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.