The Clock is Ticking

This story pisses me off.

Short version:

Man in Louisiana has been masquerading for years as a decorated retired Marine general. Is found out when, after standing up and speaking at a veterans' event in uniform, local media starts checking him out. Guy was a PFC for 19 months, after Iwo Jima.

I know that adults are out there masquerading as who and what they aren't all the time. Identity theft and other nefarious things. But this one really bothers me.

It seems that the whole deal started as a mix-up that he didn't bother to correct. When he moved from Florida, he moved his American Legion membership to the post in the new town and someone there thought he was a general. Before long, he was agreeing to appear at veterans' events in the area. He even handed out coins in the time-honored military tradition of officers and senior enlisted servicemen.

What possessed him to not say "Hey, guys, you misread that paperwork. I'm not a general" at any point when he first moved? I know what kept him from saying anything later--he was a respected man, looked up to, called upon, honored. And once you taste that under the guise of a lie, you can't crawfish and correct everyone. You must save face and maintain a level of (assumed) respectability. Everyone's thought "A" was true for so long, that you can't possibly tell them that, actually "Q" is the reality and "A" was just for giggles.

It's a shame this is barely making headlines. I think the country needs character education.

This is the design that is now on the small of my back. About that big, too. It took Chano (the tattoo artist) about 2 hours to ink it, permanently, on me. I'd put a pic of the actual image up, but it's more than a little difficult to take a picture at that angle on your own and I forgot to take my camera with me. Maybe later.

I was well aware that the location I chose would be more painful than many other spots on the body. Apparently, it's because that space is just really sensitive. Really, it wasn't too terribly bad. When he was working on areas right on and right around my spine--less fat there, I guess. Then there was this one spot that made my leg jerk every time he hit it. And with all those colors and the black outline, that was a few times. Scared Chano the first time, thought I was running away (not with the thing less than half done!). After that, he learned to warn me so I could wrap my leg around the rung of the chair.

I actually had a lot of fun. The gay man that does the piercings at the shop sat and talked to me while I was sitting there. I don't know what radio station was on, but we sang all the songs together, everything from Guns 'n Roses to Staind to Van Halen (an incredibly bubble gummy David Lee Roth recording, ick).

It was great. Will I get another? No. I'm done with that, but I'm really glad I did it.

The practice of putting women on pedestals began to die out when it was discovered that they could give orders better from there. -Betty Grable

I use that quote because last week I got to give orders to someone who'd gotten a bit big for his britches. Remember, dear readers, the 12-year old? (see here, and here). Seems last week he finally got a clue. Apparently, the old adage about "he who laughs last" also applies to "he who retorts last." This is good to know.

I hadn't spoken with him in a week or more when I got a text message from him on my phone in the small hours one night. Woke me up, damn it. The text said something like "I don't know why you've gotten so cold lately. I want the warm, sweet little girl I know back." (Damn. And here I thought I'd managed to move beyond being merely "cold" right on to "completely gone" as far as he was concerned. I'm obviously losing my touch.) Well, I didn't respond. Hour later--the phone goes off again. "I wish you'd just talk to me...I don't understand what's wrong with you but I'd like to help." Oh honey, you're pissing me off now. There may be something wrong with me, but I'm not the one with problems here. Again, I didn't respond. It was 3 in the morning and I had to be up in 3 hours. Screw it. I wanted to get back to the dream with the hot guy in it.

When I got up, I responded with a note saying that this wasn't working--I didn't need someone in my life like him and would prefer he leave me alone. Hours later, at lunch...I get a text from him that clearly wasn't for me. In it, I'm called a "dam liar." I couldn't resist, as childish as it was, I had to point out that adults don't bash other adults, but if they do they spell all the words correctly (damn, not dam--what am I, a person who lies about dams??).

His response? "It wasn't for you, about you, and my phone didn't have 'damn' in its dictionary. Why don't you just stay on your perch you self-righteous bitch and leave us common folk alone?" Quickly followed by "What happened to you? You used to be so warm and caring."

Kinda hurt my feelings...am I a self-righteous bitch? I'd never describe myself as one, but then who would? Bitch, yes. Self-righteous, no. I moped for a few seconds, then considered the source.

I sent back "I'm sorry, it's terribly hard to hear the commoners from so high up on this perch. Might I suggest you just disappear?" No response. Yes..he's gone. Has been for almost 2 weeks. Praise Allah.

Happiness may well be getting to sleep a little later than usual on a Saturday morning. I'll grant that 7 a.m. isn't really all that late, but since I usually get up around 5, two extra hours makes a difference.

I got up this morning, migrated to the couch and turned on the television. The usual Saturday morning junk is on--paid programming. Half an hour of why my product is "fabulous" and better than any other you might find that does the same thing. Plus all the bonuses is if order now--making your original $49.95 purchase a $90 value--for two payments of $24.95. I just think you've got to be awfully low or hard up to get yourself involved in infomercials. They're so fake and just ridiculous.

However, I was incredibly pleased to find one of my favorite movies on this morning. The original "Dr. Dolittle" with Rex Harrison in the lead. I love it all--the Pushme-Pullyou, Sophie the heartsick seal, the plow horse that needed glasses for short-sightedness, the great sea snail. It's one of those classics that I don't think should ever have been "remade." The Eddie Murphy "Dr. Dolittle" is funny, sure (what couldn't be when the guinea pig's voice is that of Chris Rock?). But, it's just not the real thing. I'd be all for an updated version, but not one that strays so far away from the story it's supposed to be based on. Yes, I know there is such a thing as artistic license, but sometimes that license is used too freely.

A few weeks ago, I got to spend a week in beautiful Lawton, Oklahoma. LOL--Lawton isn't beautiful in the least. It's a boring Army/college town. The bars aren't even all that decent. Ice cream shops are pretty good though. I'd never had a rocky road milkshake before. It's really hard to suck a marshmallow or an almond up a skinny straw.

One of Lawton's "tourist attractions," is the prairie dog colony. Now, these prairie dogs aren't native to the area. The way I understand it, they were planted here by some well-meaning people in the community years ago. Now, many of the Lawtonians across the street from the park the colony inhabits find that they are often a nuisance. They're really kinda cute, kinda fun to watch, but I can see how they'd be a problem for some. Seems they occasionally cross the street and start building tunnels and rooms in peoples front yards. Safety hazard, not to mention just annoying.


Just once, I want the contestants on a game show to tell the world that they're married to "just an okay guy/gal who is sitting at home on his ass because he's too self-absorbed to come see me play here on TV." I'm just not buying that everyone's married to fabulous spouses who are sitting on the front row of the audience.

The dear Wonder Dog is growing up. He's definitely in his terrible twos stage, and frankly, we may be stuck here. If he doesn't cool it quickly, he will be shipped off to the Grandmommy's house and left there until Granddad decides to beat his little furry butt.

I'm thinking, based on the above statement, that I'm definitely not ready to have kids. I don't like the dog messing up my stuff (and by that I mean "destroying")--what would I do with a kid?

My favorite color: red

My favorite song: "Love Song for a Savior" Jars of Clay

My favorite Christmas carol: "Oh, Holy Night"

My favorite movie: "Gone with the Wind"

My favorite book: To Kill a Mockingbird

My favorite piece of furniture: my fabulous bed

My favorite quiet spot: the beach, specifically the end of the jetties, where you can see the dolphins

My favorite food: Hm...seafood

My favorite flower: Stargazer lilies and fire and ice roses.




Tomorrow...beetles and prairie dogs. And an update on The Wonder Dog.

This has been the longest 2 weeks in a long time.

Last week, I was in Oklahoma. I took students to camp at the university in Lawton, where Fort Sill is. Let me tell you, there's nothing to do there. Sure, there's the expected array of bars and clubs you'd find in college and military base towns. But, basically, that's it. And that stuff's not open until later anyway.

This week, I've been avoiding computers when I get home. I've been writing technology lessons all this week for school. It's been some nice work, nice pay. Lots of hours at the computer screen writing and working out kinks.

On the upside...it's Friday and on Fridays in the summer, I don't work. I don't do squat. So...today, I take the dog to the groomer, nap, eat some lunch, nap, pick up the dog, nap. Full day.

I promise a "real" post this weekend. Once I get back to a regular schedule, I'll be better at posting. Maybe.

xoxo

I coach speech and debate in Texas. From what I've gathered, maybe Shrub should've used some of his elective hours in high school to take these classes. Certainly couldn't have hurt.

