I had the oddest thought...

So I was sitting at work yesterday, just kind of browsing around our website looking for errors in item descriptions or images (orders have been kinda slow lately) and I had the oddest thought.

I thought to myself, "Why don't I just move to Boston and work there, and maybe I'll get into that one school and maybe I won't, but at least I'll BE there."

So then I started thinking about this little proposition from my brain and I thought..."Wow! Maybe that could work!" And then I thought, "Nah--it's too crazy." And then I thought, "Yeah--crazy enough to work!" And then I thought, "Whoa! What a cliche!"

But actually, I kind of felt good about it then. Strangely. I don't know though--I'm not sure I've felt good about it since. So, I guess I'll be thinking about this some more. But who knows--maybe a change of location is closer than I thought! Or maybe not...

I guess I just want to get going, and I kind of feel like waiting another year (if I get accepted to the school I like it'll be next summer before I start) would just be too long, and that I need to get out there SOON. Like, this fall.

Very VERY odd feeling. And disturbing. For it would mean packing (which I hate) and driving (which I actually like) in my car (which is a little oldish) a long, long ways. And before that, I'd need to ask my aunt & uncle if I could (pleasepleaseplease) crash at their place for a few weeks while I sort myself out & find a job and then find an apartment with (pleasepleaseplease) other really nice girls who won't make fun of my new tshirts.

There would be other downsides as well: I would miss my brother's homecoming, which would mean I wouldn't see him until probably a good MANY moons after he returns to the states. I would also miss the ever ongoing growing-up years of my admittedly adorable nieces & nephews.

Good: I would be closer to all of you in the east.

Bad: I would be farther from all of you in the west.

Good: I would be in Massachusetts! (I mean, that in itself is just wicked cool.)

Bad: I would have to pay rent! (And THAT is wicked awful.)

Long and short (but mostly long) I just have no idea. It may just be one of those odd thoughts that pop in the head and then fizzle slowly out the ears without making any real indentation inside, or...I could be moving.

Arg! But WHO KNOWS?!?

Well, here it is again.

From where I sit in my room, feet pressed against the wall under the window while my laptop rests on the top of a cheapo folding table, I can see the nearly full moon rising over the black mountains. Last night I spent an hour at least just laying in the moonlight, (uncomfortably still in my church skirt), feeling the night breezes wrap around me, and feeling really rather sad, actually.

I seem to get this morose feeling rather more often than I should. I just spent some time reading my past blog entries and frankly I dwell too much on these peculiar moods that seem to strike me too often. I don't really consider myself to be a morose personality; I'm just a cheerful personality that feels morose frequently. Right?

So with the moon shining and my laptop glowing and my hair all in a frantic, tattered mess, and my pillows inviting me to thoroughly explore their topography, I find that I just don't have much to say this evening. Except that I need sleep. And that I also need to spend less time lounging in the moonlight dwelling on things that have gone wrong in my life, and more time doing things to make it right.

Which means putting down the blog.

Right now.

Put it down and just step away.

There's a girl.

Time for a little introspection

I just realized that I have a really boring blog.

I mean it.

My blog is really ineffably dull.

I realized this while I was reading someone else's blog, and hers was witty and intelligent & keen and many other synonomous adjectives that I am currently too dumb to think of. And also I end sentences with prepositions.

Aw, HECK. And shucks, and GOSH DARN IT! I'm tired of being dull and witless and lackluster and all that jazz (or rather lack of jazz). I want to be intelligent and read great literature and carry on pithy and startlingly observant conversations with other people who are just as fabulously brilliant as I am.

Unfortunately, I believe I lack the nack.

Alas.

The road goes ever on and on…

I always want to see what’s at the end of roads. Not that I believe that the end itself is going to be terribly interesting, (and those of you who have observed road endings are sure to concur), but because I believe that the getting to the end of the road will enable me to witness wonderful things while I'm getting there, to be in places I’ve never been before. And I LOVE that feeling.

Sometimes my life seems so stagnant. (Well, more often than not, actually.) I drive on the same road the same distance at the same speed the same times every day, and some days I just want to turn my wheels an unexpected direction and break, if only for a short time, into completely unknown territory.

I want to drive to the end of the road I discovered the other day on my lunch break. It went past a newish sort of church, and then just kept on going past fields & stables, silos & horses. I wondered if, when I reached the final foot of asphalt, I’d end up in a place I knew, or if I’d be faced with one of those yellow arrow signs giving me a sharp choice: left or right, neither way known, making the direction hard to choose. I would want to take both roads.

Maybe someday I’ll have the time (and the gas) I need to keep going. I could end up in Payson, or I could go all the way out to West Mountain (or beyond) without passing a single landmark I knew. I could keep going to the coast, and then head north into Canada, and then east through it, back down south into the US, tracing and backtracking and networking all the roads together until they sat like an enormous web of interlinked places in my head.

I wonder if I’d come away different, if part of myself would wear off along the pavement, or if the dust of the road would become an indelible part of my skin.

I think—I’m almost positive—that I’d discover that there are no real ends to the roads, only continual change and beginnings, and that in the end, the main thing I’d find would be me.

