Well back to packing. I'm not sure what I'll pack today but it should be something. Perhaps my piano music. That sounds productive.
Until tomorrow, my lovelies.
*sniff*
I'm SAD about it! I was driving away and suddenly remembered why I used to feel like investing yourself in things was not worth it. I think it's a common syndrome in military children and other types of people who move around a lot. It's kind of a self-protection thing. If you don't really care too much about anyone or anything then it doesn't hurt so much when you eventually have to leave.
That's all well and good. But a few years ago when I stopped being such a broken and miserable person I left that theory behind me. Because being invested in things is the only real way to experience true love of anything. (Wow, I'm super eloquent today. Watch me go!)
And I have a lot of people to thank for that realization. They're all people I met in Portland at Multnomah; people that I love dearly.
So working at the clinic has been so amazing. I've written about it before I know, but here's a recap:
It has a small staff but when clinic hours are running all the nurses, doctors, pharmacy staff, psychiatrists, social workers, financial counselors, etc. are volunteers. So the clinic serves the population of Boise/Garden City that have no access to insurance and fall into a certain income bracket. They can come to the clinic and receive free medical care, including access to specialists like cardiologists, physical therapists, radiologists, etc, and receive free prescription medication. (Or if they can afford it they can get the $4.00 ones from WalMart.) Anyway it's just the coolest place in the world to be. The people there really need the help that the clinic provides and the vast majority of them are super grateful to get it and are overflowing with thanks.
All I did was patient check-in/out. So I made appointments, helped them with paperwork and moved charts around. And I did some special projects occasionally. Nothing incredibly important, but still a cog in the machinery. And I loved it. LOVED it. I loved the patients, loved the doctors and nurses, and especially loved the permanent staff.
And yesterday was my last day. *sigh*
But it was a pretty fantastic experience. And once I'm a nurse I'm totally going to find something similar and volunteer there.
As cliche and cheese-covered as it sounds, I think the volunteer part was the best part. There's something fantastic about helping someone else and getting nothing out of it for yourself but the knowledge that you've helped. (Ack, someone save me from myself...)
Well back to packing. I'm not sure what I'll pack today but it should be something. Perhaps my piano music. That sounds productive.
Until tomorrow, my lovelies.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Broken
So I've been packing today. Because I'm moving back to Texas in about a week.
And one of my suitcases is broken.
Actually it's not even mine. It's a hand-me-down from my older sister. And I have no idea how old it is. But it has hot pink nail polish on it so I'm guessing it dates from the early 90s.
On one of my last airplane rides the handle decided that it no longer wanted to operate under the title "retractable."
I got a memo later about society and it's obsessive use of "labels."
Anyway... so it sticks straight up now.
That was a rather embarrassing day at the airport. Ever try to shove a handle back into position with 45 people watching you and pretending that they aren't? Little Asian children were giggling at me.
I have another suitcase that's kind of a little bit broken too. It's not mine either.
It used to be my mom's. On the inside there used to be these rounded black plastic thingies in the corners to help the suitcase keep it's shape and help it stay open when you were packing. But over the years all of the plastic has started to crack and break and come out in little tiny pieces.
That's always fun. You go home for Christmas, get dressed for the traditional family pictures and suddenly discover what looks like freakishly large black dandruff all over you.
"Ooh, Jamie! You look so pretty! But, um... have you been hanging around any toxic dumps lately?"
At least the handle works.
So this leads me to my third suitcase.
Which, of course, is also not mine.
At this point you might be asking yourself, "Does this girl actually own any of her own luggage?"
The answer is NO. But I feel this makes me a more interesting person. I am a transient without means of transiency. How psychedelic is that?
My third suitcase is not broken at all. It's new, see. It's part of a set that my mom and dad bought. It's quite nice. And blue. I like it a lot. But as I mentioned, it's not mine.
If and when I move to England I'm going to have to buy some luggage.
My older sister was once rather obsessed with getting some red Pierre Cardin luggage for Christmas. She was rather disappointed, I believe, with the American Tourister set she received instead. Now she has some stuff that's Barbie-pink. It's cute and I bet her husband looks darling wheeling it around for her.
"Look, Mommy! That man has a suitcase just like mine!"
Heh.
And one of my suitcases is broken.
Actually it's not even mine. It's a hand-me-down from my older sister. And I have no idea how old it is. But it has hot pink nail polish on it so I'm guessing it dates from the early 90s.
On one of my last airplane rides the handle decided that it no longer wanted to operate under the title "retractable."
I got a memo later about society and it's obsessive use of "labels."
Anyway... so it sticks straight up now.
That was a rather embarrassing day at the airport. Ever try to shove a handle back into position with 45 people watching you and pretending that they aren't? Little Asian children were giggling at me.
I have another suitcase that's kind of a little bit broken too. It's not mine either.
It used to be my mom's. On the inside there used to be these rounded black plastic thingies in the corners to help the suitcase keep it's shape and help it stay open when you were packing. But over the years all of the plastic has started to crack and break and come out in little tiny pieces.
That's always fun. You go home for Christmas, get dressed for the traditional family pictures and suddenly discover what looks like freakishly large black dandruff all over you.
"Ooh, Jamie! You look so pretty! But, um... have you been hanging around any toxic dumps lately?"
At least the handle works.
So this leads me to my third suitcase.
Which, of course, is also not mine.
At this point you might be asking yourself, "Does this girl actually own any of her own luggage?"
The answer is NO. But I feel this makes me a more interesting person. I am a transient without means of transiency. How psychedelic is that?
My third suitcase is not broken at all. It's new, see. It's part of a set that my mom and dad bought. It's quite nice. And blue. I like it a lot. But as I mentioned, it's not mine.
If and when I move to England I'm going to have to buy some luggage.
My older sister was once rather obsessed with getting some red Pierre Cardin luggage for Christmas. She was rather disappointed, I believe, with the American Tourister set she received instead. Now she has some stuff that's Barbie-pink. It's cute and I bet her husband looks darling wheeling it around for her.
"Look, Mommy! That man has a suitcase just like mine!"
Heh.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Babbling 11
Happy Friday, followers!! Here's your laugh for the day! (Well I thought it was funny, anyway...)
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Being a woman
Sometimes I just hate being a woman. A veces me odio que yo soy una mujer. (That's Spanish. It's another language. I'm cultured and sophisticated. Aren't you impressed?)
It's not so much the fact that we're expected to remain largely hairless. Sure, it's hard to remain in a constant state of razor burn. And I'll admit, sometimes I think it'd be much easier to just grow the unibrow and forget the whole tweezers thing. But most of the time I like being consistently smooth. I do not enjoy reminding people on the metro of a cactus. Especially THROUGH my clothing. So the shaving bit doesn't bug me so much.
I'm talking about those magical days when Eve's curse comes knocking at my door.
You all knew exactly where I was going with this so don't pretend you're shocked.
I hate being in pain.
I think I have a fairly high pain tolerance, you know? You don't go through brain surgery without knowing a thing or two about PAIN.
But once a month I feel like curling into a little ball and moaning pitifully while pretending that no one in the world has ever felt as badly as I do. Not even lepers. With missing fingers.
Or that losing one's entrails might be preferable.
Or that if I managed to gnaw off one of my toes the emergency room nurses wouldn't commit me. They'd nod to each other and say, "Oh. We've been there too."
Those are the days that I hate being a woman.
So sorry for the short post. But my innards seem to be attempting an escape.
I must quell the rebellion.
Not unlike William Wallace, actually. I bet I know just what he felt like.
It's not so much the fact that we're expected to remain largely hairless. Sure, it's hard to remain in a constant state of razor burn. And I'll admit, sometimes I think it'd be much easier to just grow the unibrow and forget the whole tweezers thing. But most of the time I like being consistently smooth. I do not enjoy reminding people on the metro of a cactus. Especially THROUGH my clothing. So the shaving bit doesn't bug me so much.
I'm talking about those magical days when Eve's curse comes knocking at my door.
You all knew exactly where I was going with this so don't pretend you're shocked.
I hate being in pain.
I think I have a fairly high pain tolerance, you know? You don't go through brain surgery without knowing a thing or two about PAIN.
But once a month I feel like curling into a little ball and moaning pitifully while pretending that no one in the world has ever felt as badly as I do. Not even lepers. With missing fingers.
Or that losing one's entrails might be preferable.
Or that if I managed to gnaw off one of my toes the emergency room nurses wouldn't commit me. They'd nod to each other and say, "Oh. We've been there too."
Those are the days that I hate being a woman.
So sorry for the short post. But my innards seem to be attempting an escape.
I must quell the rebellion.
Not unlike William Wallace, actually. I bet I know just what he felt like.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Brutal
Have you ever cracked a perfume bottle? Or, worse yet, broken one completely open?
You watch in slow motion as all of that lovely, scented alcohol just POURS out over your hands and shoes and jacket? And all of the sudden something that smelled so divine, so heavenly, so close to perfection that you wanted to shove the spray nozzle up your nostril makes you want to gag and run from the room yelling "FIRE!"? And then the fumes start to swirl around your head and time stands still and you start seeing little dancing monkeys carrying red plastic guitars that play "Freebird?"
No?
I knew those brownies I ate tasted funny...
But somehow one of my favorite perfume bottles cracked while I wasn't paying attention. And now the smell is overwhelming. I used to like it but for the life of me at the moment I can't remember why. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to wear it again! It's brutal. Hence the title of this post.
It reminds me of when I was little. I had this piggy bank that was pink cloth. And the coin slot had this little pink cloth heart that Velcro-ed across it. It was so cute!
One day I decided, for some unknown, forgotten reason, to put some baby powder on top of him. And to this day he smells like baby powder.
And now I, forevermore, will smell like Elizabeth Arden. I know it. I'll be 85 and walking along in the old people's home, somewhere in Bristol, and the guy next to me will say, "I haven't smelled that scent in 55 years!!" He, of course, will smell like creamed corn because that's just what old people tend to smell like. Either that or Polident.
This happened to me once before with my favorite Kenneth Cole perfume too.
Maybe it's a sign.
God likes my natural aroma.
Napoleon used to write home and tell Josephine to stop bathing when he was on his way home from a battle.
That's disgusting. But then they were French.
Anyone know any good recipes for washing one's olfactory organ?
You watch in slow motion as all of that lovely, scented alcohol just POURS out over your hands and shoes and jacket? And all of the sudden something that smelled so divine, so heavenly, so close to perfection that you wanted to shove the spray nozzle up your nostril makes you want to gag and run from the room yelling "FIRE!"? And then the fumes start to swirl around your head and time stands still and you start seeing little dancing monkeys carrying red plastic guitars that play "Freebird?"
No?
I knew those brownies I ate tasted funny...