Anyway, the new policy debate topic was released in January. It's a nationally-used topic, debated from anywhere from local/invitational tournaments, to state meets and the NFL's national competition. Policy debate is 2 on 2 debate, where we actually debate some policy's merit, or how to fix it.

Since so many of my dear readers are more political than I am, I'd love to get your thoughts on the new topic. It's one I can actually get into, and I bet you will too (at least a couple of you.).

Resolved: The United States federal government should substantially decrease its authority either to detain without charge or to search without probable cause.

A few thoughts on the topic can be found on the UIL site.

For those that don't know...UIL is the University Interscholastic League. It's the entity in Texas that makes us follow the rules for athletic and academic competition that the state imposes (eligibility, maintaining amateur status, etc.). It's how our kids get to go to state competitions.

For those of you that don't know...I'm a NASCAR junkie. Thanks to an ex-boyfriend, I now keep up with the races, and how my favorite racers are doing.

I've been waiting all season for this bit of news out of Illinois yesterday:

Earnhardt gets big win at Chicagoland

Frankly, he's not the only one who thought he'd go winless this year.

I realize that the above slogan really doesn't have anything to do with what I'm about to tell you, but it fits.

I spent Friday and Saturday in Austin for a conference. The conference was worth it, thankfully (in education it's often a toss up). I wish I'd taken my camera with me, though.

I was up there on my own, so Friday night I decided to go to a movie. I know, I know, I could've gone to 6th Street, but I prefer not to go alone. Anyway, I went to Alamo Drafthouse. I recommend it--dinner and a movie out, all in one chair.

On the way back to the hotel, I passed a neon sign. Not such an odd thing in any city. Bright blue, obviously advertising some business. As I pull closer, I realized that the words that weren't neon-lighted read "Funeral Parlor." Hm...let me explain why I'm a little turned off by that.

First, I realize that a funeral home is a business like any other, but I find advertising that business a little morbid. Understand, though, that I live in a smallish town (low 20-something thousand people) with 2 funeral homes in it. One of them gets probably 75% of the "business" in town just because it's there. I realize in Austin, there's more competition. I guess I feel like it's something that need not be advertised, because it's not as if people "shop around" when it the time comes to pick a funeral home. But, then again, maybe they do, sounds a bit sad to me.

Second, I also realize that everyone responds to death differently, but there's just a certain decorum that I would expect from the funeral home I would select. I don't know that neon lights, even outside on the sign, portrays quite the right image. Not for me, at least.

And I know I'm a little weird.

On a totally odd ball note, let me offer a bit of advice...

If you go have the opportunity to catch a movie at Alamo Drafthouse, might I suggest that you don't go when you're a little tired. I know for me the following equation wasn't the best choice:

A little tired + a full tummy + a cold beer + a dark room + a relatively comfy chair =

falling asleep in a movie theater filled with strangers.

Fortunately, I'd seen the movie before.

gar·ish (gârsh, gr-)adj.
1. a.Marked by strident color or excessive ornamentation; gaudy.
b.Loud and flashy: garish makeup. See Synonyms at gaudy
2. Glaring; dazzling: “Hide me from Day's garish eye” (John Milton).

bland (blnd)adj. bland·er, bland·est
1.Characterized by a moderate, unperturbed, or tranquil quality, especially:
a. Pleasant in manner; smooth: a bland smile.
b. Not irritating or stimulating; soothing: a bland diet.
c. Exhibiting no personal worry, embarrassment, or concern: told a series of bland lies.
2. a. Dull and insipid: a bland little drama.
b. Having little or no distinctive flavor: bland cooking.

*****************
In a direct email yesterday, the 12-year old mentioned in the previous post responded with the above quote, after telling me that I was a fool. Oops, didn't know he even knew I had a blog. While I must applaud him for sounding so poetic, I find myself pondering his message. If you can tell me who it's accredited to, I'll love you forever.

Now, not knowing the context, I seriously doubt that the orginal speaker was referring to relationships. There's nothing in the world wrong with being a bit bland in a relationship. Obviously, I don't mean I want a relationship that is dull all the time, there's time for that when I'm 90. But neither do I want a relationship that is loud and flashy and "in your face" to everyone around me. Frankly, I want one that is nicely balanced if not a little bit on the bland side...to outsiders at least. (wink)

I know, to an extent, humans have a tendency to be a bit "garish" at the start of relationships, especially ones we think are important. We're trying--to impress, to woo, to catch. And yes, I want to be wooed, badly. I also want to get to that point where the wooing is not quite so obvious, a tacit wooing.

Dork-boy (that would be my technical descriptor) missed the point. Sure, early on, woo me garishly---but stop before you turn me off or offend me. There's a fine line there, but geez, other men have found it, you can, too. You should hope that you impress your partner. However, I've learned that the truly impressive people are not the ones telling me how wonderful they are. If you are, I'll figure it out myself, you don't have to tell me. Feeling the need to tell me is a sign of immaturity---100% garishness in a person is a no-go.


Thank you to Dictionary.com for the definitions.

Okay, so I'm digging here a bit. I'd like a little more interaction from all of you dear readers.

Question: Are you really only as old as you act?

Okay, so maybe not physically, and certainly not chronologically. But, I have reason to be believe that emotionally/psychologically you are only as old as you act.

Case in point, guy I dated most recently. Aside from the icky co-dependency thing (see previous post), I have a real hard time being with someone who doesn't behave as an adult more often than acting like a child. Being a kid at heart is one thing, not being an adult ever is another.

To be fair, he did behave as an adult at times--when at work, dealing with clients. Occasionally in public (very occasionally). Most of the time, though, no..not at all. He's a chef, a good one. When we'd go out to eat, he'd have to criticize things--the wait staff "auctioned" the food, the hors d'oeuvres that were catered at my friend's reception, whatever. If he wasn't criticizing food or waitstaff, he was one-upping everything I said. I shared a memory of a freakin' donut shop one evening, and he had to tell me that his mother had worked there and he had all the recipes (this had to have been when he was a kid). Who the hell cares? 12 year olds behave that way, not adults.

So, yes, I would be inclined to think you are only as old as you act.

What do you think?

So, I've been seeing this guy lately. He's a good guy, though we have some rather significant differences--both in the way we think and our backgrounds. Today he tells me that he was really bothered when I dropped the bomb the other night that I "can't make him happy." I don't recall the context of the conversation, but regardless of what lead up to it, the statement is true.

No one can make anyone else be happy. You can be happy around or with someone, you can even feel happier in their presence. But no one can make someone else happy. What a horribly heavy weight to put on someone--I'm responsible for making you happy?? Talk about pressure! If it's up to me to make sure someone else is happy, it's a losing battle. I'm going to go out of my mind trying to say/do things that are certain to make him or her happy, and feel like shit when they don't work.

A statement like that is akin to telling someone "you complete me." It was cute in "Jerry Maguire," but it doesn't hold water in real life. That just suggests that God put you on this planet incomplete, and frankly I'm not buying it. God doesn't put half people down here.

What this guy isn't understanding is that I don't want someone who thinks even for a second that his happiness is contigent on my being there or that he is now somehow made whole because I'm in his life. People like that are bordering on codependent, at least in my book. I don't want to be that person that everything rides on for anyone else--it's hard enough to keep myself together sometimes! I don't have the fortitude to keep up with someone else's happiness.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not suggesting that I don't want a husband one day, I do. I just don't want anyone thinking that me getting married is somehow making me more than I am. I was put on this earth with a complete heart and soul and I can only grow from there. I'd prefer to do it with someone next to me, but it shouldn't be a requirement. I shouldn't feel as though even the simplest thing I do is responsible for someone else's happiness. Sure, my actions and what all affect another's life, but they shouldn't define it.

I know this is just me being a bit silly, but, hey--it's my blog, you know?

The elusive "anonymous" fool that's been posting on Ribalding's blog concerns me. It's not his politics or narrow-minded asinine ideas that concern me most (the way I see it, the world needs the occasional ignoramous and he is filling the role perfectly). No, it's the fact that he has no mastery of the English language. Okay, the American language.

He doesn't capitalize things that should be (Bible or Social Darwinism), he misuses words ("result" instead of "resort"), mispells words he's trying to use in his arguments (it's "Gomorrah," not "Gemora"), and doesn't know how to use punctuation. I can't take seriously someone who hasn't bothered to learn how to use the language.

Aside from the punctuation and spelling issues, one can certainly tell that, just like our esteemed President, the writer should not be allowed to speak (type) off the cuff. Everything should be approved by the speech writer.

My best friend, R, hosts a blog as well. If you've been following, he's the reason I started mine--blog-envy I think it was.