(Sorry—I know this undercuts everything, but doesn’t that last sentence sound like something out of a Disney movie? Hahaha! Oh, I can be dull. :^))

I really don't deserve this post

Okay, people—relationships are weird.

They just are, and the more I think about them, the weirder they get.

I've been thinking today about how maybe some people don't deserve the people that they're dating (or married to for that matter). (Don't worry—it’s no one you know.) And then I thought about what a ridiculous assumption that was.

You see, I don’t think anybody really deserves anybody else. I mean, we’re all such middling people anyway. Every person has really awful flaws that make him (or her) nearly impossible to live with and almost completely undeserving of marital bliss. And yet, nearly everyone also seems to have this amazing spark of brilliance that maybe starts to even render their flaws obsolete. And I'm not just talking about marriage here, people.

It’s about friendships too—any human relationship, really. It’s like what C. S. Lewis said. We are none of us insignificant beings. We’re all moving towards something unspeakably horrible or (more likely with you folks) something unspeakably glorious.

Maybe it’s the sum of two people together that begins the creation of something wondrous. Maybe in that relationship all those flaws are pulled out and exposed and anguished over, and eventually, eventually begin to erode. Maybe those sparks of brilliance get pulled out and exposed and eventually, eventually, grow brighter & brighter.

(And please do forgive all this cheesy language.)

And when we say that some girl just doesn’t deserve this really great guy, or that this guy just doesn’t deserve this really great girl, we may be saying something true. But in a way, it’s true every single time from both sides of every single relationship. We none of us deserve each other—we’re all stupid and blind and compassionate and dazzling—but we get each other anyway. And I, for one, am very grateful.

Time for a new post

The only problem is, I'm not sure what to write about.

You see, I've been spending the last couple of hours trying to work out exactly what admissions people at the graduate school of my choice want to see in that little essay you're supposed to write that describes exactly why you're the perfect candidate for their school and also makes them want to throw money in your general direction and also I should avoid run-on sentences.

So, as I'm sure you can guess, my brain (if removed from my skull and examined under a bright fluorescent light) currently resembles a kind of sticky paste made from approximately two cups of raisins that have gone through the blender at high speed, to which has been added three heaping tablespoons of honey. And also a quarter cup of milk. (Well, maybe not the milk.)

Man. It's a good thing my brain is fastened securely to the inside of my skull, otherwise the ants would be all over me! (ACK! ANTS!)

Where was I?

Oh, yes. A topic. Which I do not have.

Ummmm....Well, as it turns out, my day off has been cut short, (they're apparently very busy at my place of employment today), so I don't really have much more time to write stuff, seeing as how I've got to leave in, like 30 minutes. It's really pretty disappointing. I was going to write my essay & polish it & then proceed to bug the appropriate people to please, PLEASE write me letters of recommendation, but alas, I've only had time for a rough essay outline, which goes as follows:

Point one: Talk about how you were born with a book in your hand. It's not really true, but it'll get everybody at the admissions committee to have a good laugh, and hey--you can always use that.

Point two: Talk about recommending "Everybody Poops" to all of the children who came into the library. Seriously. Like, how you would run after them waving it frantically, screaming "You've GOT to read this book! It will CHANGE YOUR LIFE!!!" Yeah. That'll impress 'em.

Point three: Talk about how the school is PERFECT for you. It's far away from home, so your parents won't be able to keep bugging you about taking that pesky medication.

Point four: Talk about how you're PERFECT for the program. After all, you own a couple of books yourself, and you've even read some of 'em, so you should get along pretty darn well with all them booky people they have at that thar school of theirn. (And also write it in a weird western accent. That's SURE to get their attention.)

And that's about as far as I've gotten. The fine details of the essay may require some tweaking, but I think I've essentially got it. Yep. So, grad school--HERE I COME!

High Foreheads and Recording Contracts

Did you know that Norah Jones has a high forehead?

She does.

I wasn't really aware of this myself until I bought her CD Come Away With Me, (do you italicize names of CD albums???), which features several pics of said artist in which it becometh clear that her forehead beeth high.

Which got me thinking.

I too have been blessed with a high forehead (compliments of my dad, who has a forehead extending nearly to his neck--which I think is adorable, by the way). So, why can't I make a fabulous debut album and set up recording contracts with major record labels? You know? 'Cause really, I can't even imagine a better correlation than the one between high foreheads and recording contracts.

So. I will learn to croon, and play the piano properly while I croon, and I will make my sultry voice resonate in the midst of smoke-filled rooms. And then some punk kid with a tape recorder and a dream will hear me, and off we'll go to strike it big. And me with my high forehead, and the kid with his savvy technical know-how, we're gonna go all the way.

I can feel it.

Self-portraiture

Well, against my own better judgement, I am including in this post a pic of mein self. I did a wee little photo shoot using my wee little digital camera this afternoon. (Hoorah for Utah State Holidays! No work!)

Sooooo....yep. There's me. Actually, it's kind of weird sitting here typing a post whilst staring at mein self. It's actually kind of creepy, if you want to know the truth--kinda like--DUDE! Stop staring already!

Okay. So, now that you all know what I kind of look like right now, (I SWEAR--the only thing I Photoshopped (hehe--"Shoppe at your local Photoshoppe") was the brightness/contrast thingy), I guess I can go.

Yep.

Bye!

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?