But somehow one of my favorite perfume bottles cracked while I wasn't paying attention. And now the smell is overwhelming. I used to like it but for the life of me at the moment I can't remember why. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to wear it again! It's brutal. Hence the title of this post.
It reminds me of when I was little. I had this piggy bank that was pink cloth. And the coin slot had this little pink cloth heart that Velcro-ed across it. It was so cute!
One day I decided, for some unknown, forgotten reason, to put some baby powder on top of him. And to this day he smells like baby powder.
And now I, forevermore, will smell like Elizabeth Arden. I know it. I'll be 85 and walking along in the old people's home, somewhere in Bristol, and the guy next to me will say, "I haven't smelled that scent in 55 years!!" He, of course, will smell like creamed corn because that's just what old people tend to smell like. Either that or Polident.
This happened to me once before with my favorite Kenneth Cole perfume too.
Maybe it's a sign.
God likes my natural aroma.
Napoleon used to write home and tell Josephine to stop bathing when he was on his way home from a battle.
That's disgusting. But then they were French.
Anyone know any good recipes for washing one's olfactory organ?
Monday, June 14, 2010
Bike lanes
Here's the thing.
I'm not against people who ride bikes. I think bicycles are just peachy. I haven't been on one in years but I'm sure they're just as lovely as I remember.
Oh, I sense a Memory Bubble floating by.
My first bike was a hand-me-down from an older girl at our church but I didn't care. It was kind of white with pinky-purple accents and had a white wicker basket on the front with two little smiling bears on the front. And it had pink and purple streamers that came from the handle bars. I loved it.
And because we lived in the boonies a little bit (we lived BETWEEN counties. How is that even possible?) I learned to ride it on gravel roads. Yes, lovely, lovely gravel. Quite unforgiving, that stuff. And I had no training wheels. It was just hop up there and get started. On gravel. Did I mention that already?
But once I got the hang of it (which I did in ONE afternoon. BOOYAH!) I loved riding it. And I rode it quite a bit. Sometimes my mom would back the car out of the garage and I would even get to experience what it was like to ride on concrete. Those were special days.
Stop laughing.
Anyways. Riding around our little subdivision was pretty easy because there wasn't a lot of traffic. Your only real concern was keeping upright and not losing control. You know, because of the GRAVEL. But eventually I outgrew my little pinky-purple bike and never got another one. My older sister had one, and occasionally she'd let me borrow it but it had SUPER skinny tires and she had a couple of really bad accidents on it (again, on behalf the gravel, but we're not bitter) so the draw to ride it wasn't very strong.
But we never had to worry about bike lanes and other nonsense like that. Because we were in the Boonies, you see.
Now I've lived in lots of places and most of them have these so-called "bike lanes."
*scoff*
You know what they actually are, right?
Places for bikers TO AVOID.
Because you're driving along, minding you own business and up ahead you see a person riding a bicycle. And you think, "Oh good. There's a lovely bike lane right next to me. So I don't have to worry about this bicycle person."
WRONG.
Because apparently these people have been misinformed about the actual purpose of the bike lane. They seem to think they are supposed to come as close as possible to the lane without actually crossing into it. It's like the lava game you used to play in PE. Remember? You walk the straight line on the balance beam and if you fall off you're in the lava and have to start again?
Bike person: Oooh, I'm a little wobbly... Oh! I almost crossed the line! Almost in the lava! Then I'd have to pedal home and start ALL OVER! I MUST NOT CROSS THE LINE!! Man, these cars are close.. Don't they know the game? Damn motorists...
So the poor driver is thinking, "I'm safe, I'm safe, nice little bike person, stay in your lane... AAAAAHHHH!!!!"
And occasionally you get the bike people who are straddling the line while riding the WRONG WAY. Like, directly against the flow of traffic! Which is illegal! And they give YOU the evil eye when you happen to brush those ridiculously tight Spandex shorts with your side mirror!
Things like this worry me. You'd think the general populace would be smarter than this. But again, apparently not. It gives me such misgivings about our future as a species.
What's next? People who won't use crosswalks that are 15 feet from them?
I'm not against people who ride bikes. I think bicycles are just peachy. I haven't been on one in years but I'm sure they're just as lovely as I remember.
Oh, I sense a Memory Bubble floating by.
My first bike was a hand-me-down from an older girl at our church but I didn't care. It was kind of white with pinky-purple accents and had a white wicker basket on the front with two little smiling bears on the front. And it had pink and purple streamers that came from the handle bars. I loved it.
And because we lived in the boonies a little bit (we lived BETWEEN counties. How is that even possible?) I learned to ride it on gravel roads. Yes, lovely, lovely gravel. Quite unforgiving, that stuff. And I had no training wheels. It was just hop up there and get started. On gravel. Did I mention that already?
But once I got the hang of it (which I did in ONE afternoon. BOOYAH!) I loved riding it. And I rode it quite a bit. Sometimes my mom would back the car out of the garage and I would even get to experience what it was like to ride on concrete. Those were special days.
Stop laughing.
Anyways. Riding around our little subdivision was pretty easy because there wasn't a lot of traffic. Your only real concern was keeping upright and not losing control. You know, because of the GRAVEL. But eventually I outgrew my little pinky-purple bike and never got another one. My older sister had one, and occasionally she'd let me borrow it but it had SUPER skinny tires and she had a couple of really bad accidents on it (again, on behalf the gravel, but we're not bitter) so the draw to ride it wasn't very strong.
But we never had to worry about bike lanes and other nonsense like that. Because we were in the Boonies, you see.
Now I've lived in lots of places and most of them have these so-called "bike lanes."
*scoff*
You know what they actually are, right?
Places for bikers TO AVOID.
Because you're driving along, minding you own business and up ahead you see a person riding a bicycle. And you think, "Oh good. There's a lovely bike lane right next to me. So I don't have to worry about this bicycle person."
WRONG.
Because apparently these people have been misinformed about the actual purpose of the bike lane. They seem to think they are supposed to come as close as possible to the lane without actually crossing into it. It's like the lava game you used to play in PE. Remember? You walk the straight line on the balance beam and if you fall off you're in the lava and have to start again?
Bike person: Oooh, I'm a little wobbly... Oh! I almost crossed the line! Almost in the lava! Then I'd have to pedal home and start ALL OVER! I MUST NOT CROSS THE LINE!! Man, these cars are close.. Don't they know the game? Damn motorists...
So the poor driver is thinking, "I'm safe, I'm safe, nice little bike person, stay in your lane... AAAAAHHHH!!!!"
And occasionally you get the bike people who are straddling the line while riding the WRONG WAY. Like, directly against the flow of traffic! Which is illegal! And they give YOU the evil eye when you happen to brush those ridiculously tight Spandex shorts with your side mirror!
Things like this worry me. You'd think the general populace would be smarter than this. But again, apparently not. It gives me such misgivings about our future as a species.
What's next? People who won't use crosswalks that are 15 feet from them?
Friday, June 11, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bskdagjowietuweoxzw
Here's the thing.
I take a bunch of medication. Right? Those little pills that make you happy and keep you from shooting paint balls at teenagers in the mall who give you the stink eye.
These marvelous little tablets have the rather unfortunate side effect of keeping me awake at night. So I also take sleeping pills.
And occasionally, because I am stupid, I run out of them.
It always happens. I see the bottle at night, with the little pills at the bottom and think, "Oh. Not many in there. I should do something about that." Then I toddle off to bed and laugh myself silly.
This goes on for several days.
Then one night I notice that there are only two or three left. At this point I will use the phone and call the refill number. But because I live in Idaho and the prescription is from a doctor in Texas this means that my lovely parents then have to pick up the prescription and mail it to me.
This usually takes more days than I have pills.
So I end up like I have been for the past two nights.
Rolling about like a madwoman, begging the sleep gods for mercy, eating PB & J sandwiches at 3:45 am and talking morosely to a stuffed polar bear I bought at the Portland Zoo 3 years ago.
And whose fault is it?
MINE.
The night before last I ate 4 Unisom. (You're not supposed to do that, FYI.) As another FYI, they didn't work. I'm not sure how that happened. They're a lovely blue color and they seem quite nice. So I'm not sure why they chose to give me the proverbial finger. Last night I took 2 and that didn't work either. I debated taking more but decided it was probably a hopeless endeavor.
Anyways. I'm told they're not supposed to give you a "hangover" but maybe that's only if you follow the directions.
Today I feel delightfully wonky.
As I did yesterday.
Hence the title of the post. It describes my state of mind perfectly. Mr. Webster, unfortunately, did not seem to have a more "kosher" description.
Someday I shall write my own dictionary. And fill it up with ridiculous words and meaningless phrases. It will be wildly popular and I'll make a million billion dollars.
With which I shall buy a pharmacy and never worry about this whole problem again.
It all sounds so perfect, don't you think?
I take a bunch of medication. Right? Those little pills that make you happy and keep you from shooting paint balls at teenagers in the mall who give you the stink eye.
These marvelous little tablets have the rather unfortunate side effect of keeping me awake at night. So I also take sleeping pills.
And occasionally, because I am stupid, I run out of them.
It always happens. I see the bottle at night, with the little pills at the bottom and think, "Oh. Not many in there. I should do something about that." Then I toddle off to bed and laugh myself silly.
This goes on for several days.
Then one night I notice that there are only two or three left. At this point I will use the phone and call the refill number. But because I live in Idaho and the prescription is from a doctor in Texas this means that my lovely parents then have to pick up the prescription and mail it to me.
This usually takes more days than I have pills.
So I end up like I have been for the past two nights.
Rolling about like a madwoman, begging the sleep gods for mercy, eating PB & J sandwiches at 3:45 am and talking morosely to a stuffed polar bear I bought at the Portland Zoo 3 years ago.
And whose fault is it?
MINE.
The night before last I ate 4 Unisom. (You're not supposed to do that, FYI.) As another FYI, they didn't work. I'm not sure how that happened. They're a lovely blue color and they seem quite nice. So I'm not sure why they chose to give me the proverbial finger. Last night I took 2 and that didn't work either. I debated taking more but decided it was probably a hopeless endeavor.
Anyways. I'm told they're not supposed to give you a "hangover" but maybe that's only if you follow the directions.
Today I feel delightfully wonky.
As I did yesterday.
Hence the title of the post. It describes my state of mind perfectly. Mr. Webster, unfortunately, did not seem to have a more "kosher" description.
Someday I shall write my own dictionary. And fill it up with ridiculous words and meaningless phrases. It will be wildly popular and I'll make a million billion dollars.
With which I shall buy a pharmacy and never worry about this whole problem again.
It all sounds so perfect, don't you think?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Baffled
You know what baffles me? (Besides, of course, those barking dog Christmas CDs.)
How educational institutions can possibly expect you to remember a 6, 8 or 10 digit number they arbitrarily assign you, along with a password or PIN number that is also 6, 8, or 10 letters, numbers, or special symbols (because sometimes it's just not enough to say "tortoise". You have to say "tor1oise!*33") You are then expected to remember these numbers, letters and characters for the rest of your natural born days.