R and I have often quarreled about our opinions and beliefs. Frankly, a lot of the time, I'm in total agreement with him, I just refuse to give it tacitly when I think he's being a bit arrogant and assuming he's right just because he opposes the implied majority. He thinks I'm playing him, I'm merely trying to teach him. I'm an educator by design and by training, sue me.

Regardless, he's taught me a lot, and I do love him. And, I simply have to be sure that you see a recent post of his, if only because it touched me.

Note from Constatine

It got to me. And not because I'm a Republican who needs to be reminded how to behave. Frankly, I don't identify with any political party, but I do tend to vote to the left of center. I vote issues, not party.

I also happen to be a Christian, have been for far more than half my 28 tender years. Like R says, it's my faith, my relationship with the One I believe holds a place in Heaven for me. You don't want to hear about it (hell, maybe you do, just ask, I'll share).

I happen to agree with R that too many people hanging out on the right side of center (as in direction, dear ones, not correctness) have a problem remembering what they've been taught in their respected catechisms. Jesus, and for that matter, God, never positioned themselves on the political spectrum. I mean, look at Jesus--he cavorted with people who were obviously more liberal than others (Mary Magdalene, John the Baptist), believed in public welfare programs (the Feeding of the 5,000), apparently believed in tax reform (kicking the tax collectors out of the temple), but also believed in family values and studying God's word (spent time in Temple and honored his own mother throughout his life). I'll grant I may be stretching for some of those, but then, it's all in interpretation, right?

A couple of presidential elections ago, my grandfather cornered me about my political persuasions. Now, this is the man that used to listen to Rush Limbaugh and just wait for the man to announce his intentions to run for president. He also used every visit I made to his house for 4 years to educate me about the so-called "Clinton Conspiracy." He never did understand that I'm really rather apolitical and nothing turns me off to conversation faster than having politics come up.

Well, he managed to get it out of me who I'd voted for. I went Democrat that time, for lots of reasons. He was appalled, absolutely dumbfounded. When he regained his ability to speak, he asked me how I could possibly vote that way, knowing I was going against "the family." (I nearly laughed at that later. "The Family?" What are we, the Mob?) I tried to explain my reasons. He didn't listen. He asked again how I could betray the family. I told him that I hadn't realized that family membership carried a voting requirement. His next argument dealt with how I could call myself a Christian and vote Democrat. Once I regained my composure, I told him I wasn't aware my religious affiliation was in any way limited by my political leanings. You know what made it even worse? I learned that he hadn't even voted that year--didn't get out and get to the polls. Ha.

I think what this country needs is a return to an intelligent faith--not a return to the faith that's being preached by the extremists in the so-called "Religious Right." We aren't on this planet to run around being judgemental fools. As Christians, we're called to strive to be like Jesus--or at least that's what the catechism of my church has been teaching us for years. Being like Jesus doesn't involve being exclusionary or being hateful. Quite the contrary.

For the record, I know good and well that not all Republicans behave this way, and that many Democrats are just as guilty of the behavior. Seems like the Republicans have better PR people though--we sure do hear about them more.

One of my complaints as a librarian is that my students don't just read. Well, correction, they read in spurts--websites, email, blogs. Nothing that's long, unless it's assigned in class. I listened to students bitch about reading Anthem (Ayn Rand) because it was just too long.

Then I read this...

Booksellers Seeing Changes in Customers

In this world of instant gratification and digital images, people are forgetting what a pleasure simplicity can be. I read constantly, but not because I like to read books. (Hold on, I promise that will make sense.) I love reading because it doesn't produce sensory overload. I read the book and am not bombarded with images and sounds. What I see in my mind's eye is all my own creation--and I do create images and sounds for myself as I read. They're far more simplistic than what's on the television, often black and white, which I've never understood since I dream in technicolor. I get completely lost in the books that I read, every book. My best times are curled up with a good book (and a cup of tea or cocoa, maybe a man.)

Instant gratification is great for fast food and things of that ilk. Anything that's really worth having takes some time--time to find, create, discover. I love to go to bookstores (or libraries) and spend hours pawing the shelves in search of the perfect books. It makes my heart sing. And it's a simple act.

Maybe the problem is that they are too busy razing the roses to stop and smell them.

It's been a while, but I once did a response post to the news. Sounds like fun today, especially since I frequent Yahoo's Odd News page. So, here we go.

Restaurant serves food in toilet bowl
In a word, yuck. Talk about your toilet humor. The only thing left, in fact, is to have teenagers giggling like idiots while there. Oh, wait, they are. Then there are the diners who stir their food up so it looks like they haven't flushed. Oh, please. I'm all for gimmicky restaurants, but this is going a bit far.

Gene change alters sex orientation in fruit flies
Fabulous, now we have scientifically-engineered homosexual fruit flies. One more thing for the right-wingers to use as fodder for their anti-gay information packets. And did they have to give details about the mating habits of flies? Really?

Fire station catches fire
Good news, it wasn't a group of amateurs, these were professionals.

Dutch Bible-belt town bans blasphemy
This from the country that legalized marijuana. What ever are we coming to?

Children's Tylenol Recalled Over Labels
Yes, it’s sad that some children may well have been made sick by a Tylenol overdose. However, it’s really saddening that parents aren’t reading the label. Exactly why would you medicate your child, any child, with even an over the counter drug without reading the label?

Found: Lost Suits for Space Spies
Imagine what else might be found if security guards were all so thorough and checked locked closets. Truly, though, this one is kinda cool. I’ve read lots of books on the early manned-space flight years in the U.S., but I don’t remember anything about a manned-reconnaissance orbitor. Pretty interesting. Just found this week’s research topic.

Scientists Study How to Tell T. Rex’s Sex
Here are your tax dollars at work—this study was partially funded by the National Science Foundation. I realize this may provide information of earth-shattering importance, but isn’t there some more immediate need that we could pour money into?

Exhibit Unwraps Science Behind Candy
At the risk of sounding a bit pedestrian—SWEET! Man I wish I lived in Pittsburgh.

Man sues for $10 million over exploding toilet
Now, who the hell smokes on the toilet? I’m not an idiot, I know people must do this, but why?
Happy Saturday to you all.

I never desire to converse with a man who has written more than he has read. –Samuel Johnson.

Frankly, this applies to a lot of things in my life, not just my writer-self.

I profess to be a writer, largely because I do, in fact, write (go figure). Now, I’ve been on hiatus the last few years (read “writer’s block”), but that doesn’t mean I’m not still writing—just that I’m not productive. See, I must be a writer, look at my impressive use of semantics.

To be very honest, I’ve been writing the last few years.

· term papers
· proposals
· a grant
· modules for 3-hour technology workshops for school
· campus technology plans
· beautiful recommendation letters for my students
· heartfelt e-mails and even letters to people important to me
· speeches for award banquets
· job descriptions
· curriculum for my classes
· and other reasonably mundane things

While those things have been satisfying in their own ways, they haven’t satisfied that part of me that needs to write. That part of me that produced poetry (some great, some garbage, some not fit for the garbage can and burned to put it out of my misery.). That part of me that would love to write children’s books and young adult novels. There’s even a part of me that would love to write Christian devotionals for teens.

But, I haven’t written anything I deem meaningful for three or four years. So, instead, I’ve been reading. And reading. And reading. Basically, I devoured everything in sight, from wonderful Southern fiction to software manuals. Favorite classics to modern day trash. Histories of Henry VIII to guidebooks for Texas historical markers. You name the subject and I’ve either read up on it or have a book in my “to do” stack (which grows larger by the day).

I had a date with another writer a few weeks ago. Nice guy, not terribly well-read. I asked him what he’d been reading recently. His response? “Well, I’ve been revising the short stories I’ve been working on.” No, I asked what you’d be reading recently, not what you were doing with your writing. He couldn’t tell me anything more than the local newspaper. He asked what I’d been reading lately, and I recited the laundry list—

· The Other Boleyn –about Mary Boleyn, Anne’s sister
· A book on the restyling your library in the “bookstore model”
· Finding God in the Movies
· A string of blogs
· To Kill a Mockingbird (my annual re-reading of my favorite)

His eyes grew wide—not just at the sheer volume of what I read (and all of these are going on simultaneously), but at the different kinds of things I read all the time.

You don’t have to necessarily read as much or as often as I do (I read almost everywhere and all the time), but you should read, by God. I believe that you can’t grow as a writer if you aren’t experiencing the best and the worst that the writing world has to offer. The blogs are some of both, the novels—the same. To Kill a Mockingbird—need I say more?

But, maybe I’m weird. You tell me.

