Poor men. They haven't got a chance.

On behalf of those of us (aka women) who are fond of Jane Austen and her film incarnations, I must break it to the rest of the world that, I'm sorry, you'll just never quite measure up.

You see, the Jane Austen men (at least the leading men) will always be universally charming, romantic, and impeccably dressed. And, while the rest of you (aka living & breathing men) certainly have powers of charm & romance, these powers seem to dissipate all too quickly. You sometimes blow your noses too loudly, or leave a bit of a mess around the toilet. In the world of romance, some of you may pursue too hard, and others (shockingly) never fall in love with the right person at all (i.e. the woman who wants you). In short, you're real--you have problems and issues just like us, and we can't have that, now can we?

Jane Austen men always properly dispose of their hankies. And, at the end, they always seem to screw up enough courage to tell the woman of their dreams that they are lost unless she saves them. How can you blame us then when about every five seconds there's a woman who sighs as the ending credits of Pride & Prejudice start scrolling down the screen, or as she sets down Persuasion after the long-awaited reunion of Anne and Captain Wentworth, or as she realizes while reading Sense and Sensibility just how much Colonel Brandon cares for Marianne, and that really he can make her much more happy than Willoughby ever could.

Alas, you real-life red-blooded men. Try as hard as you may, you can never quite measure up to those little expectations we generate for you. You can never truly be Mr. Darcy. It really isn't your fault, though. And eventually, we women will put down the book, or turn off the television, and come back to our senses...but perhaps never quite all the way. Be patient with us, will you? There's a dear.

So, what shall it be?

Oh, you guys. I'm so sorry I haven't posted in so long. I've been...not quite in the mood to post.

You see, posting takes a firm (maybe) grasp of something interesting to explore, a great deal of energy, and a tiny amount of oregano. (Although basil may be substituted in extreme circumstances.)

While my oregano supply is still running fairly high, my energy and topic levels have dipped significantly below where they need to be for a good, fiery, home-town cooked Lizardbreath post.

However, right now, I am feeling a slight increase in afore-mentioned levels, and I'm also feeling vaguely alone since my family has traipsed off to California without me. (Well, 'traipsed' is perhaps the wrong word. But it sure sounds good.) Please, don't feel indignant on my behalf. My grandmother is being interred in California, so they've gone down for the second funeral (the first was this past Monday, which was good & sad & wonderful & tearful, and no, I'm not really going to go into it more than that right now) & the burial, and just to be with family for a few days. I'm sad I'm not going, but with the recent surgery & with the already low number of personnel at work, I didn't quite feel that I should go.

So, I am even now perched on the bed, with my laptop secure on my...well, my lap...and I am currently wondering exactly what I should write about.

I could mention that I've become an Alton Brown groupie. I guess days on end of lying on the couch sipping liquids while watching Food Network has changed the chemical balance of my brain forever. Alas.

Or, I could talk about getting the 'steri-strips' peeled off of my belly by my surgeon and then going home and having the immediate desire to show my incisions to all my family members. But I resisted. (Well, except for that little exhibition for my sister. My oh my. She puts up with a lot from me. I guess I'm lucky.)

Or, I could talk about that Mr. Rogers thing I was going to talk about before, but didn't get a chance to...But that's kind of boring.

Truth is, kids, most of what I could talk about right now would be boring. I have a lot on my mind, and almost nothing at all in my head. Nonsensical? Naturally. But true.

But, I know that, when I do finally come up with a really great and entertaining topic, you'll all be there, ready & eager to read what I've written.

Until then, I'll just be here. With the Food Network. And my laptop. And my incisions. (Happy, happy incisions...)

The Nature of Life

Hi, guys.

Today is proof that life does not happen the way we expect. I thought that this evening I'd sit down to write a nice long post about Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood and other shows you might find at 4 o'clock in the morning, but I find that my topic has changed. Drastically.

This afternoon, I found out that my grandmother was fading fast, and likely to pass away sometime today. My mom went up to her apartment around 4pm to meet my dad there, and I waited until my little sister got home, and then took my younger sibs up to see her & the rest of the family, and to say our goodbyes.

As the evening progressed, and as we listened to my grandmother's rattled breathing become more & more shallow, everyone in the room, including my dad and two of his siblings, along with many of my grandmother's grand and great-grandchildren became solemn and reverent. It was strange, I think. There were so many people in the room, but everyone was so quiet. We would go half-hours at a time where the only sounds would be occasional sniffing, and the constant sound of my grandmother's labored breathing, which let us know that she was still with us.

I felt helpless and calm, and sad, mostly sad for my dad, his brother, and his sister (my aunt) who could not seem to stop crying. But I also felt that the space had become so sacred, and that is never, never an unhappy feeling. Holiness can be sad, but it isn't unhappy. Isn't that strange? It's sadness & happiness all at the same time.

I'm sorry--my writing is not going to be very good on this post--I'm just trying to get down some thoughts, here.

There was a baby there (my cousin's), and it was so strange to see the juxtaposition of a woman at the end of a very long life, and an infant less than 4 months old just at the beginning of hers. It was good to have a baby there--that reminder of the constant renewal of life was helpful for everyone in the room, I think. My younger sister is also expecting a baby, and I remember glancing over to her at one point, and another sister (the youngest) had her hand on the other's belly, feeling the baby kick.

My older sister brought her oldest child, my seven-year-old niece, who was very quiet & thoughtful. I was very happy that she was there. My mom had my niece on her lap at one point, and whispered to her, "It's not scary, is it. It's just reverent." (My niece nodded).

My mom was absolutely right. The feeling in the room was reverent. I think it was a mix of respect for my grandmother (who spent her life in the service of God--I've never known any human being as charitable as she was) and a knowledge of & faith in the reality of life after death, and that the arms of a loving Heavenly Father waited for her as she passed over.

My grandmother died this evening at about 11pm, surrounded by three generations of her descendants, and, I believe, my desceased grandfather, and the child they had who had died at a young age.

I'm so grateful that I was able to be there and experience the profound feeling of sacredness in the room. I'm so grateful that all of my siblings who could be there were there--I'm just sad that one of us had to be so far away.

Anyway--again, the writing is poor. It's now early in the morning on the 13th, so I guess I have some excuse. I just feel tired & heavy and sad & relieved. And, glad that I can write that & you guys will all understand.

Thanks. Until next time, then.

'Twas the Night Before Surgery

Well, my dear friends, tomorrow is the day. At 6am, I'll check myself into my local hospital, fork over $200 for a little down-payment on my deductible, and succumb to anesthesia & The Knife. (Or is it knives? I mean, how many little sharp instruments does a surgeon HAVE??? At least 14, I'll bet. Yeah. 14 sounds good.)

I'm nervous, guys.

I'm now ashamed to admit that I've always been ever-so-slightly scornful of people who are nervous about an upcoming surgery. (I mean--routine surgeries like having your gallbladder removed--not stuff like open heart surgery, or brain surgery, or toe surgery, or other serious stuff like that.) I'm glad that I'm having surgery myself now, so I know what it means to be nervous before going under, even knowing that things will likely be entirely okay. I mean, it's my BODY that they're going to be cutting into, y'know? That place where I live. I'll come awake missing a piece of me.

Plus, I will hurt.

Man, I'm such a baby.

Urgh! And this is so not the tone I intended to have in this post. You see, I've been thinking a bit about having surgery, and about finally being able to sympathize with people going through similar experiences, and I've realized that a lot of what we go through in life is geared to help us understand suffering that other people have to go through. Having this surgery will enable me to grasp, just a little bit what someone with a more serious surgery is going through. I'll be able to offer more sympathy, more real understanding to that person, because I'll have felt it myself, even if to a lesser degree.

I came into this world knowing so little, and I've spent the majority of my life thinking that I knew a great deal. So coming into these life experiences, I'm finally gaining just a small bit of knowledge, but these small bits are teaching me how much of life is still beyond my understanding, and I'm so grateful for that. Now, I hope, I should be a bit slower to make hasty judgements or assesments of people I don't know, and be a little more kind, have a little more empathy.

God teaches us so much through the experiences in our lives. I'm learning so much by living! And I still have so much living to do.

So, until I return a gallbladder-less self, I bid you all a (brief) farewell. And I really do love you, you know (no matter what we've been through in the past and perhaps because of all that we've been through). You're all wonderful.

Well, see you on the other side!

Holy Schnahoodles! Could it have been Donny?

Okay--as (I believe) pretty much all of you know, I go singing about twice a month to a (semi) local retirement home. In fact, most of you have been part of that singing group at one time or another! (Gosh, I miss those days.)

Well, this evening, I went as usual to my singing appointment, although I had to schedule it for the first rather than the second Sunday due to my imminent surgery. So, it was one of those solo times, where I did kind of a one-woman performance for everybody who would come in the room, sit down & listen to me. Most of the time it goes pretty smoothly, but upon occasion, I mess up on the piano or squeak pretty bad. Thank goodness the residents don't usually mind too much. They're so darn nice to me!

Anyway--to get to my point, about halfway through singing today, I got a bit of a better look at a visitor in the audience. I'd been aware of him the whole time, (I'm usually more comfortable when it's just residents), but I hadn't really gotten a good look at his face. But, as I was asking for requests & having a brief conversation with one of the residents, I glanced over and saw....

Donny Osmond?

Or, it very well could have been someone who just looked like him.

But, it might have been Donny Osmond! Weird. So, I proceeded to keep on singing (with the occasional squeak & rather more than occasional goof on the piano) and tried not to think about the fact that Donny Osmond (or someone who looked like him) was sitting there next to an elderly relative (his dad? grandad?) listening to said squeaks and fumbles.

But, it very well might not have been Donny. In fact, it probably wasn't. Hey, I also though I saw a three-legged horse on the way home! That is, until I got near enough to see that it was standing sturdily on four. Man. And I haven't even started the pain medication yet.