And God help you if you forget them.
And if you happen to attend more than ONE institution!
WELL THEN...
So I'm in the process of sending all of my transcripts to the nursing people. And I've gone to FIVE colleges thus far.
If you've been counting, that's FIVE student IDs and FIVE passwords/PINs for a total of TEN ridiculous combinations of letters and numbers that I can't possibly remember.
What?
I should have written them down long ago?
I don't think I asked you.
You know what else baffles me?
Acting.
Here's a thought I had.
If I'm married and I kiss another man, I'm a cheater. Right?
And if I'm married and I kiss another man and have someone else film it, I'm both a cheater and a bit of a perv. Right?
But if I'm married and kiss another man, have someone else film it, throw in quite a few other scenes, and call myself an actress, then I'm well within my rights and have free liberty to do what I like. Because it's acting.
Isn't that interesting?
It seems to be a question of feelings. If you have feelings for the other person then you are a cheater. But if you don't, you're an actress. If you can pretend you do and convince others that you do, you're a good actress.
But can you make out with or even mime sex with someone you can't stand? Dislike? Hate? I'm not so sure...
What about those people who begin acting together and end up together? Sometimes at the sake of the relationships they were already in?
I know there are far more who don't end up together but I can't help but wonder if this issue is exactly the reason why a disproportionate number of Hollywood marriages don't stay together. Could you really trust someone who macks on other women as his day job? I don't know that I could.
Food for thought, people. Food for thought.
How educational institutions can possibly expect you to remember a 6, 8 or 10 digit number they arbitrarily assign you, along with a password or PIN number that is also 6, 8, or 10 letters, numbers, or special symbols (because sometimes it's just not enough to say "tortoise". You have to say "tor1oise!*33") You are then expected to remember these numbers, letters and characters for the rest of your natural born days.
And God help you if you forget them.
And if you happen to attend more than ONE institution!
WELL THEN...
So I'm in the process of sending all of my transcripts to the nursing people. And I've gone to FIVE colleges thus far.
If you've been counting, that's FIVE student IDs and FIVE passwords/PINs for a total of TEN ridiculous combinations of letters and numbers that I can't possibly remember.
What?
I should have written them down long ago?
I don't think I asked you.
You know what else baffles me?
Acting.
Here's a thought I had.
If I'm married and I kiss another man, I'm a cheater. Right?
And if I'm married and I kiss another man and have someone else film it, I'm both a cheater and a bit of a perv. Right?
But if I'm married and kiss another man, have someone else film it, throw in quite a few other scenes, and call myself an actress, then I'm well within my rights and have free liberty to do what I like. Because it's acting.
Isn't that interesting?
It seems to be a question of feelings. If you have feelings for the other person then you are a cheater. But if you don't, you're an actress. If you can pretend you do and convince others that you do, you're a good actress.
But can you make out with or even mime sex with someone you can't stand? Dislike? Hate? I'm not so sure...
What about those people who begin acting together and end up together? Sometimes at the sake of the relationships they were already in?
I know there are far more who don't end up together but I can't help but wonder if this issue is exactly the reason why a disproportionate number of Hollywood marriages don't stay together. Could you really trust someone who macks on other women as his day job? I don't know that I could.
Food for thought, people. Food for thought.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Blips
I'm watching the new episode of Lie to Me.
And the dumb television is slipping and breaking up and causing general mayhem. It's not the TV, it's the film reel.
It's BAD NEWS!! I've been waiting for this episode for weeks! What the crap??
*snort* *growl*
*ahem*
I'm fine now.
You know what else was dumb today?
It was finally a sunny and not so cold day. Like, the first day in weeks.
So I was all planning to take my camera and go outside and walk along the river and just have some fun being outside and unmiserable.
But something kept telling me that I needed to check and see when the opening date for my nursing school application was. I thought it was July 1st but I kept feeling like I needed to check. And I'm glad I did because it's ACTUALLY June 1st.
So I thought, "No problem. I'll start my application and then I'll go for my walk."
NOT SO FAST.
The dang thing took me FOUR hours and I'm not even finished!!
I have to call three schools tomorrow to get transcripts sent and I'm waiting on an email response about some reference letters I need to send in.
Man! It's freaking complicated! It's the NURSING that's supposed to be difficult, not the APPLICATION.
I mean.... REALLY!
You know the one cool thing about today though?
I went to the library and rented the full collection of the Pink Panther movies. There are 6 of them and they all have Peter Sellers. Peter Sellers was a genius. A comedy GENIUS, I tell you. So at least I have some fairly fantastic entertainment to look forward to.
Heh heh.
I suppose that's all for today, my lovelies. I'll let you know once I've finished my application tomorrow. I know you'll be on the edge of your seat until I do...
And the dumb television is slipping and breaking up and causing general mayhem. It's not the TV, it's the film reel.
It's BAD NEWS!! I've been waiting for this episode for weeks! What the crap??
*snort* *growl*
*ahem*
I'm fine now.
You know what else was dumb today?
It was finally a sunny and not so cold day. Like, the first day in weeks.
So I was all planning to take my camera and go outside and walk along the river and just have some fun being outside and unmiserable.
But something kept telling me that I needed to check and see when the opening date for my nursing school application was. I thought it was July 1st but I kept feeling like I needed to check. And I'm glad I did because it's ACTUALLY June 1st.
So I thought, "No problem. I'll start my application and then I'll go for my walk."
NOT SO FAST.
The dang thing took me FOUR hours and I'm not even finished!!
I have to call three schools tomorrow to get transcripts sent and I'm waiting on an email response about some reference letters I need to send in.
Man! It's freaking complicated! It's the NURSING that's supposed to be difficult, not the APPLICATION.
I mean.... REALLY!
You know the one cool thing about today though?
I went to the library and rented the full collection of the Pink Panther movies. There are 6 of them and they all have Peter Sellers. Peter Sellers was a genius. A comedy GENIUS, I tell you. So at least I have some fairly fantastic entertainment to look forward to.
Heh heh.
I suppose that's all for today, my lovelies. I'll let you know once I've finished my application tomorrow. I know you'll be on the edge of your seat until I do...
Friday, June 4, 2010
Babbling 9
Happy Friday friends and neighbors!!!
In spite of the evil squirrel, I hope everyone has a marvelous weekend.
In spite of the evil squirrel, I hope everyone has a marvelous weekend.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Back in Boise
Hello Thursday!
Now I know all of you missed me terribly while I was away over Memorial Day weekend. I'm very sorry for the emotional angst I put you through. Really. Very sorry. But I had a FANTASTIC time in Portland and it was one of the best vacations I've had in a long time. So I thought I'd just tell you about it.
What? You don't care?
Well then get your own blog and stop reading mine.
So I left Boise on Thursday around 10 and got to Portland around 4. I stayed with my friend Elizabeth and her husband Alan and they are the most FABULOUS host people known to man. I'm serious. Not only are they hilarious and fun but they're super easy to be around and incredibly mellow and low-key. I haven't laughed so much in a while.
They also have an infestation of ants.
So watching them duel to the death was entertaining to say the least.
Friday I had lunch with several people I used to work with at Multnomah University. My former boss (and the best boss EVER) Ian, and coworkers Zach, Mary and Colin. We ate Vietnamese food, which I'd never had before. It was tasty. Being a bit of a chicken in the new foods department, I was pleasantly surprised. After lunch I went back to the office and chatted with Colin for a while. Colin is my almost-twin. He's two days older than I am and looks nothing like me. But we're great friends because God hates him and I have to console him periodically.
I met another friend, Andreas, for coffee later and it was FANTASTIC to catch up with him. He's Swedish. Wonderful people, those Swedes. Phenomenal taste in backpacks. ;)
Saturday was Elizabeth and my day to hang out and do nothing. So we watched Jane Austen movies and chilled. Fantastic.
Sunday I went to my old church and almost melted into the floor because I was so happy. It was lovely to see all of my friends there and catch up with them. And listening to Father George is always amazing.
I then proceeded to lock myself out of Elizabeth's house and spent two hours in my car waiting for them to get home.
Heh.
But then came Monday.
I got to meet Elizabeth's parents and friend Will when they came over for a barbeque. That was fun.
Then I went to meet my good friend Celeste and her new baby girl Josephine, who is ADORABLE.
I'm using a lot of adjectives here.
Celeste and I went for coffee and then walked around an antique store. And she's hilarious most of the time without knowing it so I was hysterical the whole time. Hooray for Hispanic people and their whole fishy sense of humor. ;) again.
Then I went to meet my Brother, Danny, and his girlfriend Beth.
I have to tell you about my Brother. I met him either the first or second day that I was at Multnomah. And he was my Brother. Right then. He's fantastic and quirky and non-boxable and so much like me and not like me and all kinds of other things. I love him. He's my Brother.
So we had coffee, went to a park, went to eat Mexican food and then hung out at his house for a while. That was hard visit to walk away from. I wanted to stay forever. He plays the guitar like an angel and I wanted to fall asleep in his room while he played, like I used to do in my apartment while we were in school. *sigh*
So Tuesday Elizabeth and I went for breakfast and hung out some more, and then I met Father George for a semi-lunch. He's my Godfather and he's fantastic too. He taught one of my World Religions classes and introduced us to Orthodoxy. The class was so interesting that I went to visit St. Nicholas the next Sunday. And the rest is history. The Holy Spirit sucked me right in and I became Orthodox shortly after. So I feel highly indebted to Fr. George and I'm super glad I know him. He's great.
Then I went by Multnomah again to see Lisa, who is WONDERFUL and who wasn't there on Friday when I was there before. I also saw Dr. Metzger, who is a professor I admire greatly.
So I didn't leave Portland until 5:15 or so, which explains why I didn't get back to Boise until 1 am Wednesday morning. But the drive back was great. I was on a SUPER high from how splendiferous the visit had been so I wasn't tired or anything. And the roads were fine, there wasn't a lot of traffic after getting out of Portland and everything went really well.
*sigh* again.
Sometimes I don't understand why I'm not living there anymore. I'm so happy when I go there and so sad when I leave. And people kept asking me why I didn't just come back and I didn't really have a good reason except that it just didn't feel right.
Don't you just hate that?
Now I know all of you missed me terribly while I was away over Memorial Day weekend. I'm very sorry for the emotional angst I put you through. Really. Very sorry. But I had a FANTASTIC time in Portland and it was one of the best vacations I've had in a long time. So I thought I'd just tell you about it.
What? You don't care?
Well then get your own blog and stop reading mine.
So I left Boise on Thursday around 10 and got to Portland around 4. I stayed with my friend Elizabeth and her husband Alan and they are the most FABULOUS host people known to man. I'm serious. Not only are they hilarious and fun but they're super easy to be around and incredibly mellow and low-key. I haven't laughed so much in a while.