Pardon me, I'm stealing again. Got this one from here. Enjoy.

Three screen names that you have had: Jay, Jayfer, Jeffner

Three things you like about your self: My legs, the innocent nature I portray, my sarcasm

Three things you don't like about your self: I cry too easily, I can't make a decision in under 20 minutes, my toes.

Three parts of your heritage: Irish, Swiss, Polish

Three things that scare you: the dark, snakes, lightning

Three of your everyday essentials: coffee, email, Diet Coke

Three things you are wearing right now: belly ring, tunic, contacts

Three of your favorie songs: Love Song for a Savior (Jars of Clay), I've Always Loved You (Third Day), Hot for Teacher (Van Halen)

Three new things you want to try in the next 12 months: Sign language, reviewing, ??

Three things I want in a relationship: honesty, passion, Faith (as in the big one--religion)

Two truths and a lie: My left toe is bleeding, I love fuschia, I had chips and salsa for breakfast this morning.

Three things you can't do without: Music, books, coffee

Three places you want to go on vacation: Tuscany, New York, away

Three things you just can't do: Say "aluminum," stop moving, sleep through the night

Three kids names: Maguire, Haley, Meagan

Three things you want to do before you die: retire, have a flower garden, win the lottery

Three Celeb crushes: Tim McGraw, Brad Pitt (can't help it, even if it is a bit expected), Usher

Three people you want to know these things about: I don't know.

Today was the last day of work for the school year. I get to spend the next 11 weeks sleeping later (okay, some of those days means an extra 30 minutes). I can stay in my PJs all day, actually have a lunch hour (not merely 30 minutes), and surprise someone at work in the middle of the day. Afternoon naps, right after lunch (which is the best time for them), dawdling over coffee, and reading everything in sight. Yes, big plans for this summer.

I'm finally completely settled into my new apartment. It's wonderful to live in a place so nice after living a few steps above rat trap before--and that's only a mild exaggeration. The Wonder Dog is please with all the extra room around, and enjoys the new patio with the view of the pretty girls at the pool.

He only barks at the skinny, pretty girls. Get a, um...generously-sized girl or a guy out there and he couldn't care less. Put a woman who's missed her calling as a model and he goes crazy. Such a man. (Well, not really anymore, I guess. Got him neutered a couple of weeks ago.)

Anyway..I'm back, after dealing with a few things around here. I've bought a couple books to spur my writing. Get ready, we're going to get interactive around here.

kisses,

I'm moving in 6 days. 6 DAYS. I should be packing something. Or cleaning out my closet. What have I done so far?

1. Checked my email.

2. Washed sheets. All of them. I had no clue I had 4 complete sets of queen-size sheets. I have one bed. 2 if you count The Wonder Dog's, but I don't put sheets on his bed.

3. Watched 3 consecutive hours of TLC programming. It was all new episodes. My new favorite show on that channel is "Moving Up." Doug, from "Trading Spaces" meets 3 home owners who are "moving up" in the real estate world. Person A is buying B's home, B is buying C's home, and C is doing God knows what for living arrangements--we're not always told. Then after 3 or 4 months of upgrading/remodeling, C & B go back to visit their previous homes and comment. Sometimes they love the new look, sometimes they hate it. In tonight's episode, C consisted of 3 single men who'd shared a house, but hadn't taken the trash out in something like 2 years. The tub was so dirty it was brown all over and the kitchen counter top was decorated with mouse droppings. When they came back to visit their former home (landfill), they actually reminisced about the trash filled days. What the hell is wrong with these people?

4. Checked my email

5. Chased the dog down trying to get back a pair of panties he stole off the top of the laundry pile. Threatened to throw him in the washing machine.

6. Washed the load of socks and underwear so The Wonder Dog would quit running around the house with my panties.

7. Ate dinner.

8. Checked my email.

9. Watched "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets." I think it would be cool to speak Parsel Tongue.

10. Mapped out how I plan to put things in my closet in the new place.

11. Whined to a friend that I'm moving and I hate moving. Really hate it, with a passion.

12. Checked email.

13. Posted a bunch of things on the local FreeCycle group in an attempt to get rid of some of this crap before I find myself moving it.

14. Watered the plants.

15. Started typing this post, so that I could say I had something very particular to do instead of finishing the laundry or cleaning.

******************

I watched "What Not to Wear" tonight--the American version. I like the show, except for their insistence that women should wear pointy-toed shoes. I've decided something, though.

I want to go on the show, with one change--I want them to not send me out to the high-priced boutiques. Teach me how to buy the things that will look best on me from JCPenney and Palais Royal. Maybe the Dillard's sale rack. You know, the far more reasonably priced stores that sell shoes in the $30-80 range as opposed to the $300 plus range. Frankly, I'd go spend their $5000 on the show where they wanted me to, but I want more than a couple pairs of shoes and a 4 days worth of clothes to show for it. I'm not going to go shop at those stores ever again, don't tease me.

OR, rig the lottery so that I win it and can afford to run off to New York every season and replenish my wardrobe. I promise to follow the rules.

Stole this from a post over at A True Jersey Girl.

What follows is a list of different occupations. You must select at least five of them. You may add more if you like to your list before you pass it on (after you select five of the items as it was passed to you). Of the five you selected, you are to finish each phrase with what you would do as a member of that profession. Then pass it on to three other bloggers.

Here's that list:

If I could be a scientist... If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician... If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter... If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary... If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect... If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist... If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete... If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper... If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer... If I could be a backup dancer...
If I could be a llama-rider... If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be a midget stripper... If I could be a proctologist...
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host... If I could be an actor...
If I could be a judge... If I could be a Jedi...
If I could be a mob boss... If I could be a backup singer …
If I could be a CEO... If I could be a movie reviewer …
If I could be a candy striper... If I could taste test chocolate...

Now, If I could be a chef...I'd likely weigh more than I do now and be even more irate about it. But dammit, I'd eat well. I'd also need a bigger, better kitchen, for all my stuff.

If I could be a lawyer... I'd study education law and be on the side of schools when they've got ridiculous teachers trying to sue for breach of contract when the teacher provided a fabulous performance of a classicly awful teacher. And I'd tell them that.

If I could be a Jedi... I'd use my powers of persuasion to get that really hot, really wonderful guy to fall in love with me.

If I could be a movie reviewer... I'd also critique the trailers at the start--some of those are awful! No holds barred, you're movie's apparently shit if this the best you could do to advertise it.

If I could be a librarian... Okay, so I'm cheating. I am a librarian, but I'm the best damn looking one you'll ever meet.

So, now, I'll pass the torch to...Ribalding. His answers will be far more...naughty...then mine today, I'm sure.

And to Glod. The answers should be interesting.

And no one else..it's my blog, I can break the rules if I want to.

Normally, I would never, never do what I'm about to. However, I think it'll make for some interesting comments.

**Names have been removed, just because.

The email I received:

I thought about calling you tonight, but there is an issue on my mind that I fear I cannot properly vocalize. I have now had a chance to sleep on it for 3 nights and my opinion is not wavering...

You made a tremendous impression on Sunday... attractive, intelligent, and a strong conversationalist. However, there is one deal-breaker that you announced on Sunday that I fear will always overshadow all of the positives.
I'm sure that this sounds really shallow, but I've always had a severe distaste for smoking. Generally even social smoking is an extreme turn-off in my book.

I'll admit that I should have been more aware that your response to smoking habits was "No Answer" and brought this issue to the forefront before meeting you on Sunday afternoon. I completely overlooked that selection in your profile and for that I must apologize.

So you know the philosophy... don't want anyone to change... better now than later. You are a tremendous person and I am sure that you will find someone who loves you for everything that you are. I think that it is the best that we end our dating relationship. I hope that you can see where I am coming from.

My response:

I must say I was more than a little surprised to read your email this morning. I very much enjoyed our afternoon-turned-evening Sunday and was looking forward to seeing you this evening. I feel that I should clear the air, so to speak, about this.

I have smoked on rare occasions, in the company of smokers and even more rarely when I'm stressed. I might have 6 or 8 all year. It's not something I'm terribly proud of, and I made the decision just last week to forego it entirely, for many reasons. If I never had another one, I wouldn't think twice about it. I think you've accidently overestimated my attraction (or lack thereof) to the habit.

Does it seem a little silly to you that a relationship with potential could be hamstrung when a simple question or two would have saved everyone the trouble? Part of me wonders if there's something else you're not telling me that has led you to make such an abrupt decision.