Oh, what I have to look forward to.

P.S. Donny, if you did listen to me sing, thanks for not laughing. I love singing to those residents, and it's something that makes me feel like I'm using my smallish talent in a useful way. I think I enjoy it as much as they do--probably more, in fact. Even with (or without) possible famous persons sitting in on my pitiful performance. *Smiles*

I needs your help

Okay, y'all. I wanted to keep this a secret, but I'm planning something extraordinary for the 1,000th hit to my blog. (Well, maybe 'extraordinary' is an overstatement, but still...)

AND, I need your help. Please post a comment to this entry to tell me what your two favorite ice cream flavors are. If you don't tell me, I'm going to have to guess, and I could very well get it wrong, which would be a TOTAL tragedy. So post a comment!

That is all.

(Hope your days are going well and all that.)

Watch out, world--I'm a fat girl in spandex.

So, I have a confession to make. The tshirts that I've been mentioning frequently on this blog were, in fact, fictional. At least, until now. You see, I didn't actually go shopping for tshirts, even though I suspected doing so could cure my abdominal symptoms. Call me a sucker for modern medicine...

However, to correct the situation, I went shopping last night and actually purchased the tshirts that, until now, existed solely in my imagination. And, I am in fact wearing one right now. A brown one. And, it's made of 95% cotton and 5% spandex. However, this makes me pose a few questions for the world in general.

You see, the world of plus-size clothing is...bizarre at best, littered with butterfly-embroidered horrors lunging out of discount racks in the unlit sections of big box stores. It can be a little bit of a nightmare. Clothing designers often seem to have the idea that plus-size means styles that haven't been popular since 1985, and even then they moved to the 50% off rack within 2 or 3 weeks. It means looking through mumus and farmer-plaids and finding nothing but a half-okay belt buckle for your troubles. It means weeks of shopping and finding maybe one usable piece of clothing. It means...

SPANDEX?

I went off looking for a tshirt. (Or rather several tshirts if possible.) So, knowing that my best chance of finding something usable would be Target which, surprisingly, often has almost fashionable clothing in the plus size section (although it's always uncomfortably close to the maternity section, so it's easy to get confused & wander over to a rack of clothing that looks promising but turns out to hold clothing designed for women with people inside of them). So, I grabbed a couple of tshirts that looked fairly okay, then meandered over to the fashionably decorative tanks which I would, of course, only wear under some sort of button-down thingy, and grabbed a couple of those as well, then proceeded to get my little '6' tag thingy and marched confidently off to the dressing room.

When I got there, to my surprise, I discovered that these tshirts were stretchy! They had the texture of cotton, but were, let us say, a little more clingy than usual. So, I turned & I peered, and, to my great astonishment, I actually liked the look, so I bought 4. In various colors.

What the HECK is wrong with me? Why would a person in my condition buy clothing that contains spandex??? And, more importantly, why would plus-size clothing designers, who are admittedly NOT generally in their right mind, design clothing that CONTAINS spandex? It was a conundrum not to be denied.

And yet, here I sit, having spent one of the most refreshing, cool sort of days I've had in weeks. With my sleeves at the slightly-longer-than-cap length, and the material of my tshirt nice and breatheable, I've passed an exceedingly pleasant day.

So, to all of those mockers and naysayers who claimed it couldn't be done, to all of those men passing by who blanch in horror, to all of those women whose toes curl in disgust, I say: pshaw! Tut Tut! Humbug! Balderdash! And, maybe even 'Filigree!'

For I am a free woman. A free fat woman. Wearing spandex.

Let's synchronize our watches

I'm terribly embarrassed to admit it, but it took me ages to learn what 'synchronize our watches' meant. I was such a lazy child--whenever I heard the phrase in a movie or on a tv show (I rarely heard it used in real life) I always wondered what it meant, and then promptly forgot to look it up as I was swept into the derring-do heroism of Mighty Mouse or the vaguely humorus but mostly silly 'Full House.'

But now I know that to synchronize your watches means to set them so that they all read exactly the same time at...er...exactly the same time. So, when my watch says 6:13pm, your watch will say 6:13pm too! (It's kind of like 'best friends' bracelets, but less cutesy.)

Synchronizing your watches means that you won't be waiting around 10 minutes for a friend whose watch is abominably slow. (Or, maybe your watch is fast. Who's to say?) It means that when I say, "Let's meet at 8:42am!" We'll bump into each other in front of that one family statue at exactly 8:42am, not one minute before or after. It means promptness, and certitude. And, like, not lackadaisicalness.

So, friends, let's synchronize our watches. On my mark, it will be exactly 22:15 (that's military hours, yo) on June 27th. And, I will be going in for surgery on Friday, July 7th at approximately 8ish. Maybe 9. Actually, I don't have any specific time, so I guess it's all moot anyway. But let's synchronize our watches anyway, just to be on the safe side. And to be, like, extremely cool.

Okay.....

Wait for it....................................................







Mark.

***Edit: Okay, so I just noticed that the time there, right below, in the green, says 8:55pm. I have no idea what's wrong with the Blogger computers, but seriously, that is soooooo not the right time. I mean, it's not even the right minute! It's the wrong minute AND the wrong hour! Now that's just DANG wrong! Y'hear?!? DAAAANG WRONG! Yeah. So, I'm not crazy. Nope.***

Okay--I'm going boy-short.

We just found out on Friday that we're probably going to have to reduce employee hours where I work, so they asked to see if we'd be willing to take one day a week off and just work 4 out of the 5 weekdays. While I was a bit concerned about my subsequent smaller income, I realized that having an extra day off work will provide some definite advantages.

I can go get my hair cut without having to take time off work. There's this lady in my ward who runs a salon in her basement, but I'm rarely able to get a cut from her because she doesn't work on the weekends. But now... *Rubs hands together gleefully*

So, I'm going to go boy-short. Well, maybe not quite that short, but I'm going to get it cut at least to my chinny-chin-chin, and perhaps have it shaped or something around my face. Yeah. Okay, so it's still in the 'vague idea' stage. But, having my hair well past my shoulders is starting to be nothing more than a nuisance. I never give myself enough time in the morning to style it properly, so it's always pulled back, and it keeps coming out of my elastic hairband like a medusa-head impression. Cute.

Going short is (I believe) the only viable way to solve this problem. Also, I will get highlights, which I've never done before. My hair has always been completely au naturale, but I think it's time to make some changes & get some blondish highlights in. Hey, I'm not talking anything garish, people! I just want a natural looking lightening or something going on on top. Maybe it'll help my blah-ish locks be not-so-blah, at least a little.

So, yes. boy-short hair, and...lemme think what else....OH! I will also go to movies. (Dollar-theatre movies, of course. Heck, I'm not made of money, especially with these reduced hours, yo.) And.... maybe I'll go and sketch those horses that I drive past every day on the way to work! And.... maybe I'll also um... get manicures and junk like that. Oh, wait...That costs money too.

Or, maybe I'll just sit at home all day on my day off and think up entries for my blog. Yeah. That's what I'll do. And you'll like it, by golly.

Blaaaaahch.

Urg. I feel sick. I just...though you all might want to know that, seeing as how you're the main receptacle for my hypochondriachism.

Blech. Bleaaaaachchchchchch..... Ick.

Ick.

Okay, I'm done. Bye!

Oooookay... Well, I guess surgery it is.

So, I guess I can stop taking ulcer medication. And those twenty new tshirts bulging out of my dresser won't do me a lick of good (although they will make me look trendy and fashionable). And I guess I can kiss that hot Tahitian man good-bye. (Oho. That phrase sounds kind of funny when paired with hot polynesian men.)

Ahem.

Anyway--to get to the point, (as I rarely do), the problem is in fact my gallbladder. In fact, just to be informative (and a little gross) here's a picture of one that I found while searching the web:

















(Many thanks to: http://health.allrefer.com/health/gallbladder-disease-gallbladder-anatomy.html)

And here it is in context (I always like to see my organs in context):

















(Aaaand many thanks to: http://www.njsurgery.com/html/Diseases/Anatomy%20Lessons.htm)

The gallbladder in the above pic is (obviously) that ugly green thingy next to all those ugly pinkish thingys. (I believe that is the medical terminology for them...)

So, I'll be meeting with a surgeon next Monday to discuss my surgery, which I ardently hope will be the laparoscopic method rather than the cut-you-open-like-a-dead-fish method.

Urg. I'm nervous, guys. I will admit to that. I've never undergone anything approaching major surgery, and while this isn't as major as they come, still, I do believe that I will be fully under anesthetic, and that I will need at least a week to recover. During which I will try on all of my new tshirts at least once.

So, if I start calling all of you to say that, no matter what we've gone through in the past, I'll always love you, and to request that you donate funds to a charitable organization in lieu of flowers, please don't be alarmed. It's just me being nervous. And, well, just a teensy bit scared.

I bet it's more fun when there's a baby inside.

Well, so I did it. I had my ultrasound. My first one, actually. In fact, the very nice doctor who did the ultrasound asked if I'd ever had one before. He also called me 'kid.' Pretty endearing stuff.

It really wasn't a bad experience, though. I mean, aside from getting over the weirdness of having someone tell me to lift my shirt up, (my apologies if this offends any of you gentle readers--I didn't lift it too far), and having a warmish gelatinous substance smeared all over my belly, and having a doctor rub around this...paddle thingy on me, and having me recoil from it--repeatedly--and after I held my breath so he could take a picture of a particular something-or-other the doctor several times saing to me, "Good!" as if I had just spelled 'loquacious' correctly at a spelling bee (which, by the way, I got right the first time when I double-checked the spelling on m-w.com), and actually making me feel pretty good about myself, because, by golly, I could hold my breath pretty well........

Where was I?