They also have an infestation of ants.
So watching them duel to the death was entertaining to say the least.
Friday I had lunch with several people I used to work with at Multnomah University. My former boss (and the best boss EVER) Ian, and coworkers Zach, Mary and Colin. We ate Vietnamese food, which I'd never had before. It was tasty. Being a bit of a chicken in the new foods department, I was pleasantly surprised. After lunch I went back to the office and chatted with Colin for a while. Colin is my almost-twin. He's two days older than I am and looks nothing like me. But we're great friends because God hates him and I have to console him periodically.
I met another friend, Andreas, for coffee later and it was FANTASTIC to catch up with him. He's Swedish. Wonderful people, those Swedes. Phenomenal taste in backpacks. ;)
Saturday was Elizabeth and my day to hang out and do nothing. So we watched Jane Austen movies and chilled. Fantastic.
Sunday I went to my old church and almost melted into the floor because I was so happy. It was lovely to see all of my friends there and catch up with them. And listening to Father George is always amazing.
I then proceeded to lock myself out of Elizabeth's house and spent two hours in my car waiting for them to get home.
Heh.
But then came Monday.
I got to meet Elizabeth's parents and friend Will when they came over for a barbeque. That was fun.
Then I went to meet my good friend Celeste and her new baby girl Josephine, who is ADORABLE.
I'm using a lot of adjectives here.
Celeste and I went for coffee and then walked around an antique store. And she's hilarious most of the time without knowing it so I was hysterical the whole time. Hooray for Hispanic people and their whole fishy sense of humor. ;) again.
Then I went to meet my Brother, Danny, and his girlfriend Beth.
I have to tell you about my Brother. I met him either the first or second day that I was at Multnomah. And he was my Brother. Right then. He's fantastic and quirky and non-boxable and so much like me and not like me and all kinds of other things. I love him. He's my Brother.
So we had coffee, went to a park, went to eat Mexican food and then hung out at his house for a while. That was hard visit to walk away from. I wanted to stay forever. He plays the guitar like an angel and I wanted to fall asleep in his room while he played, like I used to do in my apartment while we were in school. *sigh*
So Tuesday Elizabeth and I went for breakfast and hung out some more, and then I met Father George for a semi-lunch. He's my Godfather and he's fantastic too. He taught one of my World Religions classes and introduced us to Orthodoxy. The class was so interesting that I went to visit St. Nicholas the next Sunday. And the rest is history. The Holy Spirit sucked me right in and I became Orthodox shortly after. So I feel highly indebted to Fr. George and I'm super glad I know him. He's great.
Then I went by Multnomah again to see Lisa, who is WONDERFUL and who wasn't there on Friday when I was there before. I also saw Dr. Metzger, who is a professor I admire greatly.
So I didn't leave Portland until 5:15 or so, which explains why I didn't get back to Boise until 1 am Wednesday morning. But the drive back was great. I was on a SUPER high from how splendiferous the visit had been so I wasn't tired or anything. And the roads were fine, there wasn't a lot of traffic after getting out of Portland and everything went really well.
*sigh* again.
Sometimes I don't understand why I'm not living there anymore. I'm so happy when I go there and so sad when I leave. And people kept asking me why I didn't just come back and I didn't really have a good reason except that it just didn't feel right.
Don't you just hate that?
Friday, May 28, 2010
Babbling 8
Happy Friday!!!!
P.S. I am vacationing in Portland until Tuesday, so I will not be posting again until I return to Boise. I'd say I'm sorry but... I'm NOT. Heh heh heh....
P.S. I am vacationing in Portland until Tuesday, so I will not be posting again until I return to Boise. I'd say I'm sorry but... I'm NOT. Heh heh heh....
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Back to normal
Happy Wednesday!
I'm back to normal!
Well, in a matter of speaking.
So about 6 weeks ago I started feeling like I had the flu one Thursday night. So I didn't go to school the next day. That weekend I was awake for a total of about 10 hours. The following Monday I went and had a mono test which came back positive.
Thus began my mononucleosis adventure.
You're not supposed to get mono when you're 27. It's supposed to be a young kid to teenager virus.
So I'm odd that way.
You normally catch mono from slobbering around on people or from sharing food and drinks. I don't do either of those.
So I'm odd that way too.
.....
Ok, maybe I'm just odd all 'round.
But the funny thing is that this past Sunday I was doing some laundry, going up and down the stairs, and the sudden realization hit me that I felt completely well.
It's such a strange thing, that virus.
It came on all of sudden. One day I was fine, then the next day I was exhausted and weak. I continued to be exhausted and weak for over a month. And I tell you what, mono sucks. Most days I had to choose between studying, eating and showering. I could do one, not all three.
And I usually chose showering because I want people to like me.
But I managed to make it through finals (and got all A's, thank you very much) and then spent the next four weeks in bed watching movies on my laptop.
Then BANG!
One Sunday I feel completely normal. (Physically, that is.)
Weird.
And it sure is nice to be able to shower AND eat AND do errands on the same day.
So I have a whole new appreciation for my B cells. I like them in their normal state. Not all trashed and looking like they've been run over by a lawn mower.
Thank God for the regenerative powers of the immune system.
And for waffles.
I'm back to normal!
Well, in a matter of speaking.
So about 6 weeks ago I started feeling like I had the flu one Thursday night. So I didn't go to school the next day. That weekend I was awake for a total of about 10 hours. The following Monday I went and had a mono test which came back positive.
Thus began my mononucleosis adventure.
You're not supposed to get mono when you're 27. It's supposed to be a young kid to teenager virus.
So I'm odd that way.
You normally catch mono from slobbering around on people or from sharing food and drinks. I don't do either of those.
So I'm odd that way too.
.....
Ok, maybe I'm just odd all 'round.
But the funny thing is that this past Sunday I was doing some laundry, going up and down the stairs, and the sudden realization hit me that I felt completely well.
It's such a strange thing, that virus.
It came on all of sudden. One day I was fine, then the next day I was exhausted and weak. I continued to be exhausted and weak for over a month. And I tell you what, mono sucks. Most days I had to choose between studying, eating and showering. I could do one, not all three.
And I usually chose showering because I want people to like me.
But I managed to make it through finals (and got all A's, thank you very much) and then spent the next four weeks in bed watching movies on my laptop.
Then BANG!
One Sunday I feel completely normal. (Physically, that is.)
Weird.
And it sure is nice to be able to shower AND eat AND do errands on the same day.
So I have a whole new appreciation for my B cells. I like them in their normal state. Not all trashed and looking like they've been run over by a lawn mower.
Thank God for the regenerative powers of the immune system.
And for waffles.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Beverage?
When I was younger we had to drink milk with dinner. (I remember we had these little white plastic Kool-Aid cups and these multicolored Tupperware ones. Heck, we STILL have those little multicolored ones. They're over 30 years old now.) Anyway... I absolutely HATE milk now. I hate it SO much that I don't even want to touch it. If I'm cooking and spill some, I'll wipe it up with as little contact as possible and immediately rinse my hands off. It stinks too. Bleeehhh.... Just the thought makes me ill.
No, I am NOT neurotic. Keep quiet.
But when you're a kid your life is pretty much milk, juice, water and the "once in a blue moon" soda. Or at least that's what my life as a kid was like. My favorite juice was grape, I adored Capri Sun and Sunny Delight, and Root Beer was my soda of choice. And I actually liked milk.
It's weird how your taste buds can do a 180 on you, isn't it? Mine did.
At some point I started to dislike all of my former favorites.
And somewhere along the long line I discovered Diet Coke.
*angelic singing, bright light, dancing turtles with shiny halos*
I love Diet Coke. It is my favorite beverage of all time.
It's so bubbly and sweet and perfect.
There are alcoholic drinks that are sweet and fruity. They make your face feel warm and flushed, which is quite lovely.
There's water, which is cool and refreshing and keeps you alive.
And there's Diet Green Tea, which is tart and sweet and brisk all at the same time.
But Diet Coke is the best.
Now here's the kicker.
I started taking this new medicine in January for my Trigeminal Neuralgia. It's called Topamax and it has all kinds of crazy side-effects. But the weirdest one is that it makes all carbonated beverages taste like poo.
POO, I tell you. And nobody wants to be drinking that. (I'm guessing, anyway)
So Diet Coke does not taste nice anymore. It's like The Twilight Zone. Or hell. Either one.
All soda tastes awful now. It must be because of the carbon dioxide in it, which is just bizarre. I don't know enough about chemistry to explain it but I wish I did. It'd probably be a very interesting study.
But I remember the TRUE taste of Diet Coke.
And my allegiance will remain forever true.
*salute*
No, I am NOT neurotic. Keep quiet.
But when you're a kid your life is pretty much milk, juice, water and the "once in a blue moon" soda. Or at least that's what my life as a kid was like. My favorite juice was grape, I adored Capri Sun and Sunny Delight, and Root Beer was my soda of choice. And I actually liked milk.
It's weird how your taste buds can do a 180 on you, isn't it? Mine did.
At some point I started to dislike all of my former favorites.
And somewhere along the long line I discovered Diet Coke.
*angelic singing, bright light, dancing turtles with shiny halos*
I love Diet Coke. It is my favorite beverage of all time.
It's so bubbly and sweet and perfect.
There are alcoholic drinks that are sweet and fruity. They make your face feel warm and flushed, which is quite lovely.
There's water, which is cool and refreshing and keeps you alive.
And there's Diet Green Tea, which is tart and sweet and brisk all at the same time.
But Diet Coke is the best.
Now here's the kicker.
I started taking this new medicine in January for my Trigeminal Neuralgia. It's called Topamax and it has all kinds of crazy side-effects. But the weirdest one is that it makes all carbonated beverages taste like poo.
POO, I tell you. And nobody wants to be drinking that. (I'm guessing, anyway)
So Diet Coke does not taste nice anymore. It's like The Twilight Zone. Or hell. Either one.
All soda tastes awful now. It must be because of the carbon dioxide in it, which is just bizarre. I don't know enough about chemistry to explain it but I wish I did. It'd probably be a very interesting study.
But I remember the TRUE taste of Diet Coke.
And my allegiance will remain forever true.
*salute*
Monday, May 24, 2010
Because it's funny
So today's post is going to contain two links. The links will be to a music video by an artist named Spose, and the video title is "I'm awesome."
It is stinking hilarious.
The first link is just the regular video but since it has some bad language I'm including the second link which is the "clean" version.
If I was ever a rap artist this is the kind of song and/or video I would write. Except I might bling myself out a little more.
And I'd wear pink. Lots of pink.
Yo, homies. Yo.
Normal version: www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYws8biwOYc
"Clean" version: www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgxT5a0Vmeo
It is stinking hilarious.