What I really wanted to say:

It matters very little to me that you're concerned with my smoking "habit." Had I not mentioned it, you wouldn't have known about it at all. What concerns me is that you were completely unable to actually speak with me about it. That, to use your words, is the deal-breaker for me.

Two things you should probably consider before dating again. First, one date does not make a relationship of any sort. Second, not being able to talk to someone about one small thing that you, rather obviously, don't have all the information on, is not a good foundation for any sort of relationship.

Digging through some random pics on the 'puter today, and I found this. I'd been working steadily on a crocheted garland for my Christmas tree when I dozed off. I looked down and found that The Wonder Dog had found my ball of thread. Apparently, it was fascinating.

This is also the dog that thinks June bugs are fun to hold in his mouth. Go figure.

Okay, look, read carefully.

I said my friend was "surprised/embarassed." Those words are NOT synonymous with "offended." As far as I can tell, he wasn't offended, just hadn't expected to come across something like that in my blog--I seem far more innocent/reserved than I truly am. He wasn't prepared for it. Imagine suddenly finding out your sister/aunt/mother would write about things like that and invite you to read them when you've always seen her in a June Cleaver role. You'd blush, too.

On another note, Rudicus is right (see the comments on the original post.) If the guy I'd been speaking with had been my best friend for 10 years, no it wouldn't have been rude. It's rude for a person who has only known of my existence for a few days and never seen me in person to ask those sorts of questions and assume I'll just go along with it.

I learned today that I surprised/embarassed a friend when reading my "PSA" post. I had to giggle at that, because when I posted it, I forgot that he's been reading my blog.

No, it's not my usual storyline or subject matter, but it was something that I couldn't help but share. I was flabbergasted at the guy's guts, in asking those questions. No, I'm not naive, by any stretch, but come on, there's just some things that would shock almost anyone, right?

So, anyway..sorry I surprised you. I'll try to remember to post a warning beforehand next time.

Much love.

Check out Bibliophilist.com. It's a great blog for readers of all sorts. I'm a contributor there.

Enjoy.

Just thought that maybe, just maybe, not everyone receives the same basic training in social conversation. In the event that I'm right about this, let me fill some of you in.

Rarely do the topics of bra size, ass size, shaving practices, sex acts (i.e. specific details), or anything else "personal" need to come up in a first phone conversation with someone you've only just met. You should not be offended if the person you're speaking with is not willing to discuss them.

Met a guy online a couple of weeks ago. We sent several emails back and forth, tossed around the idea of meeting for coffee last week, and then decided to talk on the phone before meeting face to face. On the phone, we chit-chatted about harmless things, polite conversation you know? Suddenly, he asks what size bra I wear. I carefully side-stepped the topic. Next, it's a comment about the size of my ass (not butt, not rear, my ass). Again, I side-stepped. Then, "tell me about your craziest time to have sex." Um, no.

Got the topic changed again, only to have it changed again with the question "So, how often do you shave your puss?"

Um...excuse me? How, pray tell, is this any of your business?

"Well, I won't stay tomorrow night if you're not shaved."

Really?? What a relief, now I don't have to figure out how to quickly end this conversation and get away from you. Click.

The guy was Sicilian, only moved to the States a few years ago for work. I really hope he's not a classic example of a Sicilian gentleman.

**So you know, I know that not everyone has quite the same social graces I'm accustomed to. This particular phone conversation was just one of the most blatant examples I've had in a while.

Week before last, I was in Austin for a conference. Had a good time, learned some new things. The last night I was there, I went out to eat with a friend. Chose a restaurant that was rumored to have good food and great atmosphere. Apparently, rude bartenders aren't considered "atmosphere." Long and short, the girl did 3 things you should never do when working in a restaurant (really, anywhere, if you ask me).

First, after we ordered margaritas in the bar, she asked for her tip. This is a big no-no. I don't care that it's customary that people tip bartenders and waitstaff, they shouldn't expect it and then ask for it when they don't see it. For the record, had she waited 2 seconds, I was going to drop money in her tip jar. My response to her asking for her tip was to tell her "not now that you've asked."

Second, when I went back to the bar to order a bowl of queso, she told me that it cost $6. Fine, I handed her $10. She gave me back $3 in change. Now, math may not have been my strong suit in school, but I can add and subtract pretty well. I told her that I thought maybe I'd not been given the correct change--trying to give her an out and save face. Nope. She informed me that she'd kept her tip off the top of her change. "No, honey, that's called stealing, I'd like to see your manager. Right now."

Third, while waiting on the manager to come over, I happen to see a copy of the menu and discover that an order of queso is $5, not $6.

Recap: The 3 wrongs against a customer committed here are: presumption, theivery, and lying.

It only got worse. The manager tried to stick up for her-"well, she only makes 2 something an hour and they all work for tips really." I really don't find myself giving a damn. It maybe have been a few bucks and some bad service, but damnit, she should've known considerably better.

My best friend, R, is a waiter who has berated me about my poor tipping habits for years, even before I knew him as a waiter. It's an ethical thing for me. I tip what I feel is appropriate for the service I've received, and I don't tip because it's customary. If you provided poor service, then you don't deserve a tip. If you made me feel like the only table you had to serve, I'll tip generously. I've been known to tip anything from a dollar or two, to 40% of the bill. A couple of times, at the restaurant R works in, I've tipped the bartender 50-100% (though he did comp one of my drinks that night I tipped 100%). It goes back to my work ethic, whether you love your job or not, you should be willing to give better than average or minimum service. My tip is a tangible appreciation of your good service.

Anyway, that's my rant. After R ranted about people who don't tip at all, period or who short tip fabulous service, I knew I'd eventually get around to posting my thoughs on it. Didn't think it would take a rude, unethical bitch to jumpstart the entry.

Read the following story in the "Oddly Enough" section of Yahoo News.

Psychopaths at the Wheel!

Is it just me, or should pedestrians be warned as well as patrons of the bus system?


Sorry I've been out of touch the last several days (ok, 2 weeks). I went to Austin for a conference and just got back yesterday. Got a post on censorship in the works.

kisses

As a speech coach, I never let my students quote Fox News as a source. It's so not a reliable source.

http://www.commondreams.org/headlines05/0326-05.htm

I get most of my news off the Internet. I can read through only what interests or affects me and get it all done in about 15 minutes, as opposed to having to watch an hour's worth of news (local and national/world) complete with bad hair, bad jokes, human interest stories that aren't terribly interesting, and commercials. I hate commercials.

Sometimes, I read the news on the "Oddly Enough" link on Yahoo news. Sometimes, it's a reminder that there are in fact people out there that do incredibly stupid things and that (regardless of what dumb thing I just did) I'm not one of them. But today, I read this Like Something out of a Cartoon.

In short, someone has developed an alarm clock that actually works to get you out of bed. Apparently, after the first time you hit snooze, it rolls off. When it goes off again, you have to go hunting for it in order to turn it off.

Um...is no. I have absolutely no desire to chase my alarm clock. I get up at, oh, 5:30ish Monday through Friday. It takes a me a good 30 minutes to become functional. In that 30 minutes, I've had a couple of cups of coffee, I've walked the dog, and read part of the paper. No hunting, no searching, and, frankly, no talking. My mornings are nice. Why in the world would I need to ruin that with an honest to goodness traveling alarm clock?

Maybe some people need this. I can think of a couple of people in my life who definitely could. You won't see me with one though.

A little old lady in my complex dotes on my dog. That's fine, I dote on my dog. Everytime we go by to get the mail or just on a walk, she meets us on the way back with a snack for him. Usually, it's just a little lunchmeat or a piece of cheese. Yesterday, it was a little piece of liver. She spoils him.

This morning, taking our morning walk (way too early for my tastes, but you can't mistake a potty dance on your neck at 6:15.), she invited us in for a cup of coffee. No problem, she's lonely, we can spare time for a cup of coffee in our pajamas. Wonderful cup of coffee, too. Not your typical Folger's blend. A little cream (real cream!) and sugar, fabulous.

So, we're sitting there talking, she's feeding bits of cheese to the Wonder Dog, and she proceeds to analyze me. (A note, dear readers, don't do this. Unsolicited analyzations piss me off.) She tells me that she can see in my eyes that I'm feeling an emptiness inside. I was tempted to spout some sarcastic remark (yes, my stomach), but decided against it. Instead, I asked her what she meant. She said it was glaringly apparent I'm feeling a need to be a mother to someone. Since I'm not having a baby anytime soon, I've gotten a dog to curb the urgings to be motherly.