Oh, yes. It was pretty okay. Surreal, yes. Awkward? Well, sure. It's not every day you sit around while someone else cleans the gelatin stuff off of your stomach with a towel. At least, I HOPE that doesn't happen every day. To most people. (Actually, come to think of it, wouldn't it be worse to be the person doing the toweling? He probably does have to do it every day. Poor man.)

So, I guess what I'm saying is that...it was an experience. Definitely. And, I still don't know what's wrong with me. The doctor doing the ultrasound didn't say; he just said that my personal physician and I would have a chat & decide on what to do next. Which makes me think there may have been something there. But, he didn't seem too concerned. But that could just be his professional detachment speaking.

Faugh. In any case, I won't actually know the results until Tuesday or Wednesday next week. Which means, of course, that I'll be concentrating on producing as many possible gallbladder-or-maybe-gastric-ulcer-healing thoughts as possible. It's the Think System. I know it works on small-town bands, so surely, SURELY it will work on human organs. Right?

And I choose...door number three!

So, I went to the doctor today. He was nice, asked me questions which I tried hard to answer correctly and without lying, (lying being a very, very stupid thing to do with doctors), but even so, I'm still not sure what's wrong with me.

My doctor told me it was likely one of two things: I could have a gastric ulcer. Woohoo! I seriously have always been intrigued by gastric ulcers, ever since I found out they were primarily caused by a bacteria. And, like, NOT stress. Usually. I mean, I don't want you all to think that I'm completely stressed out, so I've got an ulcer. I mean, it's totally not true. No. I probably have one of those bacteria-caused ulcers. Or, I might not even have an ulcer at all. Come on, people. I could have......

Gallstones. Woohoo! I seriously (no, really) have always been intrigued by gallstones, ever since my mom had to have her gallbladder removed and was in serious and excruciating pain for about a month because for some reason they couldn't schedule her surgery any earlier than that. Yes. So, I too could face serious and excruciating pain. That is, if I have gallstones, and if they're serious enough to require surgery. Which would, truth be told, enable me to take a week or two off work, and spend a whole lot of time watching cheesy daytime television. But, as appealing as surgery sounds, I think I may even be hoping for a third option, a third cause of that really, really not-so-happy pain that has been plaguing me recently.

Yes. I am hoping that it's caused by, you guessed it, really, really old tshirts.

Although, I suppose you could claim that my tshirts aren't quite old enough for this rare malady (they being only about five years of age) and most physicians will tell you that the tshirts in question need to be at least eight years or older (said physicians being misled by a faulty study back in '89).

But even still, were it up to me, I would pick the tshirt option, the third door as it were. I mean, not only could I solve my abdominal problem by simply changing my clothing, I would have to buy NEW tshirts in order to really solve the problem, because really, you can't live without tshirts in the summer. Oh, I could buy a brown one, and a dark green one...maybe even a red one.

Or, maybe I will have that ultrasound tomorrow. Just to be on the safe side.

You can't run in flip-flops.

I finally discovered why everybody loves flip-flops so darn much, and it's definitely not the reasons I've thought all my life. You see, I suffered under the misapprehension that flip-flops were there to cool your feet, to provide a quick & easy way to attire yourself in a bare minimum of footware, and to, frankly, look cool.

Alas, I was wrong.

I discovered this today while running to my local Smith's store to buy lasagna and creamsicles (the lasagna for me, the creamsicles for my mom). I walked into the store, enjoying the rather new sensation of that flapping noise that inevitably accompanies flip-flop wearing. (You see, I only purchased said flip-flops on Saturday, so I'm still breaking them in. Hm. If you break in flip-flops...)

Anyway--so I was walking along, and I realized that, even if a monstrous great ant the size of a clydesdale had burst into the store at that very moment, I would have been unable to run away from it. I would have been forced, by my new-fangled flip-flops, to stroll along at a leisurely pace towards the frozen food section (necessarily screaming and waving my arms frantically the entire time) where I would grab a frozen turkey and knock the dang thing out cold.

And then, I realized that I LOVED flip-flops! I mean, even when your life is threatened by giant ants, or by frozen turkeys for that matter, you're literally forced to take the time to smell the roses. (Specifically those little dinky rose bouquets that Smith's sells for $12.99 each.)

Fortunately, since our lives are rarely threatened by such unlikely manifestations of the powers of evil, (and really, what can be more evil than a giant ant? Or a frozen turkey?), we can actually enjoy the sensation of having to slow down a little bit. Wearing flip-flops is summery not just because you HAVE to wear them or your feet will spontaneously combust from the heat of socks & sneakers in the summer sun, but because they make you take life easy, stroll instead of dash across the beach, saunter rather than sprint around the park. It's kind of nice to take things easy once in awhile, kind of nice to live in a summery style.

(But I'm keeping my sneakers around just in case that giant ant shows up. Seriously. I HATE those things.)

What is this funny feeling?

Well, I was getting all set to write a post about how I've started an online application for an MLS program--something about getting the ball rolling, and how good it felt to do so, and how much my brain feels like mush & utterly incapable of writing 2 coherent sentences together...

But I couldn't. Honestly, I'm just in one of those moods this evening.

You know, those kinds of moods that strike you at random times, with little warning, but that stick with you all day, or even several days. I'm feeling...a little sad, a little thoughtful, a little humorous, a little...(dare I say?) lonesome... But none of these feelings by themselves equal this emotion I'm experiencing right now. It's a strange emotion medley, a mixed up taste sensation for the brain & heart. It's funny--I mostly just feel like listening to vaguely somber music, and the crickets making a racket outside of my window. I want to lay on my bed in the dark and think about stars and hope and how many times I've wondered whether or not I'd ever find someone to be all my own.

It feels a little like loss, and a little like being tired, and a little like wanting to make changes. It also feels a little like I'll actually be able to make the changes. So it also feels a little happy, in a sad sort of way.

I guess it mostly feels like being human, and having the full range of conflicting all-at-once emotion that we seem to deal with constantly.

Hm. I keep trying to tie this up with something succinct and poignant, but nothing's coming to mind. I guess I'll just have to leave this one open-ended. And I guess that's like life anyway, right? Nothing's ever tied up neatly, packaged in shimmery wrapping paper with a card on top,(unless, of course, it's a wedding present), so certainly I shouldn't expect this blog to be. Should I?

Mama said there'd be days like this.

Okay. So, yesterday was really pretty awful.

Well, okay. It was really just the morning that was awful. I mean really awful. Well, I guess not as awful as falling from a truck that's going 70mph just after the love of your life tells you he's in love with your best friend, and they're going to run away to Reno, (who the heck would run away to Reno?!?), so you bounce along on the abrasive pavement for awhile and then come to a stop. And then a bee stings you.

It wasn't that awful.

But it was pretty bad.

On Monday, I got a call from someone at one of the local libraries who wanted to set up an interview with me. You see, I had applied for the "Flexible Assistant Librarian" position (which basically means that you have to be able to answer any question that anyone throws out to you, because hey--you're flexible, and also, you need to be able to work odd hours, like from 3am to 6:30am, and that daunting 4pm to midnight shift). So, I started thinking to myself, "Oh, cool! I want to work in a library again. And look! There's an opening! In the library!" So, I applied.

Anyway... So I got that call Monday, and I scheduled an interview for Tuesday morning. I made sure to get enough sleep the night before, so I woke up all bright-tailed and bushy-eyed, (which was probably the beginning of my troubles), and actually felt pretty confident that I was going to waltz right in & knock their socks off. (I think librarians wear socks. Gosh. Maybe that was my first mistake.) Come to think of it, maybe librarians don't waltz either. That little jig I did probably didn't help matters at all then.

The interviewers were very kind & very professional, and despite that, the moment I sat down at the large conference table they were using as an interviewing desk, I was suddenly so nervous that I could hardly remember how to say "Hello" and "um." (No, actually I remembered how to say "um" very well. Rather too well, in fact.)

Well, before the interview, they had all the applicants fill out what amounted to a mini quiz in world culture & history, to see where we had strong areas of expertise. Ugh. I had forgotten how much I hated feeling like I didn't know what I was doing, especially since it had been two years (if not more) since I'd even thought about world culture & history, let alone tried to prove to someone that I knew anything whatsoever about it.

So, during the interview, my brain decided that it was definitely time to go to sleep. I mean, of course it would want to go to sleep. It was a completely comfortable environment, except for the small, niggling feeling that I was undergoing a microscopic examination at the wrong end of the microscope. So, while my brain proceeded to shut down, I forgot everything about anything I had ever done, except stupid and odd anecdotes, like helping a patron find a book titled "Everyone Poops," which anecdote I positively giggled over like an overdosed cheerleader. (And yes, I did just link you to Amazon. And no, I'm not being paid for it. Viva big online bookstores.)

The interview proceeded to go from bad to worse (a hackneyed phrase, yet well applied, I think) as I began to start sentences, change my mind halfway through about what I wanted to say, then forget entirely where I was going with the sentence. Ugh. I felt unbelievably stupid, and of course, the longer the interview went, the stupider I became.

Finally, the ordeal ended, and I've done nothing much since besides rehash the experience, and perform a few hundred mental self-flagellations for good measure.

I just haven't felt that stupid for a long time. And now, I don't think I ever want to set foot in that library again! It's not that the interviewers were unkind--as I said, they were very nice. But, reliving that in context is not exactly high on my priority list. In fact, what am I doing??? Do I really want to be a librarian? I'll feel that stupid all the time!!! I have to rethink my life. And that always makes me irritable. And a little taciturn. (Um. See my previous post. Not this one.)