The first link is just the regular video but since it has some bad language I'm including the second link which is the "clean" version.
If I was ever a rap artist this is the kind of song and/or video I would write. Except I might bling myself out a little more.
And I'd wear pink. Lots of pink.
Yo, homies. Yo.
Normal version: www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYws8biwOYc
"Clean" version: www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgxT5a0Vmeo
Friday, May 21, 2010
Babbling 7
Happy Friday!!
This post is dedicated to my older sister Jennifer, who has used the following phrase on me many, many times. I love you Jeffums, and I can't wait to see you in about 6 weeks. :)
This post is dedicated to my older sister Jennifer, who has used the following phrase on me many, many times. I love you Jeffums, and I can't wait to see you in about 6 weeks. :)
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Bag Lady
I wonder what it's like to be a hobo. Hobo-ess? I can imagine that it's a lot of fun, apart from the whole smelling-like-a-rotten-fish thing. Are there hobo rules? Like, do you have to be dirt poor? Or can you simply stash your money somewhere and pretend?
Do you really have to carry around a knapsack on a stick? That's probably terrible for your back.
I think I'd enjoy being a hobo more if I could take a break now and then. You know, check into a hotel once a month, have a shower, eat something that didn't come from a can, etc. Then I'd be back on the road. Or back on a train. I don't recall ever seeing a hobo on a bicycle so maybe that's against the rules.
My sisters, their husbands and I play Rock Band sometimes. Our group name is the Weevils. And my older sister's husband Adam named his character Hobo Joe. He has dreadlocks and wears a trucker hat. He also has a beard. I don't think that'd be a good look for me.
Hobos are kind of like bag ladies.
When I lived in Portland I saw lots of them.
They steal shopping carts from stores and live in them. Unless, of course, the stores are smart. Walgreens put these little automatic wheel-clampy-thingies on all of their carts. So if you try and wheel them out of the parking lot these plastic things clamp over the wheels and they won't roll anymore. That takes all the fun out of them, you see. You can't roll in a non-rolling cart.
I think I would fill the front of the cart with potted plants. Like petunias. There's no use in rolling around a cart if it doesn't look nice. Aesthetics matter, you know.
Anyway, back to hobo-ing.
What made me think of this?
I have no idea.
I just woke up this morning wondering what it would be like to be an independently wealthy hobo. It sounds fascinating, doesn't it? Kind of like Forrest Gump without the hassle of all that running.
But I think I'd have to change my name. Hobo Jamie just doesn't have much of a ring to it.
Hobo Flo?
That's a little better.
And I think I'd insist on being called by my full title at all times.
"Excuse me, Flo?"
*Long pause* "Were you speaking to me?"
"Yes... I'm sorry. Hobo Flo?"
*snicker*
If I ever win the lottery and disappear after a shopping spree at REI, you'll know why.
Do you really have to carry around a knapsack on a stick? That's probably terrible for your back.
I think I'd enjoy being a hobo more if I could take a break now and then. You know, check into a hotel once a month, have a shower, eat something that didn't come from a can, etc. Then I'd be back on the road. Or back on a train. I don't recall ever seeing a hobo on a bicycle so maybe that's against the rules.
My sisters, their husbands and I play Rock Band sometimes. Our group name is the Weevils. And my older sister's husband Adam named his character Hobo Joe. He has dreadlocks and wears a trucker hat. He also has a beard. I don't think that'd be a good look for me.
Hobos are kind of like bag ladies.
When I lived in Portland I saw lots of them.
They steal shopping carts from stores and live in them. Unless, of course, the stores are smart. Walgreens put these little automatic wheel-clampy-thingies on all of their carts. So if you try and wheel them out of the parking lot these plastic things clamp over the wheels and they won't roll anymore. That takes all the fun out of them, you see. You can't roll in a non-rolling cart.
I think I would fill the front of the cart with potted plants. Like petunias. There's no use in rolling around a cart if it doesn't look nice. Aesthetics matter, you know.
Anyway, back to hobo-ing.
What made me think of this?
I have no idea.
I just woke up this morning wondering what it would be like to be an independently wealthy hobo. It sounds fascinating, doesn't it? Kind of like Forrest Gump without the hassle of all that running.
But I think I'd have to change my name. Hobo Jamie just doesn't have much of a ring to it.
Hobo Flo?
That's a little better.
And I think I'd insist on being called by my full title at all times.
"Excuse me, Flo?"
*Long pause* "Were you speaking to me?"
"Yes... I'm sorry. Hobo Flo?"
*snicker*
If I ever win the lottery and disappear after a shopping spree at REI, you'll know why.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Bacon
Happy Wednesday!
Today I am not going to talk about shoelaces. And I bet you're thrilled, aren't you? Well that's just because you have no idea how brilliant I can be when speaking about shoelaces. But another time, friend. Another time.
So bacon. I hate bacon. HATE it. I hate all pork, actually. Ham, sausage, pork chops, etc. If it's made of a pig, I don't want it. This is because when I was in high school my dad brought home half of a pig.
No, not literally. We're not from Arkansas.
He brought home the MEAT from half of a pig. (Boy, that's hard to clarify. It was in nice little paper-wrapped bundles. My dad is not a pig thief; he and a friend from work BOUGHT a pig and shared the "profits." This would be a much more interesting posting were the opposite true, however.) So we had pork out the eyeballs (and every other orifice) for a LONG time.
However, I had already decided that pork was not among my favorite meats. I would eat it, but it wasn't my favorite.
It's because in 4th grade I saw a movie about how hot dogs are made.
*gag*
So I had already crossed hot dogs off my list of edible niceties. Then this pork thing came along and pretty much took care of the rest.
The problem is that bacon actually smells pretty wonderful. So every time I'm around it I get the urge to try it just to make sure I still hate it. And I inevitably do. But my nose never remembers the next time around. I wonder if there's a medical condition to describe that.
Smellsheimers?
I don't think so.
I've completely forgotten why I decided to write about this today.
Oh, yeah.
My little sister's nickname for me is "Pig." She got it from a Muppet movie when we were very small, so it's not an insult at ALL, it's just a quirky, endearing name we use. We give each other stuffed pigs as presents and find books and things with cartoon pigs to send each other. I love it, but most people assume it's mean or degrading.
I like to think it was just a foreshadowing of things to come. My tiny sister, in her cute little baby voice, was speaking a prophecy.
"And you, wise older sister of mine, will grow to abhor all things pork-like in taste. I, therefore, dub you 'Pig,' out of respect for all the swine you will save from being consumed. Rise up now. Live your life, continue to thrive, giggle a million giggles, and paint your toenails odd colors. Go forth, brave sibling, and eat chicken."
Today I am not going to talk about shoelaces. And I bet you're thrilled, aren't you? Well that's just because you have no idea how brilliant I can be when speaking about shoelaces. But another time, friend. Another time.
So bacon. I hate bacon. HATE it. I hate all pork, actually. Ham, sausage, pork chops, etc. If it's made of a pig, I don't want it. This is because when I was in high school my dad brought home half of a pig.
No, not literally. We're not from Arkansas.
He brought home the MEAT from half of a pig. (Boy, that's hard to clarify. It was in nice little paper-wrapped bundles. My dad is not a pig thief; he and a friend from work BOUGHT a pig and shared the "profits." This would be a much more interesting posting were the opposite true, however.) So we had pork out the eyeballs (and every other orifice) for a LONG time.
However, I had already decided that pork was not among my favorite meats. I would eat it, but it wasn't my favorite.
It's because in 4th grade I saw a movie about how hot dogs are made.
*gag*
So I had already crossed hot dogs off my list of edible niceties. Then this pork thing came along and pretty much took care of the rest.
The problem is that bacon actually smells pretty wonderful. So every time I'm around it I get the urge to try it just to make sure I still hate it. And I inevitably do. But my nose never remembers the next time around. I wonder if there's a medical condition to describe that.
Smellsheimers?
I don't think so.
I've completely forgotten why I decided to write about this today.
Oh, yeah.
My little sister's nickname for me is "Pig." She got it from a Muppet movie when we were very small, so it's not an insult at ALL, it's just a quirky, endearing name we use. We give each other stuffed pigs as presents and find books and things with cartoon pigs to send each other. I love it, but most people assume it's mean or degrading.
I like to think it was just a foreshadowing of things to come. My tiny sister, in her cute little baby voice, was speaking a prophecy.
"And you, wise older sister of mine, will grow to abhor all things pork-like in taste. I, therefore, dub you 'Pig,' out of respect for all the swine you will save from being consumed. Rise up now. Live your life, continue to thrive, giggle a million giggles, and paint your toenails odd colors. Go forth, brave sibling, and eat chicken."
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Bann 3
Hello Tuesday (again).
So, I missed Monday again. Terribly sorry about that. But I was enthralled in yet another TV show. Yes, this is my pathetic, mono-infested life. TV, my laptop and a cross-stitch pattern that I bought in college and recently re-discovered. Incidentally, I shall probably finish this particular cross-stitch when I am 90. It is now quite clear to me why I chose to hide it from myself. Anyway... This particular show is called Lie to Me. It stars Tim Roth and is based on a real life behavioral scientist who goes around helping the police and FBI by figuring out if people are lying. It's quite interesting. I love science-y things and this particular show is very well written and is highly enjoyable. But mostly, it has Tim Roth. And he's British and goes around calling everyone "love". *giggle*
So let's see. German memories.
Ah, here's a good one.
Oktoberfest. Everybody loves Oktoberfest. Why? Well, that's just a silly question. It's because of the BEER. There's a lot of it, you see. And when people drink it, they get happy. Sometimes they get happy enough to sing. Or dance. Or both.
Sometimes they get happy enough to do those things in public.
And sometimes they get happy enough to do one of those things with an enormous pink stuffed rabbit.
??
Yes, it's quite true.
One afternoon in October I walked across the village to pick up my little sister from a neighbor's house. (Several other military families lived in the same village we did.) On the way there I passed the village beer garden which was full of very happy people. However, nothing in particular caught my attention and I continued merrily along my way.
Well I stayed at the neighbor's house for a few minutes and by the time my sister and I were ready to leave the mom of the family, who was a very protective sort, decided she didn't want us walking back home alone. So she decided to walk with us.
Upon passing the very same beer garden we happened to find a man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, sitting alone on the curb, holding a very large, very pink stuffed rabbit. He was extraordinarily happy (read: drunk off his you know what) and was singing in a very slurry kind of German to the aforementioned bunny.
At which point the three of us looked at each other and the mom remarked, "Well that's not something you see everyday."
It turns out she was quite correct.