How do you tell someone that this is a load of shit? Sure, someday I want to be a mother, but my "urgings" aren't running rampant. Hell, I've got some goals to meet first (get married one day, have a house and a yard, those kinds of things) and I'm not in a rush to do those things.

No, I got a dog because I wanted a dog. I promised myself when I started my masters degree that I'd get a dog when I was finished. My family has always had dogs, and I've never felt right in a house that didn't have one. So, when I had a chance to get a free puppy, I did.

Yes, I dote on him and spoil him much the way some might a child. He was very sick the first month I had him, and I agonized over him. Everytime we had to rush to the vet, I was frantic and couldn't focus when sent to work. He is my "child" in the sense that he is dependent on me for everything. But he's not a replacement for a baby in my life--unrequited desires or no.

My parents call him the "grandpuppy." They bought the car harness (seatbelt for dogs) that I'd been looking for because they were "very worried about him riding in the car." I got in trouble the other day because I left him at home when I went to visit. Silly me, I thought they wanted to see me. How could I have been so dense? Sounds to me like they've got unanswered urgings for grandchildren.

I hate when people tell me things like that--you've gotten x as a way to deal with your desires for y. Sure, it happens, people get pets when what they really want is a baby. I have to wonder though, when was the last time someone got a baby, when what the really wanted was a dog?

I learned how to put pictures in my blog today. Figured I'd show off the big dog living in my house.


The Wonder Dog

I got my first furry, all to myself pet just before Christmas. He is my absolute pride and joy. My house is littered with toys--both "on-purpose" toys and those that he has designated toys. I have 3 kinds of treats, puppy vitamins, a product called Good Dog (fabulous stuff), leashes, harnesses, you name it, I've got it or have thought about getting it.

A.C. surprises me daily. We've got a little lamb toy we call Lam-buh (R christened it). I'll ask him where Lam-buh is and he'll run around the house making this "buh, buh" noise looking for it. Makes me wonder if he's calling it, you know?


He's such a character. When I fall asleep on the couch, he'll wake me up before I've been out too long so I can go crawl in bed. He already understands that I don't actually get up until the 4th time the alarm goes off in the morning. He doesn't even move anymore until that one.

Yesterday, he sang along to the radio with me. He'd been quiet and still in the seat next to me, then I started singing the song on the radio. He perked up and started singing, too. The song I ended, I quit singing and he went back to dozing.

A friend, H, at work recently turned me on to a blog she's been reading. Dooce is wonderful! I've been just picking posts to read at random and I'm just loving it.

H turned me on to it with this post:

Good Dog Carl Goes to Prison

If you don't know Carl, know first that he is a wonderful rottweiler who is basically a nanny long before nanny cams.

Enjoy.

R disappointed me the other night. He did something that I've never heard him do before, and never expected him to do, despite his latent pretentiousness.

I drove into town for dinner with him. Found out that morning that it wouldn't be just him, it would be him and his girl. (That's a whole other gripe, even including the fact that I like her.) After some light-hearted conversation, we started on our way to the restaurant. We were leaving from her parents' house, where they are house-sitting, and I recognized the part of town that we were in. R had worked in that area while we were dating a couple of years ago. I asked about it, and we started talking about the people he'd worked with. There was the greasy guy, who was likely a cokehead, and the couple that owned the company. The couple were really nice people who were kind of being screwed by the greasy guy.

R starts describing these people. This is where he disappointed me. "Really nice people. Working class, of course, but just good people."

Did you catch that? He described people by their class. As in social class, not culturing.

I was apalled. I've never heard him do that, ever. Sure, in conversation about specific things (politics, social reform, whatever), we've discussed classes. It's appropriate then. I thought maybe I'd misheard him, but as I ran the conversation through my head over the weekend (and it happened 5 days ago), I realized that he'd actually done it. I couldn't beleive it.

It bothers me only partly that he said it at all. The bigger bother to me is that I identify with the working class. My family is working class, always has been. Yes, we've a family ranch, a large one, but we were never the "landed gentry" in this state. Yes, there have been college grads before this generation, but frankly, it's only in my generation that some of us are going to finally get past/rise above working class and join the (or have joined) the professional class.

R knows this, he's met my family. I have to wonder, now that I know he does in fact classify and think of people according to their classes, what he thinks of me and my family.

Maybe I'm giving too much credence to this, but I've learned, the painful way, that he rarely "accidently" says anything that he doesn't mean. He mis-speaks (often), but, in my mind, a "slip" like this is not something easily misconstrued.

It saddens me.

1. The last person you want to deal with when trying to get a check for your totaled vehicle is an insurance adjustor who's new to the job.

2. You can detect muscle spasms with an x-ray (actually, you can see the changes in disc spacing in your spine or neck and determine that it is likely caused by muscle spasms).

3. Honda sells its base level CRV for the same sticker price as everyone else sells their comparable mini-SUVs with options. The other companies also offer better warranties and often gas mileage.

4. Shaving a dog is absolutely no fun. But he's damn cute when you're done.

5. Male Opossums have 2 penises (is that peni?). I don't know why, they just do. Must suck to be a girl opossum. Must be where we get that phrase from.

6. Everyone knows of a great neurosurgeon in the area, but apparently great neurosurgeons either don't have memorable names or aren't on my insurance.

7. Anywhere else on the body, a 1.1 cm size cyst wouldn't be too big a deal, but put it IN someone's face and suddenly people start talking removal.

8. I've apparently had arthritis in my neck for years. Took a damn car accident to find it--that and the cyst in my face and on my thyroid.

So, I had a date last night (we'll call him G). We were supposed to have dinner and catch a movie. Ha.

We met outside a little restauarant near the movie theater, only to discover it was closed. We left my car there and went over to a restaurant a few minutes away. Dinner was great. It's easy to talk to G. He's funny, smart, keeps up with my sense of humor. Just an all-around good guy from what I've seen, and not hard to look at, either. I've thoroughly enjoyed both evenings I've spent with him.

We go back over to grab my car and head to the movie only to discover my car's been towed. Lovely. There was a sign in the lot that I saw, but I never imagined that it would be gone an hour and 15 minutes after I parked it--who's to say I wasn't eating in one of the restaurants that was open in the strip center? Turns out, G had his truck towed from the same place about a year ago.

So, G offers to pay for to get the car back (very sweet, if you're reading this, thank you again.). Three phone calls later, we pull into a spot on the street and walk up to the office at the storage lot. The guy working there wants nees my driver's license--which I've indavertently left in Angleton. We race out to catch the notary parked outside and get a power of attorney notarized so that G can remove my car from the lot. Then, we discover that the lot only takes cash and it's to the tune of $171.89 ("exact change please, $172 will be fine")! We hunt for an ATM, get the cash, run back, and manage to still get my car out of the lot by 11. Ugh.

Looking at the paperwork, I was parked less than an hour when they towed it. Shit.

As we were crawling back in his truck to go find an ATM, I told him that I would do whatever to make it up to him, only half-jokingly--whatever he wants, don't even ask, just tell me what it is.

The funny thing is, as screwed up as the evening was, I had a good time. A really good time. I enjoyed his company, talking with him, and laughing at ourselves over the car. I told him it was one of the more...interesting...dates that I'd had before, and probably the only one that I had a good time regardless of the events.

Gonna have to try that date again though, minus the towing.

Earlier today I was asked about A.D.D. Now, I seriously think that I am A.D.D., and I think I developed it as an adult, because I don't remember being like this as a kid.

When was the last time you went to the kitchen on a specific mission, say to get a glass of water, and 20 minutes later realized you were still thirsty? Much like my dear puppy, I can’t seem to stay focused for very long on any one task. Let me explain how my brain functions…

On a good day at work (and by good, I mean I started it with 2 or 3 cups of coffee—I’ll explain later.), I chat online, work on my budget, analyze a section of my collection, and have the radio going, while discussing the current debate topic with a student. All of the tasks are completed at the best possible level and in a timely fashion. On a bad day (a day I’ve either run out of coffee or decided to swear off the evil beast and go without caffeine), all I manage all day long is to read reviews for 10-15 books and eat lunch. Now, granted, that’s not all I do in that day, but that’s all I complete.

The key for me is the caffeine. In an ADD or ADHD individual, caffeine has the opposite effect as it does in a “normal” person. For some reason, and science hasn’t adequately explained this, caffeine helps control the misfiring in the brain. Now, my mind never stops working. I read in bed because I can focus a large part of my mind on the book—reading the words, comprehending them, painting the images in my mind. The only other way I’ve ever been able to fall asleep is when R “talks me to sleep.” He’s got a really nice voice that just slows me down—sounds like he’s from South Carolina. He'll attest that I just doze right off.

