I have moved.  I again am living alone (me and the left over roaches.)  My apartment is most likely slightly toxic at the point.  I have boric acid along all the walls, I have cans of Raid in the kitchen and the bathroom.  I have bug bombs, roach bate and of course the ever present "squishing shoe."  I have noticed a significant decrease in la cockaracha activities.
The previous renter was a smoker.  I know this not only from the strong smoke odor emanating from the very walls but from the tar deposits I've scraped off the windows.  I decided the best thing for me to do to mask this ever present odoriferous experience one senses upon entering my domicile was to plug in a scented oil warmer conveniently equipped with a tiny "super quiet" fan.  It emits the scent of a "Tropical Breeze." 
Now when one enters my apartment he has the sensation of a heavy smoker with a can of Raid and a death wish to any bug that crosses her path standing just up wind of a refreshing tropical breeze.  Pleasant, Yes?

That was a fine ice breaker-now, let us talk of me.  I am now officially a graduate student.  Not a seminary student, not a "special student"  not a "degreed undergraduate."  None of these,  I am now (although I STILL need to take the GRE) officially a graduate student.  Details pending.

I've been meaning to do this for a while.
I suppose deep down I was thinking that when one stays quiet long enough, people forget to check to see what's going on.  It's a slow, quiet fading process.
I've thought about writing quite a few things-things that go better unread by anyone who knows me, or knows that I'm talking about them when I start recounting the absurdity of my experiences, or more accurately the absurdity of my perspective on those experiences.  The actual experiences, I maintain, cannot possibly be any more absurd than the next person's experience. 
I could  change names but they would still know.
You know who  you are .  If there is anyone reading this, if you know me, you know I have a story about you, and I have some opinions of you good and bad.  Most likely I have not fully shared those opinions of you with you although you probably have a pretty good idea of what they are.  I'm not trying to hide those opinions, it's just that I've been told I at times come across as somewhat harsh-and I'm rarely overly mushy-so get off my back!

The Darkness
Your personality type is occluded. You may even be
a genuine goth. Aloof, mysterious, introverted.
You absorb light and energy into yourself and
seldom release it...perhaps because you've been
hurt so badly in the past.


What's Your Celestial Personality Type?
brought to you by Quizilla

huh, well what do you know?

I saw a sign that said "IT IS un AWFUL TO LITTER." Then I saw one that said "IT IS unlAWFUL TO LITTER."
I see . . . un lawful, un awful . . . so close.

I need to take a picture of the one on 20 that says "AWFFLE HO SE"
aka "WAFFLE HOUSE"

I was surprised to find no Eiffle Tower in Paris, TX. Why wouldn't a little town like that play it up? I mean, the largest Superman statue in the world is (where else) Metropolis, IL. Well, now I know.

The cicadas are out in Indiana. Curious creatures. The story is that the come out once ever 17 years. They stay mostly in the trees for about 3 weeks (making one of the most unnerving sounds I've ever heard, like thousands of tiny UFOs about to land on your head) then they die, not coming back for 17 years.

They have creepy little red eyes . . . I didnt hear them this morning. I suppose their time is up until a new generation comes along.

“I think of people who are innocent and a bit naive and it makes me want to protect them from life, like I think they have a chance since they have not been corrupted by violence and the reality that the world is a scary fucking place.”// posted by Travis
I’d like to think of myself as an innocent. I didn’t see the beheading clip. I didn’t want to. I don’t know if acynic can be an innocent too. I’ve heard very few statistics concerning the war(s) in Afghanistan and Iraq. I know about 200 American soldiers have died. And the public has clamored against the state to “pull our boys out!” Pull them out? What were we doing there again? Are we done already? I heard that one Dutch soldier died and the Netherlands thought it might be time to withdraw.
Can I still be an innocent if I think 201 men isn’t that many? 201 is tragic. 2 is tragic. The real tragedy is that the majority of Americans, I suspect the majority of soldiers sweating in the desert don’t understand. We will never win this fight. We can’t win because we don’t have the perseverance. It seems the American idea of “winning” a war is beating the loser into submission. Holding him down until he says “mercy” then we graciously let him up, and bandage his wounds, and teach him to “good way.” And because he understands our ways are better, he agrees to not pick on his neighbor because there’s always going to be a bully across the ocean. Big brother is watching.
But our opponents will never give up this time. They are wily and their words don’t match our meanings. They will never agree that “our way” or any compromise made is right for them—because it won’t be.
We lost Vietnam. We lost a lot, more money and men then people care to remember. We may have lost some power and influence—but what we lost in the jungle—I feel will not compare to what we will lose in the desert. I fear for my times.

Take the quiz: "which phsycadellic penguin are you?"

the jesus lover penguin
you are too obsessed with jesus... you need to learn how to be a bit more... less religious

Take the quiz: "Which Playing Card Are You?"

The Queen of Hearts
Loving, caring, but sometimes Vain, You are the Queen of Hearts.

It seems I "can't think" and by showing offense at that kind remark, I was deemed "petty"

It's good I get these decrees from on high, else how would I know?

Happy Cinqo de Mayo! A Mexican holiday celebrated by more people in Texas than in Mexico. (any excuse for a Bar B Q)

I bought a book at goodwill for $1.00. It is called "The Indiana Mothers' Baby Book." I bought it because it looked pretty old, and I wondered what has changed in baby care since it was written. There wasn't a publication date, but these were free informative books given to new mothers in Indiana starting in 1913. The mother who recieved this book registered her child, Jerome Grenda, born August 27, 1917.

This book has much truth to despense, such as: "Those possessing inherited, and hense transmissible physical and mental defects should never become parents, unless it is thought desirable to multiply the physically and mentally defective."