So, I missed Monday again. Terribly sorry about that. But I was enthralled in yet another TV show. Yes, this is my pathetic, mono-infested life. TV, my laptop and a cross-stitch pattern that I bought in college and recently re-discovered. Incidentally, I shall probably finish this particular cross-stitch when I am 90. It is now quite clear to me why I chose to hide it from myself. Anyway... This particular show is called Lie to Me. It stars Tim Roth and is based on a real life behavioral scientist who goes around helping the police and FBI by figuring out if people are lying. It's quite interesting. I love science-y things and this particular show is very well written and is highly enjoyable. But mostly, it has Tim Roth. And he's British and goes around calling everyone "love". *giggle*
So let's see. German memories.
Ah, here's a good one.
Oktoberfest. Everybody loves Oktoberfest. Why? Well, that's just a silly question. It's because of the BEER. There's a lot of it, you see. And when people drink it, they get happy. Sometimes they get happy enough to sing. Or dance. Or both.
Sometimes they get happy enough to do those things in public.
And sometimes they get happy enough to do one of those things with an enormous pink stuffed rabbit.
??
Yes, it's quite true.
One afternoon in October I walked across the village to pick up my little sister from a neighbor's house. (Several other military families lived in the same village we did.) On the way there I passed the village beer garden which was full of very happy people. However, nothing in particular caught my attention and I continued merrily along my way.
Well I stayed at the neighbor's house for a few minutes and by the time my sister and I were ready to leave the mom of the family, who was a very protective sort, decided she didn't want us walking back home alone. So she decided to walk with us.
Upon passing the very same beer garden we happened to find a man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, sitting alone on the curb, holding a very large, very pink stuffed rabbit. He was extraordinarily happy (read: drunk off his you know what) and was singing in a very slurry kind of German to the aforementioned bunny.
At which point the three of us looked at each other and the mom remarked, "Well that's not something you see everyday."
It turns out she was quite correct.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Blatherings
Hello friends!
Well I have to tell you about the dream I had last night. This was special. This has not ever happened to me before. As you know, usually as I dream I talk or laugh until I wake myself up. One time I woke up because I was scratching out a rhythm to a song with my toes. In 2006 my friend Sara and I moved in with an elderly couple to be their caretakers for a summer. The first night we were there she said I simultaneously managed to click my teeth, talk, and move my feet like I was running a race. I am not a dull sleeper.
But last night was something new altogether. In my dream I was reading some kind of technical manual and proceeded to BORE myself awake. I am absolutely serious. As soon as I woke up I knew exactly what had happened. And I immediately told myself, "Well done. You've just made history. I'm sure you're the first person alive to ever bore herself out of her own dreams." I mean, seriously?
Anyway...
I wrote a new limerick today. It's not a reflection about how I feel; it was for a friend. So I thought I'd share it with you.
Ready?
Sometimes my life sucks a lot
It's just like a fish who's been caught
He thinks, "Wow! A trip!
And perhaps a friendship?"
But ends up with no eyes in a pot.
What do you mean it's morbid and you hate it? Well no one said you had taste in limericks anyway.
Well I have to tell you about the dream I had last night. This was special. This has not ever happened to me before. As you know, usually as I dream I talk or laugh until I wake myself up. One time I woke up because I was scratching out a rhythm to a song with my toes. In 2006 my friend Sara and I moved in with an elderly couple to be their caretakers for a summer. The first night we were there she said I simultaneously managed to click my teeth, talk, and move my feet like I was running a race. I am not a dull sleeper.
But last night was something new altogether. In my dream I was reading some kind of technical manual and proceeded to BORE myself awake. I am absolutely serious. As soon as I woke up I knew exactly what had happened. And I immediately told myself, "Well done. You've just made history. I'm sure you're the first person alive to ever bore herself out of her own dreams." I mean, seriously?
Anyway...
I wrote a new limerick today. It's not a reflection about how I feel; it was for a friend. So I thought I'd share it with you.
Ready?
Sometimes my life sucks a lot
It's just like a fish who's been caught
He thinks, "Wow! A trip!
And perhaps a friendship?"
But ends up with no eyes in a pot.
What do you mean it's morbid and you hate it? Well no one said you had taste in limericks anyway.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Being me
It's Wednesday. Wednesdays seem to be the days that my creative juices cease flowing. For some reason I rarely find myself contemplating anything more interesting than shoelaces. Must be the middle of the week blahs.
So I can't think of anything to write today.
Do you want to know what I had for lunch? Probably not.
What was in the last load of laundry I did? Shocking! I'll never tell.
Are my shoelaces tied? See? I told you. Shoelaces.
I dreamed last night that it was Christmas time and I blew out the electricity in our house by plugging in one too many strands of Christmas lights and then turning on this little Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer figurine set. (I really do have one of those.)
Let's see.... what else? What else?
My deodorant stick is broken. I can't turn the dial at the bottom with my fingers. I have to get a pair of tweezers and turn it with them. It's irritating. The things I go through to smell light and fresh.
I wish I had a puppy. I always wish I had a puppy. Puppies are amazing. And cute and cuddly. And I don't care what John Cleese says; you shouldn't eat dogs, adult or otherwise. He actually caused me to doubt my love of all things Python for 3/5 of a second.
Meh.
I think I'm done rambling now.
Know any good jokes about shoelaces for next Wednesday?
So I can't think of anything to write today.
Do you want to know what I had for lunch? Probably not.
What was in the last load of laundry I did? Shocking! I'll never tell.
Are my shoelaces tied? See? I told you. Shoelaces.
I dreamed last night that it was Christmas time and I blew out the electricity in our house by plugging in one too many strands of Christmas lights and then turning on this little Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer figurine set. (I really do have one of those.)
Let's see.... what else? What else?
My deodorant stick is broken. I can't turn the dial at the bottom with my fingers. I have to get a pair of tweezers and turn it with them. It's irritating. The things I go through to smell light and fresh.
I wish I had a puppy. I always wish I had a puppy. Puppies are amazing. And cute and cuddly. And I don't care what John Cleese says; you shouldn't eat dogs, adult or otherwise. He actually caused me to doubt my love of all things Python for 3/5 of a second.
Meh.
I think I'm done rambling now.
Know any good jokes about shoelaces for next Wednesday?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Bann 2
Hello to Tuesday and to you all!
I didn't post anything yesterday because I was quite busy. I just didn't have a spare minute. Not even one.
What was occupying my attention, you ask?
Well, I'll tell you.
It was this fabulous "new" show I found called Men Behaving Badly.
It ran in the UK from 1992-1998 (or around then anyway) and is exceptionally funny. It's also quite... well, dirty. I suppose the name gives it away. Think Two and a Half Men meets Friends meets How I Met Your Mother. It's so funny it's ridiculous.
Anyway, that's why I didn't post. Well, that and the mono. It's been 5 weeks but I'm still as tired as ever.
So today I thought I'd give you another peek into the past. Are you ready? Hold on to your hatrack.
At one point a very nice lady in my dad's squadron took my older sister and I and her three kids up to an amusement park in northern Germany. I can't remember the name of it but if I could I probably couldn't spell it anyway. The central character of the park was supposed to be a mouse (you know, kind of like Mickey) but I thought he looked very much like a rat. A singing, dancing rat. That, friends, is a child's worst nightmare. I only really remember three things about this park.
1. So we went to this haunted house. And we're all crushed into this small room that is rotating and slowly "dropping." In actuality, the walls were moving upward. And this very low and creepy voice is speaking, of course, in German. I remember the four of us girls looking at each other and remarking, "You know, I bet this is a lot scarier if you know what he's saying." So after the "drop" you get into these little cars and go through the rest of the ride, which basically takes you past these little alcoves showing scenes of torture and mayhem. I am SO not kidding. At one point there was one of some demon looking guy whipping a small white dog who was throwing up. Who thinks of that stuff?? (Oh yeah, I forgot where we were...)
2. We all got into this very small virtual reality machine. You know, the kind that rocks around and tilts forward and backward while the screen in front shows a scene of a roller coaster ride or a trip through space. Now I don't know if you're aware of this, but some Europeans have a very different standard of hygiene than Americans. So we get inside this thing, the attendants close the door, and I swear, almost immediately you can begin to see this greenish cloud of STINK begin to swirl around the top of the enclosure. I can't remember what the ride was about, who I was sitting next to, how long of a ride it was, or anything else. I just remember the SMELL. It was so amazingly awful. And the Germans seemed to have absolutely no problem with it.
3. In the middle of the amusement park there was another park area, with grass and benches and trees. It looked like a place for people to bring picnics and things and for kids to run around a little bit, or maybe fly kites or something. But what I saw in it were two people nude sunbathing. I'm not going to lie, I was a little taken aback. It's just not something you expect to see in an amusement park. Maybe on the beach, MAYBE at a swimming pool complex, but in an amusement park? It was odd.
"Look children! Here's the cartoon rat, here's the poor little animal being tortured to death by a demon, here's the box of 'death by body odor', and finally, here's the naked people. Now, didn't we have fun today?"
I didn't post anything yesterday because I was quite busy. I just didn't have a spare minute. Not even one.
What was occupying my attention, you ask?
Well, I'll tell you.
It was this fabulous "new" show I found called Men Behaving Badly.
It ran in the UK from 1992-1998 (or around then anyway) and is exceptionally funny. It's also quite... well, dirty. I suppose the name gives it away. Think Two and a Half Men meets Friends meets How I Met Your Mother. It's so funny it's ridiculous.
Anyway, that's why I didn't post. Well, that and the mono. It's been 5 weeks but I'm still as tired as ever.
So today I thought I'd give you another peek into the past. Are you ready? Hold on to your hatrack.
At one point a very nice lady in my dad's squadron took my older sister and I and her three kids up to an amusement park in northern Germany. I can't remember the name of it but if I could I probably couldn't spell it anyway. The central character of the park was supposed to be a mouse (you know, kind of like Mickey) but I thought he looked very much like a rat. A singing, dancing rat. That, friends, is a child's worst nightmare. I only really remember three things about this park.
1. So we went to this haunted house. And we're all crushed into this small room that is rotating and slowly "dropping." In actuality, the walls were moving upward. And this very low and creepy voice is speaking, of course, in German. I remember the four of us girls looking at each other and remarking, "You know, I bet this is a lot scarier if you know what he's saying." So after the "drop" you get into these little cars and go through the rest of the ride, which basically takes you past these little alcoves showing scenes of torture and mayhem. I am SO not kidding. At one point there was one of some demon looking guy whipping a small white dog who was throwing up. Who thinks of that stuff?? (Oh yeah, I forgot where we were...)
2. We all got into this very small virtual reality machine. You know, the kind that rocks around and tilts forward and backward while the screen in front shows a scene of a roller coaster ride or a trip through space. Now I don't know if you're aware of this, but some Europeans have a very different standard of hygiene than Americans. So we get inside this thing, the attendants close the door, and I swear, almost immediately you can begin to see this greenish cloud of STINK begin to swirl around the top of the enclosure. I can't remember what the ride was about, who I was sitting next to, how long of a ride it was, or anything else. I just remember the SMELL. It was so amazingly awful. And the Germans seemed to have absolutely no problem with it.