I had a great boss in college who kept chocolate around at work--Hershey's minis. If I got too wired or too spaced out, she'd toss a couple my way. Love that woman.

You walk into the room and head straight for it, almost not realizing that your body is moving on its own accord. You walk, quickly, determined to it. Your hand is shaky, knees are weak. People in your way are thrown aside. You need this. You need another fix. You make eye contact fleetingly with the dealer. "3, please." He hands them over and try to steady your hands so that you don't miss a thing as you quickly devour them. The build-up is amazing, the high like nothing you've had before. But you come down much too quickly.

I wasn’t aware that only in Texas do we have an actual condition attached to the state lottery. I guess I figured that the lotteries across the nation incited hysteria the ways ours does when the jackpot is in excess of $20 million. But then, it is Texas, the land of the bigger and better, right? Doesn’t it stand to reason that even our lottery mania would fall be more pronounced here than anywhere else? Why would we half-ass that when we do so many other equally silly/trivial things at a 500% higher level than, say, Arkansas? Don’t get me wrong, I love Texas and love being a Texan, but, come on.
As an aside, where exactly is the money earned from ticket sales going? When we started this idiocy, the State told us that it would be poured into education (Which I find mildly ironic—we don’t allow gambling in public schools, yet we’ll use gambling money to fund those same schools. Hmmm.). To date, we haven’t seen a penny of it, and that was, what, 11 years ago?
You’ve probably already figured it out, but I’m not a lottery player. Sure, when the jackpot gets obscenely large, I’ll buy a few tickets, what can it hurt? I use my soda money for the week, which really is healthier for me. But, frankly, I won’t buy a lottery ticket unless I’m completely sure I’m buying the winning numbers. Since I don’t time travel, that ain’t happening.

I've never much liked the 26th .

There's all this build-up to Christmas Eve/Day, all the churchy stuff, all the cooking, gathering, excitement of presents (if you still get excited about presents), maybe family coming in. Then, Eve/Day comes along, you have a great time, are happy and excited about everything going on. You eat too much and get "fat and happy" when someone hands you that second piece of rum cake. You go to bed warm and contented and feeling good.

Eight hours later, you wake up. Fat, achy, grumpy. Today is clean-up day and put away day. Get rid of the wrapping paper that looked so pretty under the tree and carry boxes out to the trash. (When I was little, I couldn't play with the new Christmas toys on the 26th until I cleaned my room. What a way to screw up the warm fuzzies.) Family goes home, leaving their trash with you. The worst part is the left-overs. It's true what they say, presentation is everything. All that food looked and smelled fabulous when you came to the table for Christmas dinner. Now, it's packed into tupperware containers and while it's still going to taste and smell just right, it's never going to be quite as visually appealing.

My mother would insert here that it's not the way Christmas looks or tastes that is the important part, it's the religious aspect of it and the joy of celebrating the baby in the manger. Well, yes, this is true and I won't discount that part. But even the first church service after Christmas is a bit of a let-down to me. My pastor (and lots of pastors I'm sure) is at his best Christmas Eve and Easter Morning. He's always very good, and I've never regularly worshipped with a better orator and his theology is top-notch. That doesn't change the fact this morning's sermon will not be his best offering. And heck, I don't blame him. He's tired. He just did 2 church services 36 hours ago and had his own family Christmas stuff going on. But somehow, this morning's service will be a let-down after the wonderment I beheld Christmas Eve.

Hell, maybe it's just me. I can put aside some of my cynicism for no more than about 72 hours at a time. Or maybe it's because today is the day we visit the side of the family that specializes in making others feel two inches tall. Seems that always takes place on the 26th, as well. What fun.

I'm deeply disturbed. Deeply.

I just flashed through Amazon and discovered they are selling home defibrillators. This is that thing on "E.R." that they charge and then yell "clear" before placing the paddles on the momentarily dead person's chest. Everybody goes hands off for a second and the person's body does this jumping seizing motion as electric current is passed though it.

I understand the science behind it. Basically, the doctor is trying to "shock" the person's heart into restarting or leveling out in function, depending on the specific problem. I even understand that if someone has a sudden cardiac arrest there is a greater chance of survival if a defibrillator is used in the first 5 minutes. (Apparently, 50% of those suffering from a sudden heart attack will survive if a defibrillator is used in the first 5 minutes. After that point, the survival rate is 1%.) Obviously, I can see the pros of having one at home.

My problem is that these things are deadly if used incorrectly. Yes, the same can be said of guns or gas ovens. But frankly, a home defibrillation system is far more scary to me then having a gun in my home. There's safety measures for guns--safety catches or whatever they're called (can you tell I don't own a gun?), locking gun cabinets, the practice of hiding the ammunition in some other place than the gun is stored.

But the point behind a home defibrillator system is to be able to quickly use it should the need arise, God forbid. It's not like you can store the paddles somewhere else or something. It would defeat the purpose to have it broken down into parts and those parts separated. In an emergency, I really don't want my kids or husband to have to run all over the house getting all the parts of the machine that might save my life. If they are as A.D.D. as I am, I'll die before they finish the task.

I guess what scares me though about home defibrillator sets is that far more kids are emulating the good guys than the bad guys. Let's face it, the people on E.R. are hero-types (when the patient lives). Kids want to be like heroes, not like the losers. There's going to be a kid somewhere playing doctor with a friend who kills the friend because he "over-defibbed."

Sure, I may be overreacting. But the first time a kid accidently shot another kid with a gun and the national media caught wind of it, people were appalled. People were confused. People were pissed off. How in the world did a child get ahold of a gun in the first place?? Suddenly gun control became a major issue.

Maybe I've missed some important legislation or FDA guidelines (and please tell me if I have), but it seems to me that in another few years, when home defibrillator systems are relatively commonplace in homes across America, some child is going to die an innocent death and suddenly there will be nation-wide mother-driven organizations calling for severe regulations on the accursed things. Mothers Against Home Defibrillators.

Can't wait.

Think about this:

"The term Foetus-in-fetu (FIF) was coined by Meckel[1] in the 18th century and is defined as a parasitic twin found within the abdomen of its sibling. In 1809, Young reported the first case of foetus in fetu. Since then sporadic cases have been reported. Foetus in Fetu is discovered most commonly in infancy as a retroperitoneal mass.[2] They may be totally asymptomatic.[3] Symptoms, if present, are related to mass effect and include abdominal distension, feeding difficulties, emesis, jaundice and dyspnoea.[3] In most cases FIF is present intra-abdominally in the upper part of the retroperitoneal space.[4] Rare locations like cranial cavity, pelvis, scrotal sac, sacro-coccygeal region, mesentery and right iliac fossa are also reported.[5] Usually they are one in number, but some cases of more than one have been reported.[5]"Nagar A, Raut AA, Narlawar RS. Foetus in fetu. J Postgrad Med [serial online] 2002 [cited 2004 Oct 11 ];48:133-4. Available from: Journal of Postgraduate Medicine

Now, here's why I've decided to share that slightly disgusting bit of info with you. I've been fascinated with the idea of fetus in fetu for a couple of weeks now, ever since I watched a show about it on Discovery Health Channel. While it's a physical malady, I think it could actually be used to describe a social or psychological problem.There's a line of thought I've had that lends the idea that human beings tend to be slightly partitioned psychologically. It's the same concept as "phone voice"--meaning that I can tell who my mother is on the phone with by the sound of her voice. Her mother gets one tone, my brother another, the pharmacist something totally different. We all do it.Now, the parts of my psyche that are well-developed (my emotional side but not necessarily my ability to emote) are two separate pieces of me (a la Ashlee Simpson). My work sense and the person I am at home are two distinct, complete, well-defined/formed individuals residing inside of me.But then there's people like my most recent ex-boyfriend, T. Socially, he's well-developed. Casually he's well-developed. His sense of work ethic, while it needs a great deal of remodeling, is developed. He's emotions are stunted. His emotional self is like a foetus in fetu. He actually appears to treat emotions as a parasite. Granted, he was raised by a mother who didn't show a lot of affection or emotion--not that she didn't have those at all, she just didn't show them much. He never learned how to show emotion when someone isn't standing in front of him. Frankly, I think the reason he was able to end things so suddenly and brusquely was because I wasn't with him for 2 weeks while he was at his mother's. The fact that he chose to do it via e-mail was because he knew that if he had to look at me and do it, he wouldn't have been able to do it, because he would've felt something. His "parasitic" feelings for me weren't feeding on him 6 states away.I challenge you:Find the something in you that is your foetus in fetu. I'll tell you mine. My inability to more often than not emote appropriately is a parasite in me. Hell, you may not have one at all and bravo for you for being a completely well-developed person. In my opinion, the minute I stop having one at all is when I want to have a chat with St. Peter.