But you understand why, don't you??? I hate to admit this, but I really am rethinking things with my life plans. I've actually been doing some design work for another scrapbook company (and don't worry--it's totally on the up & up), basically drawing doodles, and purchasing nifty gizmos like drawing tablets & whatnot. And I actually enjoy it. A lot. I mean, I stayed up until about 5am one night (morning?) trying to finish stuff for this company, and then had to go to work at my daytime job after only 2 hours of sleep, but I feel like I'm finally using one of my talents in a way that will enable lots of people to see what I do, and enjoy it. (Even if they do use it for scrapbooking.)

I don't know. And I guess that's what's driving me the most nuts. I like to know where I'm going (even if it takes me forever to get there). So this sudden uncertainty has hit, and I'm just a little bit lost.

And rambling--HOLY COW! How long is this post, anyway?

Sorry friends, I'll stop now. Thanks for reading this, and for caring enough to...erm...care. Yeah. Y'all are great.

And no, I'm NOT DEPRESSED. Just a little confused. As always.

Shoot.

Help? I'm a dumb person. I'm a... Oh, help.

Doodle, doodle.

I just got this really cool drawing tablet a few days ago, and I wanted to share what I've done with it so far. Yes. So, this drawing will ultimately end up in the Louvre, I'm sure.

Okay, well, maybe not.

Actually, it's just a silly (and really awful) drawing of a girl with a grim look in her eye waving from a park bench. And, since my profile pic had been (up to this point) a flower, when technically, I'm not even in the plant kingdom, I thought I'd try to get a profile pic at least somewhat closer to what I look like. Except that I'm not that stick-thin. Definitely. And also, I'm not made up of sketchy black lines. And also, my eyes don't look that grim. Usually.

Anyway--enjoy!

So, what do May showers bring?

Snow. Of course. It's only natural. You see, for the last week, we've been having unseasonably warm temperatures, and the week before that, it seemed like every day the high temps were either meeting or breaking records set back in 1935. (Or was it '34?)

Anyway, so on Friday, it was pretty warm, but windy. Saturday it was cooler, and kind of overcast. Today, as we were going to church in the morning, piling into the car while trying not to knock each other out with the huge ol' bags o' church stuff we were all carrying, my dad opened the garage door, and I gasped. And yelled. And I quote myself:

"Snow! What the--HOLY COW! IT'S TOTALLY SNOWING! IT'S JUST NOT RIGHT!" Yes, indeed. While the grass was still vibrantly green, (and shiny, in fact--wet from all that precipitation), there were thick clumps of something that was undeniably more flaky than rain. And sleet. It was totally snow, yo.

It snowed again briefly as we were coming home from church. It didn't stick, and in fact, while the snow line has moved significantly down Mount [won't mention his name, especially since I found out he was two-timing with Libby - Kim, you were so wise to refuse him], still, it's well above even the highest house in my little community.

So, I guess I didn't mind so much. And it's not really SO strange that it snowed in May... Here in Utah, that's actually kind of typical. It's that temperatures were in the high 80's like TWO DAYS AGO. So, that thing they say about "just wait 5 minutes and the weather will change"? Yeah. TOTALLY designed for where I live.

Ooooh, this is gonna be good!

Man. Actually sitting down to write this post makes me feel kind of cheesy. And a little bit like I'm cheating. Um. This was going to be a funny, light-hearted, 'Aw shucks, I'm so silly' type of post, but now that people are kind of being serious about this, I guess I'll need to start off with being serious too.

I'm... *clears throat anxiously*...er, not...really...in love with anybody...

Well, at least not a person. No, I'm afraid my infatuation with Rolando Villazon was brief, and it's over now. I've moved on to inanimate objects. (I'm talking really inanimate, here.)

I'm, uh, in love with...a mountain.

Here's a transcript of an earlier conversation I had with my parents:

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

"Yes, Mom & Dad, Mt {name not revealed for security purposes} and I are IN LOVE, and you can DISAPPROVE all you want, but we're going to RUN AWAY. Or rather, I'm going to run away. To the mountain. And live there happily with all the birds and the saplings and the squirrels. Yes. So I am."

"But Lizardbreath, how will Mt. {something or other} support you? Can you possibly be happy living in the wilderness with the birds and the saplings and the squirrels?"

"Yes. I can LIVE ON LOVE ALONE. And so I shall. 'Cause the squirrels certainly won't be sharing anything..."

"But Lizardbreath, you won't possibly be able to have children. How can we turn you into the grandchild-producing daughter we always dreamed of?"

"The trees and the flowers will be my children, Mom and Dad. And if those aren't enough, we'll adopt an elk...(what is a baby elk called?)...an elk child. Yes. Preferably one that is half child and half elk. So it can eat grass. And also make cute cooing noises."

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

Okay. That's enough of that. Ick. Cheesy.

Um, and I really am sorry to get everyone's hopes up. I'm really not in love at the moment. It really is that I was just reminded of being in love by that thing I couldn't remember, that I talked about in that one post. Previously.

But, if I am in love, and if I do decide to run away to that unnamed mountain, surely...surely, you all, my very good friends, will not disapprove...........????????????

Oh, and here's a picture of him. Er, it, I suppose. If I were to fall in love with the mountain, I don't think I could pick a better one.

***Urg! A pic will have to be inserted later. Looks like the Blogger Picture Inserter is down. Blah.***

***Edit: Okay--Apparently it was just THAT ONE IMAGE that Blogger was having a problem with. Whyyyyyyy???? (She asked whinily.) Anyway. I guess this one will do. It's a nice shot, even if it is about a year old. I guess he/it hasn't changed that much since then, though.***

A Blog, Baby-Sized.

While I fully support, nay, encourage the documentation and photographic-evidence-collection of the growing-up years of young children, and while the internet is really a nice, sure-fire way of storing said documents and photographic evidence, and while babies are really undoubtedly cute...

Still, is it necessary to create a blog 'written' by a baby who, from the evidence of the photographs, is perhaps not yet a year old?

We are of course living in an age where the 'fully competent' age of the average computer user is steadily declining. According to research printed in the New York Baby Times (a completely fictional, yet widely read publication), the average age of computer company CEO's was (as of March 2006) roughly 3 years and 2 months.

However, having a baby who is not only savvy enough to type up a blog by himself, but competent enough to navigate the complicated byways of the Blogger domain (i.e. can insert pictures into the text) is enough to stretch the gullibility of even this astute reader (i.e. Me).

However, if you must visit the site, simply to see if this baby could possibly have written his own blog, or to test the cuteness of said baby (I think he rates at least a 9 on a scale of 1-10--a 10 in the bike helmet), then CLICK HERE. However, be forewarned--there are a couple of shots of him clad in nothing but a diaper. Also, there are a couple of graphic pictures of a violent hailstorm. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Is this title profound?

I was going to write something profound tonight. It had something to do with night breezes and possibly praying, and the way something felt a little like falling in love.

But I can't remember what it was.

And, instead of writing it down like a sensible person would've done, I sat there on the couch, watching a recorded Gilmore Girls episode, drawing swirly doodles & dots. I was entertained, but I wasn't profound.

Maybe being entertained is a little bit like falling in love--we fall in love because we're amused, because we have witty conversations with the person we fall in love with. Or perhaps not.

And now I'm sitting here, lounging in my pajamas, listening to crickets and the sound of my fan oscillating in a monotonous undertone to the thoughts in my tired brain.

Maybe wearing pajamas is a little like falling in love. Or crickets, perhaps. Maybe crickets make more sense. They're black. And they have carapaces. Just like...falling in love?

And now I'm trying to keep from falling asleep, and proving mostly unsuccessful, except that I wanted to sit here and write and try to connect a little bit with all of you. Say something profound, try to change the world a little bit for the better, and failing mostly, but still feeling okay about it.

Maybe...maybe that's all a little bit like falling in love.

Man. I gotta sleep.

Because flowers are gooey happy pretty.

Yes. That is why. So, here:

















(I think you can click on it for greater detail. And no, I don't really have anything more to say today. Boring. Yeah.)

I thought Mother's Day was supposed to be about flowers, not dead bug carcasses...

Who knew? I mean, I spent all those years coloring in crayon on construction paper, and buying kitchen appliances, and writing heartfelt letters. I never knew that what my mom wanted all along was to have all of us kids do a kamikaze clean in our unfinished basement, which until about 4:00 this afternoon was filled with boxes and boxes of old school projects, stuffed animals, clothing from the 80's and stuff from my mission that I never thought I'd throw away.

Oh, yes. And dead bug carcasses.

(Although, I suppose the 'dead' part of that phrase is a bit redundant.)

So, in other news, right now my entire family (well, all of the siblings at least) are gathered around our speaker phone in the kitchen, listening to my brother (now on a mission in Japan) talk to my parents. We've got people sitting on our (don't worry--it's clean!) kitchen floor, people perched on the stools at our kitchen island, and my brother-in-law gesticulating about a missionary taking a spider monkey home from Brazil. Ohyes. And, my nephew eating pretzels. On the floor. That might be a bit unsanitary.

And me, of course, sitting here, typing on my laptop, trying to make out exactly what my brother is saying while my brother-in-law is talking about a tropical bird. (He tells great stories, by the way.)

Well, I'm actually a bit distracted right now, trying as I am to listen to my brother on the speaker phone. So I guess I better go.

I just thought I'd tell you all that I'm covered in dust & spider webs, (and the ever present dead bug carcasses) and that from the roughly 10 boxes of shtuff I had sticking around in the basement, I'm down to two. And a half. I'm still not ready to toss out my discussions...maybe in another 10 years or so.

Ring the Bells! Here's PROOF!

Actually, I don't really know if ringing bells is the most appropriate thing to do in an instance like this. I mean, do people usually ring bells when proof is brought forth? No. They usually sit on those uncomfortable wooden chairs in the courtroom and scratch a little behind their ear. Yes. Or maybe they make a little paper airplane out of that sheet of paper the nice lawyer handed to them. Yes. Or surreptitiously pick their noses.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. PROOF! I HAS it! (I do, indeed.) And here 'tis:















And, for a nice closeup, check THIS out!
