3. In the middle of the amusement park there was another park area, with grass and benches and trees. It looked like a place for people to bring picnics and things and for kids to run around a little bit, or maybe fly kites or something. But what I saw in it were two people nude sunbathing. I'm not going to lie, I was a little taken aback. It's just not something you expect to see in an amusement park. Maybe on the beach, MAYBE at a swimming pool complex, but in an amusement park? It was odd.
"Look children! Here's the cartoon rat, here's the poor little animal being tortured to death by a demon, here's the box of 'death by body odor', and finally, here's the naked people. Now, didn't we have fun today?"
Friday, May 7, 2010
Babbling 5
Happy Friday friends!!
P.S. Last night I woke myself up while speaking in a British accent. (I think it was North London-ish and it was quite good, if I do say so myself.) This just further proves that I am indeed meant for a life on the great Isle of Cheese Rolling, Fireball-Whirling, Bog-Snorkeling, and Mud-Racing. The day shall come... *rubs hands together sinisterly*
P.S. Last night I woke myself up while speaking in a British accent. (I think it was North London-ish and it was quite good, if I do say so myself.) This just further proves that I am indeed meant for a life on the great Isle of Cheese Rolling, Fireball-Whirling, Bog-Snorkeling, and Mud-Racing. The day shall come... *rubs hands together sinisterly*
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Beyond Ridiculous
I don't know if I've mentioned it in other posts (I know my sister has commented on it at some point) but I have this huge crush on Neil Patrick Harris.
And he happens to be gay.
Yes, quite definitely gay. To quote a character in Love Actually, "Gay as a Maypole."
Hence the title of this post. There are several reasons that the silliness quotient of said infatuation is around a 98. Here are a few of them:
1. As I said, he's gay. As in, he would find absolutely nothing about me attractive. Just being me automatically makes me a losing candidate. It's rather a sad reality. The fact that I am female works against me, which has never been a factor in other failed relationship attempts. In those cases it's usually my personality. But, moving on....
2. He's famous. So even if he weren't gay I still would have no chance with him. He lives in Los Angeles; land of the perpetually tan, surgically enhanced (or de-enhanced), physically flawless, ready-to-do-ANYTHING-for-a-shot-at-the-big-time young women. Thinking of another movie, My Best Friend's Wedding, when you have thousands of pieces of creme brulee to choose from, you're not likely to pick the lime Jello with bits of pear floating in it.
I hate Jello. Gelatinous goo is nobody's friend. I don't care how you package it, what you call it, what you put inside of it, or how desperately you try to cajole me into eating it. It's gross. But I digress.
3. He's famous some more. How do you meet people like that? Head to LA, wander around WalMart and hope they drop in?
"Here's the plan. I'll wait over by the disposable razors and you stake out the produce department."
I suppose you could always lurk outside his apartment or gym or something, but I believe that's technically called stalking. You just might end up sharing a cell with a large woman named Wanda who doesn't shave and really wants to share your underpants.
4. Did I mention he's gay?
5. Things like that just don't happen to people like me. Normal people, like myself, do not end up marrying movie stars, or pop music artists, NFL players, international politicians, NASCAR drivers, foreign diplomats, etc, etc. (Oh, and by the way I'm TOTALLY fine with not getting into the whole NASCAR thing...) I guess I'm meant for more of the "normal" life. But have you ever had the feeling like you're "supposed" to do more than just live a "normal" life? Maybe that's a weird vanity or false pride thing. Maybe it's a delusion of grandeur. Maybe I'm just nuts. And this latter option, friends, is by far the most likely.
So! Now that you know some more of the crazy that goes on inside my brain I'll just wish you a happy Thursday and continue along my merry, yet slightly zany, way. I'm sure Neil would do that same. :)
And he happens to be gay.
Yes, quite definitely gay. To quote a character in Love Actually, "Gay as a Maypole."
Hence the title of this post. There are several reasons that the silliness quotient of said infatuation is around a 98. Here are a few of them:
1. As I said, he's gay. As in, he would find absolutely nothing about me attractive. Just being me automatically makes me a losing candidate. It's rather a sad reality. The fact that I am female works against me, which has never been a factor in other failed relationship attempts. In those cases it's usually my personality. But, moving on....
2. He's famous. So even if he weren't gay I still would have no chance with him. He lives in Los Angeles; land of the perpetually tan, surgically enhanced (or de-enhanced), physically flawless, ready-to-do-ANYTHING-for-a-shot-at-the-big-time young women. Thinking of another movie, My Best Friend's Wedding, when you have thousands of pieces of creme brulee to choose from, you're not likely to pick the lime Jello with bits of pear floating in it.
I hate Jello. Gelatinous goo is nobody's friend. I don't care how you package it, what you call it, what you put inside of it, or how desperately you try to cajole me into eating it. It's gross. But I digress.
3. He's famous some more. How do you meet people like that? Head to LA, wander around WalMart and hope they drop in?
"Here's the plan. I'll wait over by the disposable razors and you stake out the produce department."
I suppose you could always lurk outside his apartment or gym or something, but I believe that's technically called stalking. You just might end up sharing a cell with a large woman named Wanda who doesn't shave and really wants to share your underpants.
4. Did I mention he's gay?
5. Things like that just don't happen to people like me. Normal people, like myself, do not end up marrying movie stars, or pop music artists, NFL players, international politicians, NASCAR drivers, foreign diplomats, etc, etc. (Oh, and by the way I'm TOTALLY fine with not getting into the whole NASCAR thing...) I guess I'm meant for more of the "normal" life. But have you ever had the feeling like you're "supposed" to do more than just live a "normal" life? Maybe that's a weird vanity or false pride thing. Maybe it's a delusion of grandeur. Maybe I'm just nuts. And this latter option, friends, is by far the most likely.
So! Now that you know some more of the crazy that goes on inside my brain I'll just wish you a happy Thursday and continue along my merry, yet slightly zany, way. I'm sure Neil would do that same. :)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Bann
When I was 14-15 we lived in Bann, Germany. It was a little village that was close to Landstuhl Air Force Base, where my younger sister went to school, and Ramstein Air Force Base where I went to school. My poor older sister was too young to go to college but had already graduated from high school so she spent that year making Christmas stockings and communing with our poodle.
Anyway,
When we got to Germany I hated it. HATED it with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns. It was overcast all the time and, of course, none of us spoke a lick of German. I couldn't have cared less that it was my dad's dream job; I just wanted to go home. (I was a selfish little twit. But most 14 year olds are, right?)
But after about three months or so, once school started and I made some friends it didn't seem so bad anymore. I actually kind of grew to like it. Don't get me wrong, when I heard we were leaving I was ecstatic. But I wouldn't have minded staying for a little longer.
So I decided that today I would write down some of the things I remember about Germany. (The good ones. Bad memories, or at least MY bad memories, do not belong on the Internet.) It's been almost 14 years since we got there, which seems like FOREVER ago and I don't really want to forget everything that happened to me there. So here goes.
1. We lived in a tri-colored house that was built in 1923. The basement was just FULL of these weird spiders with super long legs that were just disgusting and it totally smelled like mildew. And when you went from the garage to the place where the washing machine and dryer were you had to duck to avoid hitting your head on the concrete lintel. My dad and I both forgot that exactly once. The rest of the family is short enough that they didn't have to worry about it. The rooms upstairs were arranged in a way where you had to go through someone's bedroom to get to someone else's. I had to go through my little sister's to get to mine. Sometimes this was fine. Other times this was NOT fine. My parent's bedroom had this huge mural of a forest along one wall. And we had two bathrooms but only one of them had a shower and a tub. And they were totally 60's yellow. Everything in the house was in the 60's and 70's color scheme. Even these awful brown curtains that were up when we got there. Each room had a radiator for heat but the oil was so expensive that my dad was really "careful" about the amount of time we turned them on. Since all of our electronics were American we had to use these super heavy transformers to plug things in. And in the upstairs game room every time you turned on the television, which we only used for movies or Nintendo, it blew the fuse for the whole upstairs and we had to go trip the circuit breaker. The downstairs tv only got British cable and it didn't actually work very well so we hardly ever watched it. There was an attic upstairs that had this huge reddish stain on the floor and we (well, I, at least) were positive someone had been murdered up there in a vast Nazi conspiracy. We had no garbage disposal so everything had to be composted in this crate thing that stood outside by a cherry tree that grew in our backyard. The cherries were surprisingly good. The landlord also owned a little gas station down the street so we would go down and buy chocolate and Coke from him and sometimes he'd give it to us for free. When he needed to talk to us he'd send his son down to either try to talk to us in English (which wasn't great) or talk to my mom in French.
You know, it occurs to me that this could be a very long blog posting. So instead of just sitting here and droning on about my life in Germany I'll just leave it at that for today. Maybe on days where I've come up dry for something to write about I'll jot down a few more notes about other things I remember.
Grand?
I thought you'd think so.
Until tomorrow!
Anyway,
When we got to Germany I hated it. HATED it with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns. It was overcast all the time and, of course, none of us spoke a lick of German. I couldn't have cared less that it was my dad's dream job; I just wanted to go home. (I was a selfish little twit. But most 14 year olds are, right?)
But after about three months or so, once school started and I made some friends it didn't seem so bad anymore. I actually kind of grew to like it. Don't get me wrong, when I heard we were leaving I was ecstatic. But I wouldn't have minded staying for a little longer.
So I decided that today I would write down some of the things I remember about Germany. (The good ones. Bad memories, or at least MY bad memories, do not belong on the Internet.) It's been almost 14 years since we got there, which seems like FOREVER ago and I don't really want to forget everything that happened to me there. So here goes.
1. We lived in a tri-colored house that was built in 1923. The basement was just FULL of these weird spiders with super long legs that were just disgusting and it totally smelled like mildew. And when you went from the garage to the place where the washing machine and dryer were you had to duck to avoid hitting your head on the concrete lintel. My dad and I both forgot that exactly once. The rest of the family is short enough that they didn't have to worry about it. The rooms upstairs were arranged in a way where you had to go through someone's bedroom to get to someone else's. I had to go through my little sister's to get to mine. Sometimes this was fine. Other times this was NOT fine. My parent's bedroom had this huge mural of a forest along one wall. And we had two bathrooms but only one of them had a shower and a tub. And they were totally 60's yellow. Everything in the house was in the 60's and 70's color scheme. Even these awful brown curtains that were up when we got there. Each room had a radiator for heat but the oil was so expensive that my dad was really "careful" about the amount of time we turned them on. Since all of our electronics were American we had to use these super heavy transformers to plug things in. And in the upstairs game room every time you turned on the television, which we only used for movies or Nintendo, it blew the fuse for the whole upstairs and we had to go trip the circuit breaker. The downstairs tv only got British cable and it didn't actually work very well so we hardly ever watched it. There was an attic upstairs that had this huge reddish stain on the floor and we (well, I, at least) were positive someone had been murdered up there in a vast Nazi conspiracy. We had no garbage disposal so everything had to be composted in this crate thing that stood outside by a cherry tree that grew in our backyard. The cherries were surprisingly good. The landlord also owned a little gas station down the street so we would go down and buy chocolate and Coke from him and sometimes he'd give it to us for free. When he needed to talk to us he'd send his son down to either try to talk to us in English (which wasn't great) or talk to my mom in French.