I spent all day Sunday watching "From the Earth to the Moon." It's that movie tracing the race to the Moon that Tom Hanks produced. It wasn't just a good show, all 12+ hours of it, it also made me think. Occasionally, I like a movie that does that.

The people directly involved in the space program seem to have a specific quality. One that almost seems to be a prerequisite. It's not a quality that other jobs require, though it's sure to help a person succeed in those jobs. It's also guaranteed to earn a person a few wary-eyed looks from colleagues. What is this quality? Passion.

Those who sought the Moon were incredibly passionate. I don't believe the quality was overplayed for the sake of the movie. Great things can be (and have been) done by ordinary men with extraordinary imaginations, but not one of those men lacked passion.

You look back at those involved in the race to the Moon and you learn of their passion. Those men, those people, loved their jobs and performed them with pride and a drive that made it inevitable that they would reach their goal. And no one who ever felt the same passion could have ever questioned the outcome.

I'm one of those people who attaches meaning to damn near everything. I'm also emotionally driven. As I watched the various parts of "From the Earth to the Moon," I was hit with the idea that there was more than just a history lesson at stake in it. There's a life lesson.

We should all live our lives as passionately as those people who got Americans to the Moon. We should all do things with such pride--not to the point of being egomaniacal, but to the point of impressing upon others that we are proud of the things we do. (Now, I know there's things we do that we are not at all proud of, but maybe we should take pride in what we've learned from those things.)

We should love with such passion as those men, and expect absolutely no less from our lovers.

R apologized. It all boiled down to the same argument we've had time and again--words on a page (screen) can never emote. While his intentions were without focus, what appeared on the page very much bothered me. On more than one occasion I've shared some part of myself with him and come away feeling a bit foolish for opening up. This time, it took several days before I did, and it came via his blog. Yuck. This after he stressed that he thinks maybe we should "re-audition" for each other.

Once I voiced my tentative thoughts and feelings, I let myself think a little about it. It certainly didn't hurt that after our conversation, I did stay the night and fall asleep in his arms. Whatever else is going on in my life, that is the safest I've felt before. But just letting me say those things (granted, it wasn't a long conversation or even in depth) and then curling up with me gave me a sense of safety, of no regrets for speaking. His blog post fucked that up for me.

Actually, the real problem is that he forgot his own teachings about seemingly harmless posts. They aren't always harmless just because the writer sees no harm in them. The reader, in the absence of clear intent, must invoke his or her own emotions, which far too often are not the intended ones. One things leads to another and someone's offended or misguided.

So, a word to the wise and the not so wise (in order that ye may become wise): Watch what you write. Those who are emotionally invested in your topic of choice may misunderstand your intent.

R’s been posting about me again. I should be flattered, I suppose, but I’m not terribly.

My boyfriend broke up with me last week. I was devastated, then calm, then pissed (because he showed his ass, and from his behavior you’d have thought it the size of a mack truck). I’m not grieving, there’s no reason to grieve a prick.

R's been posting about my "process" so to speak. He posted about the conversation we had the night he went with me to pick my things up from the asshole's house. I, at his urging, voiced my wonderings about the elusive "us." We dated for nearly a year about 2 years ago. When we broke up, we became the best of friends, and yes, we had benefits. Lovely benefits. But the wonderings I voiced had little to do with the benefits.

He said he got it..but his blog reads differently. Why must men screw around like that?

Pardon the rant, I just read that post of his and had to spill.

*****************

Moving on. Do you recall your school bus driver, or at least have a vague memory of what bus drivers were rumored to be like? I had a run in with a real doozie this weekend (I coach speech and debate and we had a tournament this weekend.). I've had bus drivers that were total jerks to students, but never one that was a bitch to the adults on the bus. I can't recall the last time anyone yelled at me at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Probably the last damn time I was a student on the bus.

Again, some things never change.

Went to Houston last night with R. Actually, some friends of mine from work were going to a performance of a local big band, along the lines of Ricky’s band in those old “I Love Lucy” shows. A friend of mine from high school plays tenor sax in the band, and I now work with his mother. Since R enjoys big band music, and my boyfriend’s out of town for a few more days, I grabbed him up for an escort.

Picked him up at his house, and then went for dinner. Somewhere between exiting the freeway and knocking on his door, I decided to go ahead and do what I’ve talked about for months. I got my belly button pierced. Really tame seeing as how I previously had a nipple piercing.

Dinner was to calm my anxiety before actually letting somebody poke holes in me. Didn’t help just a whole hell of a lot. I realized that when the guy (Thom, excellent guy if I may so myself) asked if I had any questions and I giggled really loud and said no. He looked real quick and asked if I was really sure. Uh, yeah, jus take my credit card and let’s get on with this.

Now, I’m not big into piercings really. The long-ago nipple ring was an ex-boyfriend’s idea and it was gone almost as soon as he was. I don’t like to look at piercings on others and they really don’t do anything for me—the belly button thing’s just something I’ve always talked about and it’s harmless. I have to say though, that I found myself studying a picture of a suspension (one of those things where someone’s got piercings at particular points all of the body—back, legs, whatever—and they are suspended by those piercings. Yuck.). As R and I talked with Thom, we discovered that he is on a team that travels all over and does suspensions. He’d been in Hollywood a few weeks ago and does the big HPEP show every year. Oddly enough, this made me feel less worried about getting my own boring old navel ring.

So, a few deep breaths and one unexpected pain later, I was done. I now know that I’ve got really thick skin, literally. Thom said I had the toughest skin he’d ever seen on a white person. I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but maybe I can put it on my resume’.

I also now know that a 14-gauge bar through my tummy skin actually feels like shoving one of those thick kindergarten pencils through my skin.

I told you that I wasn’t YOUR high school librarian.

Somewhere out there is an idiot who actually knows he/she is an idiot. Not only does this person know, but this person can explain why it is that he or she is just not blessed with whatever it is that makes us not idiots. I want to meet this person, because I want this phenomenon to be explained to me.

I can't handle idiots. I'm by far not the smartest person in the world, nor am I immune from my own idiot moments. I do however rarely show my ass to the world. At least not on a daily basis.

It just seems to me that I'm often placed in working situations that defy reason, largely because of the inordinate idiocy that is just seeping from the walls. My assistant is a prime example. When it's slow in the library, I pass the time (unless I have legitimate work to do) by documenting her idiotic actions and observations until I find myself overwhelmed. It only takes a little while.

Like today. The copier went on power save. Now, she's in charge of the copier--it doesn't like me for some reason, so I don't mess with it. She got up to run some copies for a student and couldn't figure out why the copier wouldn't make the copies. I knew what had happened, I'd heard it power down for the power save, but I decided to see how long it would take her to figure it out. Before it was all over with, she'd crawled around on her hands and knees looking at the power supply and surge protectors, had turned off her computer (to let the copier have more electricity?), called our help desk, and finally run off to the front office to run the copies on the machine up there. The whole time she was whining "I don't know what's wrong with it, it just won't work. It acts like it's been turned off (duh), J come help me." I at first pretended to just not hear her. Then I feigned ignorance--I mean, the machine never works when I mess with it.

But as soon as she walked out, heading for the office, I hopped and turned the machine on. It's nice to know that the stupid can always provide a little entertainment on a boring day.

Superiority isn't something that I typically seek out. I rarely try to exert it over someone else because I wind up feeling guilty and a little childish.

That being said, I've taken a secret pride in being a bit more technologically advanced than my best friend. I've been proud about because of everyone else I'm that close to, I'm the one scratching her head and looking confused when they start talking that techie stuff. (Well, except my grandmother, but one should be superior to one's grandmother in this area.).

So, it's been eating me. I do web design for several educational sites, own a kick-ass computer (even my love, the computer god, envies my computer), can talk anybody through the intricacies of Microsoft (and there are so many, aren't there?), own all kinds of gizmos for the computer...and I'm feeling small because my best friend has a blog he's been working on for a month. It makes absolutely no sense, but as I read his most recent ramblings this morning, I just couldn't take it anymore. I literally felt like I'd been one-upped and had to remedy it immediately.

Here it is...huh. Since he's "ahead of me" on number of posts, I'll have to one-up him by doing some design work.

It only bothers me a little that I'm feeling a bit childish. Then again, I work with high school students, it's probably rubbed off from them.