Yeah. Laser-emitting eyeballs my left foot! HAH, I tell you, HAH!

And now there's even MORE of them! They positively compose a crown! Yes, even a crown of African violet flowers. A veritable crown. Indeed.

Now I lost my train of thought again. But, I feel at peace. And vindicated. And all those good things.

Pesto and Smarties

Fear not, noble readers, lest you fear from the above title that I have committed a candy cuisine travesty. Rest assured, I did not eat my smarties with pesto.

And while we're on the subject, can I just say that smarties really are nothing like antacid tablets? Oh, sure. They may have that same chewable dissolve-y-ness, they may both have that same kind of powdery exterior, but oh, my friend. Smarties unfortunately lack that peculiar anti-acid power that antacids seem to carry in abundance. (Lucky antacids. All the smarties wish they had that power.)

I found this to my sorrow this evening, where, as I sat at my computer, trying to come up with fabulous designs for stuff, which I'm still acutally not very good at, and no I will not go into more detail than that, I found that that Turkey & Basil & Pesto sandwich I had for lunch had caused an uproar in my stomach. No, not a sick, yucky uproar, but a burning sensation in my lower esophagus, which caused me to clench the sides of my chair with my white-knuckled fists and declare soberly, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing."

And now I only have smarties to cure me. Sigh. But the pesto was worth it. Oh, so worth it. Ohhhhhhh yeah. And the smarties t'aint bad neither.

I has a disease

Do you ever kind of say harsh things to yourself? Like, you're sitting in a room full of people, and someone says something funny, and you laugh, and then you say something that you think is funny, except that when you say it, everybody either looks away or gives a nervous chuckle, then coughs, then changes the subject, and then you spend the rest of the night kind of sitting with your arms crossed over your chest, calling yourself an idiot? Repeatedly?

Or you're at work, and you tell the shipping department that they totally don't need to work on this order, because even though the customer needed it by Friday, she wasn't willing to pay for 3rd-Day freight so that we could guarantee it would arrive by Friday, and then when the customer calls back to see if her order has shipped, you totally cave and say, "Yes, YES, we'll ship it today, only please, PLEASE don't hurt me!" And then you run down and tell the shipping department that, yes, they have to ship that order today, except now they only have one hour to get all the products together, get the order packaged, into the UPS system, invoiced, and on the pallet? And then they throw half-empty boxes at your head? Which you duck because you have pretty okay reflexes? And then you run upstairs to the safety of your cubicle, where you sit with your head in your hands and tell yourself that you're an idiot? Repeatedly?

You see, I think I call myself an idiot to make myself feel better. Isn't that sick? Aren't I ill? The truth is, I call myself an idiot, because I want to prove to myself (and other people, who, somehow, I think can read my thoughts) that even though I behave like an idiot, at least I KNOW I'm an idiot, so they (the other people) don't have to call me one themselves. So really, I'm just acting in self-defense. Sort of. Does this make any sense?

Probably not.

Well I just had one of the darned pleasantest lunches EVER.

It's not often that you can feel justified in taking an entire day off of work just to go to lunch with your family. And, actually, today was not one of those times. However, I DID feel justified because I took the day off to go to my sister's graduation from college, and we stopped and had lunch afterwards. (Happy circumstance!)

The wait was long. Actually, it was really rather horrendous. You see, when we got there, they (those poor, harried restaurant employees) told us that the wait would be about 45-50 minutes. So, my dad put our name down on the list, and we trekked over to a nearby bookstore and browsed for about 20 minutes before trekking back to the restaurant where my mom was sure we'd be seated relatively soon. An hour and ten minutes later, we finally got our table.

The good thing is, the wait was utterly and completely worth it. We got the patio table, and with a near-cloudless sky, and springishly breezes blowing, even the setting by itself was ideal. Then, when our good-looking waiter (my brother-in-law's cousin, by chance) brought us our crusty baguettes and smooth, white butter to spread upon them, along with endless glasses of strawberry lemonade and heaping platters of ceasar salad, followed shortly thereafter by our fabulous main dishes, (mine of course being chicken parmesean--LOVE that stuff), and while the conversation throughout all of this was lively and entertaining, and ranged from observing that wisp of cloud that became a large cloud, and whether that other wisp of cloud would become a large cloud too, and how genetically, my brother-in-law and his waiter-cousin could be considered half-brothers because their mothers are identical twins, I could not help but think that this was one of the best lunches I had ever had.

And so it was. The end.

What the Devil are you all doing here?

I mean, don't you have anything urgent to attend to? Like having dinner, or writing to senators about increasing government spending in schools, or trimming your toenails or something? I mean, here I sit, typ-a-typ typing on my laptop, (okay--so the 'typ-a-typ' was mostly cheesy), trying to think of things to type about, and I'm not coming up with extremely interesting topics, lemme tell you.

Oh! Except that I got called to be secretary in the Primary Presidency in my ward. Whoooo-eeee. We had our first presidency meeting today, and, I was...erm...very lost. Actually, I was more lost than a...than a glove. That's been lost for a long time. Yeah. I was that lost.

It wasn't really all that bad--the other members of the presidency were extremely friendly, and I know them all at least relatively well, so I felt pretty comfortable with them. Except, they've all been in the calling for awhile, and so have a pretty good idea of what's going on, so they were discussing things at a rapid-fire pace, and it was...marginally difficult for me to keep up with what they were talking about. Phew! I barely remember the last names of the people in our ward! Now I have to learn their first names, and the names & ages of all of their children, and also I have to learn how scouting works, and also how often the girls have activity days, and also how you do sharing time, and how to conduct opening exercises, and also how many paper flowers you can fit on the Primary bulletin board at once.

There's a lot to learn.

And, I've already made some mistakes. Like, when I tried to accost the Reverence Children to get the "Reverence Child" banners back after opening exercises, not realizing that they had the privilege of being Reverence Children all through Sharing Time, and through all of their classes. That poor 10-year-old girl! I came up and said, "Do you want to give me the banner back now?" And she very politely kind of bowed her head and said, "No thank you." I was flabbergasted. And panicked! How would I get that "Reverence Child" banner back?!? And then, I thought, "Duh. They keep it through sharing time, you dolt." Yes. I called myself a dolt. And still do, to this day.

But I digress. I have a lot to learn. And I mean a LOT. I have to remember how to interact with children who are not my relatives. While I feel relatively comfortable with children, still there's a bit of an uncertainty that exists when dealing with children who are not your own. (Nor your sister's own.) So, there's that too.

Omyland. I'm scared. A little nerve-racked. And...um...my toes are cold. Which always bodes ill for anyone.

And, I guess I found something to talk about after all.

I'm feeling particularly gleeful this evening...

But not because of anything outrageously wonderful that I've done. No, no. My reason for rejoicing is this: it's Friday, the phones here at work are NOT ringing, and I've just gotten over 300 hits on my blog since I installed the counter on February 9th! Wahoo, frankly!

And you should all "Wahoo" with me. For behold, it is your hitting my blog so frequently that has risen the post count past the 300 mark. Thank you, for I am indeed grateful.

And also there's nothing to do at work. Sigh.

Wow. Man, I mean, just--WOW.

I don't know if you all have had the luck to chance upon one of the recent United Airlines commercials whilst aimlessly channel surfing, but let me tell you, I have never seen "Rhapsody in Blue" put to better use. (Well, maybe once, but I won't go into that here. (Gosh, I love writing vague asides!))

Each commercial is a mini animated feature, and absolutely no dialogue, except for a bit of a United Airlines plug they put in at the end, which, surprisingly, always blends pretty harmoniously with the rest of the piece. Although I've seen a few of these on TV, I could only find the two most current ones on the United Airlines website. However, I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Go HERE to see the commercials. My personal favorite is 'Dragon,' (mainly because the animation is simply STUNNING--watch the 'Making of' featurette if you have time--and because dragons are cool), but 'The Meeting' was wonderfully amusing and entertaining in its own right. (There this great laugh-out-loud moment right at the end. Superb!)

So, if any of you are in the mood to be entertained, and haven't had a chance to see these yet, take a moment & do it! Tell 'em I sent ya.

And Now I'm Terrified

So, yeah. I'm feeling a bit nervous at the moment. Weak at the knees, hands trembling, toes cold, you know the routine. I just want the answer to one question: Why in the WORLD do I react like this to things that are a little intimidating? Why am I so terrified that, instead of doing the thing I'm supposed to be doing, I'm sitting here, plugged into an outlet, typing on my laptop (which is working now, by the way), posting to my blog that I'm terrified?

Interacting with people sometimes makes me nervous. And while that's a bit of an understatement, it's nevertheless quite true. So, I've taken the day off of work, and I've come to BYU to search out some people who might be willing to write letters of recommendation for me. Really and truly, I'm going to do this today. (And, as any of you who have talked to me in the past about this will know, it has taken me a long time (really long time) to get to this point.) But, while it's easy enough to take a day off work, drive to BYU, park in Visitor's Parking (it's own little spot of terror--what if they think I'm lying when I say I'm not a student?!?), and walk over to the library, it's much much harder to move from where I am on the 4th floor over to the spot where I need to be--the Juv Lit Department.

So, any of you who may pop on within the next few minutes or so, (and those who pop on later can do this retroactively), please say a quick prayer for me. So that I can be brave. And not stupid. Thanks.

And the pressure is ON

So. Over the past few days, I've been frantically trying to dredge up some topic in my mind that might prove interesting and insightful, and yet humorous and...erm...funny. And guess what I've come up with!

That's right--nada.

I mean, the best think I could think of was how the sight of sunlight glancing off of gently rippling water was, um, pretty, but that's about as far as I got before hitting a bit of a brick wall. (Literally. I was gazing at the sunlight-on-water phenomenon too closely and crunched Jade against a bit of brick & mortar. Poor Jade. (Just kidding, of course.))