You know, it occurs to me that this could be a very long blog posting. So instead of just sitting here and droning on about my life in Germany I'll just leave it at that for today. Maybe on days where I've come up dry for something to write about I'll jot down a few more notes about other things I remember.
Grand?
I thought you'd think so.
Until tomorrow!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Backstory
Good afternoon fellow Tuesday-dwellers!
So it occurred to me yesterday that I've only given you one example of a dream that made me wake up laughing. Then it occurred to me why. It is because I like you.
But as I said in my very first blog, if you are silly enough to read these ramblings of mine then you deserve whatever happens to you. So today I will give you a few more examples.
Dream #1: I am speaking with Gonzo the Muppet and suddenly one of his eyes pops off and turns into a fluffy yellow chicken.
*insert chuckling and disoriented stumble to the bathroom
Dream #2: An exceptionally hairy Robin Williams is on stage and speaking to the audience. Behind him you can see the silhouettes of three ex-paramilitary British mimes, sneaking up behind him with bayonets. They have decided to kill him because the monologue has run on too long. My older sister turns to me and says, "That was harsh. I would just have called him a weasel."
*insert laughing and disoriented stumble to the bathroom
Dream #3: (I have mentioned this before) My mother is giving a long-winded speech in which she refers to sex as "the poo."
*insert giggle and disoriented stumble to the bathroom that actually winds up being a smack into the wall and return to bed.
You might very well be wondering why in the world I would find those dreams funny. My sisters did. As a matter of fact they both suggested I might very well have skipped a medication dose or two.
The answer is that I don't know. When I wake up in the morning and remember the dreams they seem slightly amusing, but not funny enough to wake a person up out of a sound sleep. And as my sisters remind me, they are not the kind of dreams you share with people if you expect them to like you.
But occasionally I have a dream that is ACTUALLY funny. Like, the kind of funny you could put on television and get Nielsen ratings with. Of course, these are the dreams that wake me up and give me instant dream-amnesia. I can't remember a thing about them. At times like those I wish my brain worked more in the sketch comedy writing vein. Then I could just make something up and no one would no the difference.
So I shall continue to update you with the dreams that cause me to chortle myself awake in the wee hours of the morning as they occur. As I said in the beginning, you read at your own risk.
And by the way, my sisters are completely mistaken. The people I share my pills with are all fascinated by my dreams.
So it occurred to me yesterday that I've only given you one example of a dream that made me wake up laughing. Then it occurred to me why. It is because I like you.
But as I said in my very first blog, if you are silly enough to read these ramblings of mine then you deserve whatever happens to you. So today I will give you a few more examples.
Dream #1: I am speaking with Gonzo the Muppet and suddenly one of his eyes pops off and turns into a fluffy yellow chicken.
*insert chuckling and disoriented stumble to the bathroom
Dream #2: An exceptionally hairy Robin Williams is on stage and speaking to the audience. Behind him you can see the silhouettes of three ex-paramilitary British mimes, sneaking up behind him with bayonets. They have decided to kill him because the monologue has run on too long. My older sister turns to me and says, "That was harsh. I would just have called him a weasel."
*insert laughing and disoriented stumble to the bathroom
Dream #3: (I have mentioned this before) My mother is giving a long-winded speech in which she refers to sex as "the poo."
*insert giggle and disoriented stumble to the bathroom that actually winds up being a smack into the wall and return to bed.
You might very well be wondering why in the world I would find those dreams funny. My sisters did. As a matter of fact they both suggested I might very well have skipped a medication dose or two.
The answer is that I don't know. When I wake up in the morning and remember the dreams they seem slightly amusing, but not funny enough to wake a person up out of a sound sleep. And as my sisters remind me, they are not the kind of dreams you share with people if you expect them to like you.
But occasionally I have a dream that is ACTUALLY funny. Like, the kind of funny you could put on television and get Nielsen ratings with. Of course, these are the dreams that wake me up and give me instant dream-amnesia. I can't remember a thing about them. At times like those I wish my brain worked more in the sketch comedy writing vein. Then I could just make something up and no one would no the difference.
So I shall continue to update you with the dreams that cause me to chortle myself awake in the wee hours of the morning as they occur. As I said in the beginning, you read at your own risk.
And by the way, my sisters are completely mistaken. The people I share my pills with are all fascinated by my dreams.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Behind you!
I was driving home today and passed under a highway sign that said, "Look twice. Motorcycles are everywhere."
It made me think of this SNL sketch I saw once where cobras had taken over this plane. And at the end of the sketch this cobra was talking about how they were going to take over the world. "When you roll over to put your arm around your lover you'll find... ME! When you reach into your hatbox for your favorite hat you'll find... ME!"
So I immediately started picturing little evil cartoon motorcycles leaping out and leaving evil tread marks on unsuspecting foreheads around the globe. "Mwuahahahaha.....ZOOM!"
Anyway.
Today I'd like to talk about 3 songs that are highly stalker-like, very disturbing, and therefore highly enjoyable.
1. The Police - Every Breath You Take
This is the old Stalker stand-by song. This is the George McFly look-a-like hiding in the bushes across the street with the binoculars song. And this is a song performed by a group called The Police. I always thought Policemen were the good guys. You know, supposed to make you feel safe and protected and all that. Not the guys that make you want to hide in the basement with a shotgun. "Every breath you take, every move you make, every BOND you break..." He's even got a line in there about posthumous watching should you do him in and get out on bail! Creepy, Sting. Very creepy.
2. Enrique Iglesias - Escape
Ok. Now when I first heard this song the lyrics I heard were, "You can run, you can DIE, but you can't escape my love." Needless to say, I was rather shocked. Was Enrique saying that you'd have to literally leave the planet to get rid of him? Surely there are laws against that kind of thing. I was only slightly relieved to learn that the actual lyrics are, 'You can run, you can HIDE, but you can't escape my love." Now maybe it's because I'm a woman but if someone I loved decided to RUN and HIDE from me I think I might get the idea that maybe the relationship wasn't going to last. But do your thing, Enrique. Hope it works out for you, man.
3. Billy Ocean - Get Outta My Dreams Get Into My Car
Now this song isn't so much stalker-y as just plain misogynistic. But you can kind of imagine old Billy following this woman around in his car before actually yelling at her to get into his car so I included it on my list. I don't know if you've ever listened to the lyrics closely, but here are Billy's bellows to the woman of his dreams:
1. HEY YOU!
2. GET INTO MY CAR!
3. YES, YOU! GET INTO MY CAR!
4. Get in the BACKSEAT, baby.
5. Touch my bumper.
6. Get it while you can.
7. I SAID OPEN THE DOOR!
Repeat, repeat, etc. Well, ladies, I'm blown away. If my next date doesn't say these exact words it's a deal breaker.
P.S. The day before yesterday my Dad stuck his finger into a hedge trimmer. He then required 4-5 stitches. Here's what gets me about the whole thing. After sticking said appendage into the rotating vortex of death and dismemberment, my father saw the geyser of blood and put his finger IN HIS MOUTH. It must be a guy thing. My first reaction (which I did not say aloud) was to think, "Dad, do you realize you have over 600 types of bacteria living in your mouth?"
*sigh*
But then again, this is the same man who refuses to hire a lawn service and insists on mowing the lawn in 95 degree weather in his SWEATPANTS.
It made me think of this SNL sketch I saw once where cobras had taken over this plane. And at the end of the sketch this cobra was talking about how they were going to take over the world. "When you roll over to put your arm around your lover you'll find... ME! When you reach into your hatbox for your favorite hat you'll find... ME!"
So I immediately started picturing little evil cartoon motorcycles leaping out and leaving evil tread marks on unsuspecting foreheads around the globe. "Mwuahahahaha.....ZOOM!"
Anyway.
Today I'd like to talk about 3 songs that are highly stalker-like, very disturbing, and therefore highly enjoyable.
1. The Police - Every Breath You Take
This is the old Stalker stand-by song. This is the George McFly look-a-like hiding in the bushes across the street with the binoculars song. And this is a song performed by a group called The Police. I always thought Policemen were the good guys. You know, supposed to make you feel safe and protected and all that. Not the guys that make you want to hide in the basement with a shotgun. "Every breath you take, every move you make, every BOND you break..." He's even got a line in there about posthumous watching should you do him in and get out on bail! Creepy, Sting. Very creepy.
2. Enrique Iglesias - Escape
Ok. Now when I first heard this song the lyrics I heard were, "You can run, you can DIE, but you can't escape my love." Needless to say, I was rather shocked. Was Enrique saying that you'd have to literally leave the planet to get rid of him? Surely there are laws against that kind of thing. I was only slightly relieved to learn that the actual lyrics are, 'You can run, you can HIDE, but you can't escape my love." Now maybe it's because I'm a woman but if someone I loved decided to RUN and HIDE from me I think I might get the idea that maybe the relationship wasn't going to last. But do your thing, Enrique. Hope it works out for you, man.
3. Billy Ocean - Get Outta My Dreams Get Into My Car
Now this song isn't so much stalker-y as just plain misogynistic. But you can kind of imagine old Billy following this woman around in his car before actually yelling at her to get into his car so I included it on my list. I don't know if you've ever listened to the lyrics closely, but here are Billy's bellows to the woman of his dreams:
1. HEY YOU!
2. GET INTO MY CAR!
3. YES, YOU! GET INTO MY CAR!
4. Get in the BACKSEAT, baby.
5. Touch my bumper.
6. Get it while you can.
7. I SAID OPEN THE DOOR!
Repeat, repeat, etc. Well, ladies, I'm blown away. If my next date doesn't say these exact words it's a deal breaker.
P.S. The day before yesterday my Dad stuck his finger into a hedge trimmer. He then required 4-5 stitches. Here's what gets me about the whole thing. After sticking said appendage into the rotating vortex of death and dismemberment, my father saw the geyser of blood and put his finger IN HIS MOUTH. It must be a guy thing. My first reaction (which I did not say aloud) was to think, "Dad, do you realize you have over 600 types of bacteria living in your mouth?"
*sigh*
But then again, this is the same man who refuses to hire a lawn service and insists on mowing the lawn in 95 degree weather in his SWEATPANTS.
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