Anyway, so here I am, with more comments on my blog than EVER, (Thanks, by the way! You guys ROCK!), and with nothing to write about.

So, I'm writing about nothing. Oyeah. And sunlight. And accidents with my beloved vehicle that never took place. Sooooooo.....................................

There ya go. Um. Bye. I'm going to go.....do................things......................................

Because of Twilight

I've discovered why I don't cry much anymore, and it's not the reason I thought it was.

I thought that maybe I'd grown stronger over the past couple of years, or that perhaps there were fewer things to cry about now than there were before, or even that I was too distracted by other stuff to cry much.

But it's not true.

I rarely cry now because I'm rarely in twilight. At my house (read: "my parents' house") there's always an abundance of light. When I wake up in the morning (at an admittedly late 7:40 or so) there's already sunshine streaming through the windows. However, I've lived here long enough to know that even if I got up earlier (say, at 5:30, heaven forbid), there would already be people up and doing busy things, who have gotten up long before me and left a trail of upturned light switches in their wake from which an astute tracker could trace their steps from their bedroom to the kitchen.

At night, things are the same. As soon as dusk starts to settle in, (earlier on cloudy days like today), some family member or another goes through the house and shuts blinds and turns on lights, moving the house in one instant from the bright garishness of daylight to the bright garishness of well-lit evenings.

I remember that when I lived away from home I was often the only one home during the twilight hours. Either I would (rarely) get up early to (rarely) go walking, or I would sit in the early evening, watching the daylight mix with night, turning the sky a rich bluish-grey, filling me with wonder.

Forgive me. I know this is cheesy and clumsily said, but as I've tried to describe before, there's something in me that loves to pause at things, that likes to take significance from insignificant events. It may be a failing, but there's something in me that loves dark things, or transitions, or...I don't even know how to describe it. I can feel it here, burning in my chest as I type, and I can't put a name to it. I look out our library window and see the way the clouds hide the city lights below from the faintly glowing evening sky, and this thing that's in me longs for something I can't say, because I don't have the words.

I think that if I were a time of day, I would be twilight...(or at least I would want to be twilight. I'd probably end up being some boring time, like 3am, when nothing happens.)

But I've digressed, rather more than usual. I guess my point is that I miss twilight. And while crying is mostly an indicator that you're sad, still, I miss doing it. I miss connecting with my emotions like that--letting them out, when there's only a little light, and no-one else around, when the world is silent, and it's just you and your tears, and your pain, all confronting each other...and being resolved in some way that my current pains are not being resolved now.

It's strange that I could miss times like this when I used to hurt so much, but I think I really miss the quiet that comes after the twilight weeping. It's a quiet in which God resides. And I miss that terribly.

Could it BE? A sign of LIFE?

I have lived with an African violet plant for some time, ever since my roommate Kim (Hi, Kim!) gave me a cutting from her own African violet. However, in all that time, in all that watering, in all that sticking as near a window as I could manage, in all that squeezing old dead leaves off with my bare fingers, the African violet never bloomed for me.

Nay, not once.

But, times are changing, and the African violet is at last putting forth signs of life. (Well, at least a more colorful sign of life than the monotonous green it's been sporting for the last several years.)

Here is photographic evidence of my claims:



And, if you're looking for more evidence, (you evidence-greedy individual), check THIS little baby out:



Awwwww. So cute.

And, um...I think that's it for my post. I really don't have anything more to say.

Except that plants rock. Yeah. That's it.

Historic Trees and Job Hunting

Well, it's official. I'm in the market. I'm looking for a new gig, a new place to hang my hat, a new way of lookin' at life. (Is that a song? If not, it should be. Someone get me a producer.)

In short, I am looking for a new job.

And, I really hope to heaven that my casual mention of this blog many months ago to my current coworkers went largely unnoticed by them, or I'll be apt to find a cold reception to my arrival at work tomorrow morning. But, it would actually really surprise me if they paid much attention to my blog, other than glancing politely at it when I said to them, "Hey, I have a blog. Go to this website and see." So they did, and they saw, never to return again.

It's not that I don't want my coworkers to read my blog, it's just that I don't really want to make them aware at this time that I'm looking for new employment.

Wow. "Looking for new employment." That sounds kinda harsh, like I'm doing something because I feel that the job I'm at now is somehow beneath me, which it isn't. Not really. In fact, there are quite a few aspects of my job that I find extremely enjoyable. The management is wonderful, my boss is a wonderful woman, and my coworkers are, without exception, amiable, kind and patient.

However, I just ain't getting paid enough.

So now I sound like a mercenary.

But the truth is, I need to move on, and thanks to some heart-to-heart conversations with (and wonderful counsel from) my bishop & my parents, I'm feeling a little more focused & driven than I have in the last few months. Of course, that's not saying much. What it is saying, I suppose, is that I spent a good 45 minutes today lying on my back, searching jobsites on my laptop. (Not really a go-get-'em type of picture, is it.) Oh, yes. And I have a hand-written to-do list tacked up on my wall next to my bedroom door just to remind me to do stuff. And actually, that 45-minute job-searching crosses of #2 quite nicely.

Do you ever get the feeling that you fill up most of your time with grown-up busywork? I do a lot of marginally-necessary things to make myself feel good about at least doing something, while still neglecting doing the wholly necessary things--the things that haven't even made it to my list yet, because I'm still so afraid of them.

But, maybe I do really just need to do baby steps at the moment. (I think I've mentioned those before.) I think my usual problem though is that I get so caught up in the baby steps that I fail to realize that I'm baby steppin' in a circle. Or over a cliff. Or into some doggy doo-doo. (Sorry, that was juvenile of me. *Muffles a giggle*)

In any case, at least I'm stepping again. And, I promise to keep my eyes open enough to avoid the crap on the street.

Oh! And about historic trees? Well, go here: http://www.utahcountyonline.org/CoInfo/Tree.asp. I never knew Utah County had an historic tree, but I do now. It makes me proud to be a citizen of this great valley.

I think I'm in love

I've never considered myself much of an opera buff. Not to say that I don't like opera per se, and I'm a little familiar with the more commonly performed works like Madame Butterfly, La Boheme, and The Magic Flute (which I just saw performed this last Friday with my family--woohoo!).

So, I was kind of surprised to find myself falling for a popular opera singer. Go figure. Maybe it's just that time in my life. You know, the fall-in-love-with-a-popular-opera-singer stage, which follows right after the eat-clam-chowder-from-a-can stage. (Man, am I glad I'm over that one.)

In any case, this falling-in-love-ness happened to me suddenly, as I was driving up to my sister's house (which takes about an hour). I was listening to "The Record Shelf," a radio program on the local classical music station, and the host of the show, Jim Svejda, was interviewing a rising opera star, Rolando Villazon. (Haha! I just got it! "Rising?" "Star?" It's totally like a star in the sky, and it rises, and......oh, nevermind.)

So, anyway, Rolando's voice was heavenly. And, when they interviewed him, he was passionate about his music, and funny, and wry, and he had this cool spanish accent. And hey, when it comes down to it, what more do you need to fall in love with someone you've never met? (Heck, the accent by itself probably would've done it.)

So, I believe I'll spend at least the next few weeks pining over Rolando. I doubt it'll last too long...after all, I've never even met the man, for heaven's sake. But, it'll be pleasant while it lasts. Maybe I'll even buy a CD of his. If I feel committed enough to the relationship.

Move over, doggie rescue and sarcastic-yet-brilliant doctors--Gilmore Girls is IT.

Anyone who has read this blog in the past has no doubt come accross my rather too frequent references to Animal Planet. And, although I haven't really talked about it much, I'm also a closet 'House' fan. (It's, er, a little edgy, which is probably why I watch it from the safety of my closet.)

But lately, my TV watching preference has been skewing sharply to the mother-daughter witty repartee of Gilmore Girls. I'm not sure what it is about this show--maybe it's just that Rory & her mom Lorelei have such an obvious best-friend sort of affection for each other, or maybe it's the maybe, maybe-not sort of relationship Lorelei has with the local diner owner. Or, it could be the juxtapostion of the afore-mentioned great relationship between Lorelei and her daughter, next to the really cruddy relationship between Lorelei and her mother Emily.

But I don't think those are the main reasons I like the show.

I like it because the conversations on "The Gilmore Girls" are as snappy as they come. They always have these wonderfully glittery, witty lines that bounce back & forth like a skilled game of (oh, this is such an obvious comparison) tennis. Or maybe volleyball. Except that you play volleyball with a team, and tennis is usually just one-on-one, unless you play in pairs, in which case it would be two-on-two, so tennis would probably be the better comparison. But, long story (or post) short, they have the kinds of conversations I would like to have if I were witty and intelligent, and rather full of good humor. (And also pretty. Those Gilmore Girls are so darn pretty. Sigh. I just want to be like them so much.)

Which is I guess where I'm going with this. I wish that I could have conversations like Lorelei and Rory have. I wish that my brain could come up with fun verbal bouncy-balls that I could send over into the other court, which would then be bounced back, and I'd have to bounce something back again, which, now that I think about it, could get pretty tiring. I mean, I guess people can't really talk like that in real life. Our brains have to pause to process things like what someone just said to us, rather than spend all their waking moments trying to come up with brilliant things to say.

It doesn't matter. I still wish I were a Gilmore Girl. Ah. To be on the WB. Siiiigh.

Death & Healing

About a week and a half ago, a young man in my ward died of a drug overdose. He was 23, and had apparently been struggling with drugs for some time, although he'd been clean for the last 6 months or so. Before Wednesday.

I attended his funeral this past Tuesday morning--the bishop of my ward asked me to conduct the music, since I do that for church on Sundays--and, by the time the funeral was over, I was really grateful for the chance I had to listen in on what this young man's siblings & dad had to say about him, about his struggle, and about what the future holds for him.

Despite the difficult & painful circumstances surrounding his death, (surrounding any death, I suppose), I don't think I have ever heard more heartfelt & poignant testimony of the healing power of the atonement. The testimony of the young man's father was especially strong--he spoke for some time about the overall plan of salvation, addressing his grandchildren in the audience in simple yet powerful words. He expressed the knowledge that his son is now safe, free from the trials & temptations that he struggled with during his life.

I was profoundly moved, and changed, just a little bit by attending that funeral. And, even now, though my regular life has since intruded & erased all but a portion of the spirit of the meeting, still that portion remains, and I find that I myself can put just a little bit more trust in my Savior, and in the all-encompassing power of the atonement.

Of Calendars & Vegetable Gardens

Calendars lie. You may not be aware of this, focusing as you do on the innocent-looking pictures hanging beguilingly above the inflexible square lines of dates & weeks. You see, calendars, when you look at them, encourage you to move your eye upwards, to gaze at the beautiful picture above where the real information rests. For instance, I have two calendars in my room. If I were a sensible person, and prone to be on-time & logical, I would have 2 calendars because, when I'm on one side of the room, I may not be able to read the dates on the calendar haning on the other side of the room. Or, I could keep one calendar for work-related activities, and one calendar for family-related activities.

But I'm not logical, and I am definitely prone to being a wee bit late for things. (My fondness for sleeping is no doubt to blame.) And so, I did not purchase said calendars to keep track of my dentist appointments, or when the next work party is coming up. No. I purchased my two calendars for the pictures, pure & simple. On one calendar, there's a bunch of artwork involving dragons in some way. (Forgive me. I just like dragons.) On the other, there's artwork done by Kinuko Y. Craft, who does the most exquisite work for book covers, among other things.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes. Calendars lie.

My point is that despite the differences in the things depicted in the artwork in both calendars, they both tell the same lie. The month, right there at the top of all of those hard perpendicular lines reads, as clear as day, "March."

Now, I ask you: does March involve wildly fluctuating temperatures, ranging from 60 degrees one day down to 22 degress the next? Does March involve starting out with warm winds & green things & not three days later having 2 feet of snow fall in a single afternoon? Does March give us hope for spring and the continuance of life and just as suddenly snatch it away? Does it???

Oh.

Well, I guess it does.

At least here. Where I live. In this place where March is both warm and cold.

So, how do vegetable gardens come into this, you may ask. (And if so, should I have included a question mark in the last sentence?) They don't really come in much--only that despite the warming & colding & raining & snowing we've had here lately, our little vegetable garden patch in the backyard still has an unvarying 6 inches of snow covering up the remnants of last year's forgotten & squashed tomatoes & peapods. I know. I walked out there on Sunday. And boy, were my feet cold.

So, it's still chilly here. Despite the tantalizing tastes of warmer weather our fickle environment has been throwing at us. (Darn the thing.) And while I'm tired, so tired, of all this winter, still there's a sense of beauty that still breaks through my anti-cold sensibilities as I watch the setting sun cast light & shadows across the snow-covered mountains, turning them from pale yellow to bright orange, to pink, and then to grey. And of course, since there's a gibbous moon tonight, there will be the best thing of all: moonlight on snow.

Not even if my life depended on it.

I'm terrible at explaining things. Well actually, 'hopeless' is rather a better word for it, or maybe 'wretched,' or 'defective.' Okay, maybe not 'defective,' but still, it's a pretty darn bad situation.

That's why I'm standing here in front of this firing squad, actually.

Somebody asked me to explain exactly how you go about adding on to an order that has been sent down to shipping, boxed up & put into the UPS computer without having the shipping department hunt you down and pummel you in a dark alley. And, I said, "You know, you really don't want me to explain that to you. I'm terrible at explaining. Defective even. (Well, maybe not defective.) I probably couldn't explain it to you even if my life depended on it." Which it didn't of course, not at that point.

But the truth is that the avoidance of explaining something is actually considered a crime in the small homey city where I work, and, to my chagrin, the person that I refused to explain the, er, above situation to, happened to be an undercover cop working to root out the explainingophobes among us, of which I, apparently, am one. *Reels from the dizziness of that last sentence*

So, here I stand, cigarette clenched firmly in my teeth. (I didn't ask for it. They just kind of stuck it there.)

Of course, I tried to explain to the police, and the jury, and the judge, that the reason why I didn't want to explain the tricky late add-on procedure was that I was really, really bad at explaining stuff, but of course, I couldn't really get them to see my point of view. As a matter of fact, by the time I was done with my explanation, I had so wrapped myself up in verbal mishmash that I had a hard time seeing my point of view myself.

I've decided I don't like the taste of cigarettes. Fortunately, the unnecessarily tight binding of my wrists together does not preclude me from spitting this cigarette as far from me as possible. Ah. If only I could spit myself away from those steely-eyed young men who face me & stare me down as though they had the power of life & death over me. Er, well... I suppose they do.

So, Why, you may ask, and ask it rightly. Why does she have to suffer capital punishment, by firing squad, no less, for the simple crime of refusing to explain something to somebody else? And who came up with that law, anyway?!? It's a stupid law. I've never heard of a law like that before in all my days. I just don't know what this world is coming to...

Well, the truth is, I would try to outline the reasons for you, but as I've mentioned before, I'm

*BANG*

(Pam, I'll get to calendars next post. That is, er, if I can staunch the bleeding...)

Some of you may be wondering...

I already know I'm going to hate myself in the morning for doing this. I'm supposed to be up at my sister's house in West Jordan by 9:00am tomorrow morning, so with prep time & drive time, I'll need to be up by about 6:30. On a Saturday. (I believe this may be a crime in some countries.)

But, I wanted to take a moment to explain to you, my faithful readers, why exactly I keep posting pictures of flowers in my blog. You probably already noticed, but I threw another one in, by the way. This one I played with a little. Using The Gimp. (Hurrah for free software!)

Okay. So, you really shouldn't be wondering too hard about this one. I mean, there's no deep philosophical reason why I keep uploading pictures of flowers. The truth is, I just have a lot of flower pictures that I like. And, I think that a blog that consists entirely of text is really boring. And also, I feel that it would be dangerous to post too many pics of people. Particularly if I also list their names. And birthdates. And social security numbers.

These are bad ideas in a blog.

So, back to pictures.

Last summer, actually...it was late summer, I finally decided to take my (then) new digital camera on a whirlwind morning excursion that consisted of Beth-figuring-out-how-to-take-reasonably-okay-pictures type of activites. Which excursion was relatively successful. Successful because I got some seriously not-so-bad pictures of flowers, (I found out that my camera has a really, really nice very-close-up type of shooting mode), and relatively because all of the landscape shots I tried to take invariably turned out awful.

I may post some later to prove it.

But, I do have some nice flower pics to show for the day, and I like them well enough to post them here, to liven up my blog a little. Because, if you didn't have the flowers to distract your attention while reading my ramblings, you would invariable notice all the horrible writing that comes out of my keyboard. Which, once you're duly hypnotized by said flowers, suddenly looks remarkably like good writing.

Kind of like a druk person not noticing that the guy he's trying to pick a fight with is 6'10" and weighs 300+ pounds.

Well. At least I'm doing it in self defense. So there.

A Personal History of Valentine's Day

It used to be that when a day like Valentine's Day rolled around (i.e. a day that wallowed in its own gooey ickiness) I used to wallow myself. Usually in a dark room, listening to some sort of depressing music.

Usually I'd spend nights like that remembering, or not remembering, as the mood struck me. But, more often than not, if I remembered, I would remember in a litany--a rosary prayer running through all the lost loves of my life.

I'd start in kindergarten, with that blond-haired firstgrader that I wrote an "I love you" note to, move rapidly through junior high & into the high school years...Travis from seminary, Matt, Dan (Dan I would spend some time on), Jason... It was a litany of loss, it was me focusing on pain, on what I didn't have.

It's strange, but I don't seem to do that anymore. It's not that I've suddenly gained the things that I longed for then--I haven't. I'm still single, and rather overwhelmingly likely to remain so for some time. I don't even think I'm necessarily happier than I was then. I really spend no time at all wandering around in a rosey cloud of joy.

I wonder if I'm just better at distracting myself now. I have easy access to the tv, a laptop with high-speed internet, and my own little mini library to lose myself in. Whenever I feel a spout of pain coming on, do I switch on my computer? Watch an amusing but rather soulless flash cartoon? Grab the latest escapist novel I've purchased from Amazon?

Or maybe, I just don't allow myself to grieve anymore. I'm embarrassed when I'm miserable, as if I don't have any right to be unhappy--as if I know better. And maybe I do. Maybe I realize that, as lonely and unfulfilled as life can be, I'm still okay. I'm way better off than the child in India who works all day in a sweat-shop and comes home at night to a mat in the street. I'm better off than the girl who lives her life at the end of a needle, or under the bottom of a shot glass.

I guess the answer is, I don't know. I think it's a mixture of all of the above. Fill in the bubble for answer "D." Or maybe "E" for 'unknown.' (Man, I've taken too many standardized tests.) I suppose I'm only writing about this because I'm kind of amazed to find myself here, on Valentine's Day, still sitting upright in a relatively well-lit room, eyes & cheeks completely dry, and the only music playing in the background the soundtrack to some tv show my sister's watching in the kitchen. I don't even think I've eaten chocolate today...

And that, more than anything else, really shows me how much I've changed.

No, I'm not, actually.

Um, just so you guys know, (yes, all of you who are currently crouching in the corners of your room, shivering with fear, wondering what horrible self-truths I will reveal in this blog), I'm not depressed.

I don't know if you thought that I was, but I suspect that it may have crossed some of your minds, but I want you to know that you're wrong.

I'm not depressed.

I'm actually quite content. Well, content is perhaps too strong a word. But I am reasonably accustomed to my life, and to its challenges, and really, in mortality, isn't that the most we can ask for? So, I'm not depressed.

Let's all say it together: "I'm not depressed." Er, except, you should say, "She's not depressed," and I'll say, "I'm not depressed," except that we'll all say it at the same time so that it sounds like a jumble of "I'masetshesstnotttdepressedsteChristopherColumbus."

Good. Now you don't have to be afraid to post a comment anymore.

So What's Real Anyway?

The funny thing with being depressed is that you feel like, finally, you're facing things as they really are. (Or not facing them, as the case may be.) You've come to the realization that life really does stink--tremendously--and that the reality of existence is pain.

While depression doesn't usually last that long, when you're on the opposite end of things, (i.e. you're happy), you still have this niggling feeling underneath the surface that you're not really looking life full in the face, that you're brushing over the negative aspects of life just so you can get through the day. Maybe there's even some truth to that. Maybe being happy isn't so much seeing the positive things in life as it is ignoring the negative things in life... At least, maybe that's the happiness that most people have.

However, I don't think that this is the way that God is happy. (And Pam, I know we kind of did this conversation in email a few weeks back--I'm just rehashing it here. Hope you don't mind.)

God is happy in the face of all misery and all joy. Sometimes I wonder how that's possible. Maybe it's because that, while he sees all the sorrow & suffering & sin that exist on the earth, he also recognizes & revels with us in our joy, and in our goodness. Or maybe it's something more than that. I know He feels sorrow too, but I wonder if it's that eternal perspective He has, that He can really see that good does outweigh evil, that it really is triumphant in the end.

Bother. I really shouldn't be trying to philosophize at 10:30 at night, especially when I have a headache, and I don't even know why I'm writing about this, except that I was thinking about this today, and I wanted to put my thoughts out there, where you guys read it. Thanks, as always, for taking a moment to read my meanderings.

An early "Happy Groundhog Day" to you too!

Okay--this post is just for fun. As my family sat together this past Monday during FHE, my mom mentioned that my brother Peter's "Hump Day" (or half-way mark to you uninitiated) for his mission was February 2nd (tomorrow). So, as part of our family discussion, we decided to send him a little something to commemorate.

Attached is what we did. (Well, I did the drawing, and my mom wrote the words. Yep.)

So, it's not deep, and it's not profound, and it certainly won't change your life for the better, but I hope you enjoy the pic at least a little.

(By the way, I think if you click on the image, it'll make it larger, so you'll be able to see the fine details of this near-masterpiece.)

Er. Yah. Hope you likes it.

Step on, Baby.

So, remember that really teeny tiny step I talked about a couple of posts ago? Yeah. I just took another really teeny tiny step. Well, this one was slightly bigger. But it was still a baby step.

I guess I'm steppin' out in style then...Baby Style, stepping things up, stepping up to the plate, taking a step in the right direction...er, I can't think of more 'step' phrases right now...

BUT, I'm very glad. Glad that I have at least the sense now of a forward direction, even though I'm still going much more slowly than I feel I should.

Anyway--enough with the vague stepping references. Methinks my future posts will need to be a bit more definite. Yah. That is, if I can remember how to do that...

Whiney Dayz

I would like to take this moment to apologize to any of you who, despite the discouraging little "0 Comments" notations beneath my rambling blog entries, are my faithful and true (and dear) readers, and who may spend more time checking up on what I've written lately than I actually spend writing it. (In which case, I really think you should take up a hobby. (Haha. Just kidding.))

I'm sorry for being whiney. For taking up my blog-time, and your valuable time by sitting here, typing in my complaints for all the world to read. (Although, I really doubt all the world reads this thing. I don't think more than maybe 2 people read this thing on a regular basis, and one of those people is ME.)

My last entry was pretty negative. Well, I've been feeling pretty negative for the past week or so, and I was discouraged and unhappy, and I wanted company in that misery, thank-you-very-much. So I decided (with my very low moral values) to drag you all into my unhappy state. Or, at least to express to you that I was unhappy, and to say in a very circuitous and round-about manner that I hope things improve soon.

Forgive me. I didn't mean it. Or if I did, it isn't something that I'll write for every blog entry. No, you'll get more stuff that's silly than discouraged, more thoughtful than negative, and more wry than vicious.

Well, at least, that's the idea. We'll see what actually happens.

Baby Steps

(Sorry--This is a gratuitous flower pic to make my blog look more interesting than it is.)

Okay. I know I keep going around this argument with myself, spinning around and around, like some crazy do-it-yourself insane merry-go-round that is also an instrument of the DEVIL...

Sigh. Here's the scoop: I need to do things that I'm not doing. And, I'm kind of semi-pleased with myself because today I did a very SMALL thing that will enable me to do a slightly LARGER thing, that will, I hope, enable me to do that thing that I really NEED to do.

Confused yet? So am I.

The truth is, I keep on just letting time slip by me, and deadlines loom, and then pass, and I'm still in the same place I was before. And I'm tired--tired, tired, tired of being in that place where I'm just carrying on because there's nothing much else to do. And I sit around & complain & do nothing. I'm so sick of my impotence, of this blockage that I seem to have that sits unmoving smack in the middle of the path I think I want to take.

And then I run at it and kick it in nothing but my slippers. (Er, I'm also wearing a bathrobe.)

Ow.

I hope, I HOPE I will have better news to post soon--news that I've taken the 'larger' step I mentioned, news that I may be recovering from my year & a half of flopping aimlessly around my parents' house while I try to convince myself to do what I NEED to do to move forward, news that I finally feel like I'm on my way to becoming a real, live grown-up. Cross your fingers.

Oh, yeah. And pray.

M&M's and Doggie Rescue

So, I'm back. I'll admit it. I recognize my addiction.

But it's not like I'm going to give it up. I mean, come on! One of the few pleasures I have in life...wait, what am I talking about? I have plenty of pleasures in life. Anyway--one of the pleasures I have in life is to sit here on this nice li'l couch and watch animal rescue shows on Animal Planet (which I know I've mentioned before--frequently).

Except now that it's a commercial break, and my mom has turned to "Skating with the Stars." Unfortunately.

Wait--we're back to animal rescues now. Thank goodness. I don't think I could've watched much more of Joey from "Full House" skating around with Nancy Kerrigan.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Animal rescues. What I really like is that these shows focus on a few specific locations, including Detroit. I have to admit that, as a missionary, we had very few encounters with pitt bulls being used in dog fighting rings, or cats that were beaten or neglected, but they're sure out there. It's a sad, sad show. And I love it. Not because of the heartrending stories, and not because of the inhumane conditions some of these animals have to live in--it's because these animals are rescued. They're taken out of these conditions, put into homes where they can be loved, and they end up happy. (Well, most of them, at least. Some, for various reasons do have to be euthanized.)

But it's really for that reason that I could watch this show for hours on end. I think, especially now, in this time of uncertainty and depression, and even sometimes the deaths of cute little kittens, that I can use a little bit of happily ever after.

P.S. And M&M's are yummy. Yep.

Lounging in Pajama Pants

This post isn't going to be long or terribly pertinent, nor will it contain those little tidbits of insight and wisdom you've come to expect from me and my intrepid keyboard.

No, I'm just writing to say that it's now 1:30pm on Saturday, and I'm still sitting around in my pajamas. My thoughts are currently vascillating wildly between being disgusted with myself for being so lazy, and really, really enjoying the sensation of being so lazy.

Unfortunately, I'll have to get up soon (approximately NOW) from my comfortable perch on my bed, laptop securely perched atop my knees, and get ready for the day which is now, literally, half-over. (My little 4-year-old niece is having a piano recital today. TOO CUTE! I'll post pictures. You won't be able to stop me.) But, at least I'll be able to relish the last few seconds before I publish this post as completely effort-free...

Ahhhhh. That felt nice. *Grins*

Juicy Juice

So, have you been waiting for the latest scoop on my daily life?

Have you been anxiously bouncing on the edge of your seat for, like, the last three weeks or MORE??

Have you been nearly weeping with the stress of NOT KNOWING WHAT'S GOING ON IN MY LIFE???

Yeah, okay.

So you haven't. I'm cool with that.

BUT, you're gonna hear the latest scoop all the same.

Well, last night I almost went and did something that might have furthered my plans to attend grad school, and didn't. It seems like this happens a lot to me. I'll be all geared up & ready to do something that (for no good reason whatsoever) is difficult for me, and then at the last minute, I'll find some lame excuse (like a blizzard) to not do something.

I can't even remember what my excuse was now. Ohyeah. Nevermind. I DO remember, and yes, it was lame.

So, here I am, posting to my blog, wondering when on earth I'll join the world of chordates and get a spine. Or a... a whatever-it-is thingy that makes you do stuff. Yeah. One o' dose.

Not that I'm complaining. No, it's more just a slight feeling of disgust. What is it Mr. Bennett says to Elizabeth? The feeling will pass, no doubt more quickly than it should.

(Ooh. I just noticed--can you tell I don't like paragraphs to be more than, like, two sentences long in this post? Whoppee!! Short paragraphs!)

Where was I? Ohyeah. Approximately nowhere. Which is where I'm going. Rapidly. In a handbasket. Or wait, maybe the handbasket is a vehicle to somewhere else not quite so bad...or is it? In our worst versions of Hell, have we really hit the point of what a hellish existence is? Maybe it's just simply because you're damned--literally not progressing--bound to one state because you can't move on to the next--you're not prepared to. And, even if we're lazy, (which I am), we love to feel like we're moving forward in our lives, making something of ourselves. And when we're not, where else could we be but in Hell?

So, pass the handbasket, please. I think I'm taking a ride.