"A mean, drunken, cruel or brutal husband, or one who does not do his utmost to give good and tender care to his pregnant wife, is a low specimen, his devoid of manhood and trhe law should
deal severely with him."

"Cessation of the "monthlies" is usually regared as the first symptom of pregnancy."

"It is a very great wrong to herself and her child for a mother to feed her baby artificially if she is able to produce healthful mother's milk. Such a mother is a deserter from duty."

Crying babies:
"Babies cry only when there is a cause. Find the cause and remove it.
Perhaps he has had too much food
Perhaps he is dressed too warmly
Perhaps he needs a clean diaper
(and my personal favorite)
Perhaps and enemy has given him a pickle."

I was telling my friend (who is expecting) about this book. She noted that alot of people are asking if she will be breast feeding. She said she feels people are getting kind of bold asking after her breasts like that, and sometimes she is temped to tell them that she has decided not to, but she has contracted a wet nurse for the detail.

I went to a lip synch contest at church this weekend-- Grandmas singing "We are Family" -- grooving like the Pointer Sisters we the best act for me, but the winner was a group of 30 something women dressed as old women singing "Lady Marmalade" Which was cute, but somewhat disturbing too, aside from the fact that they looked like old women dancing with canes, I found it odd that it was perfectly acceptable for them to sing "Will you go to bed with me tonight?" at a church function. I guess it's okay to be a prostitute as long as you make your propositions in French.

Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?

"Orange suggests that an expected change in your situation will be delayed"

I had a dream full of orange, and old friends.

"Orange: Spleen Chakra: The emotions-- This is the center of your body governing your emotions, relationships and creativity. Whe you are drawn to this color there is usually a power struggle occuring in your life having to do with money and/or sex. Use this color energy to help manage desier and express your creativity and life force."

"Tibetan Buddhist monks have long worn orange as a sign of wisdom, spontaneity, intuition and living in the present moment."

"Orange dreams
The best dreams are orange. I usually dream in black and white but now and then there is an orange dream. A most beautiful incredible floating experience. It encompasses all senses, in incredible, unexpected ways. It never lasts long enough and the memories remain strong. I love the orange dreams."

Job description: I pour water from big bottles into little bottles. When I'm finished pouring the water from the big bottles to the little bottles, I pour all the water down the drain. Then I start over pouring the water from the big bottles into the little bottles.

I've decided to do everything earlier-- at least that is the goal for May. I had a momentary lapse trying to remember why I was wanting to do everything earlier . . . go to bed earlier to get up earlier to get to work, to leave work to do what ever it is I do in the evening . . . why did I want to push this up an hour?

Oh yeah . . . work. You would think everyone at my work was very motivated. We get to work pretty early most of the time. We work quickly while in the lab, and we goof off at our desks as much as possible. (Which is considerably easier for everyone else than it is for the lion and I, being that our cubicals are open to the world, and the rest are hidden away in corners. As a matter of fact we were busted by a group of Chinese business men or scientiests, who knows, they were touring the labs. They walked by and looked at us with questions in their slanty little eyes as we sat in our shared cubical munching animal crackers dipped in peanut butter talking about my disease ridden cat.)

All this because of our boss, BS. She is nice, pretty easy going- no micro managing . . .but she talks. She talks loud so we can all hear her over the machines. She talks about nothing and everything. She says the same thing 4 times in a row, or until someone responds. She talks about her car, her ex husband, her boyfriends, her daugher, her diet, her classes, her family . . . oh how she talks! Sometimes I want to stab myself in my ear with a pipetter! But I don't.

And our coworker, E, likes to defy BS. Everyday E wears sandles in the lab. Everyday BS says to E, "Your toes are showing!" (with an air of mock scandalization and the slightest of lisps) Everyday E responds (and with finess) "I know." As if to say, "The showing of this one extrodinarily long second toe hanging off the front of my sandle is the crowning joy of my day." And everyday E walks away with the proud gait of a woman who has raged against the 'the man' and has lived another day to wear sandles in the lab.

Speaking of wearing sandles in the lab, it is against safety policy, as is wearing saris in the lab and "putting out fires which require breathing air." Heck, I am required to breath air all the time! NO fires are going out on my watch. NO! I'm going to be off breathing air somewhere out of the way!

So-- the lion and I stand in the back of the lab and bark at each other, then we say "En Francais!" and we shout, "Le bark! Le bark!" And we laugh because we find this highly amusing, and because we just want to do something to drown out the talking.

"Nevertheless, he was not content, however great his urgency, to settle for less and live the rest of his days with a wife who had large feet and a strong charcter."
Daughter of Fortune Isabel Allende

Which, of course, led to an internet search on the Chinese practice of foot binding. Which I maintained from the beginning must have been a man's idea. So the website tells, a Chinese prince over 1,000 years ago admired the small "golden lilly" feet of one of his concubines and thus the tradition of bending over the toes of a small female child, breading her foot at the arch and twisting the broken feet up on themselves. The feet were then bound with tight winding cloths and eventually the feet would shrink so that an adult woman's feet could fit into tiny slippers only three to four inches long. Of course she had to keep the slippers on all the time because not only where the "golden lillies" ugly as all get out-- the deformed and mutilated bones would begin to seep a "foul smelling substance."

The women could not walk more than a few (very small, shuffling) steps before she was beset with terrible pain. She was only an ornament.

The practice of foot binding continued until 1911 when it was banned by the new government.

fyi be very careful looking up "foot binding" on the internet . . . much like granny squares, things can easily go awry!

How do you measure up?
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and that's the harsh truth about me don't hate me because I'm beautiful

Yesterday I opened my door to go to work and there were little pink tickets all over my walkway. I picked them up and they each said, "You are insuperable."
Huh.
I didn't know what "insuperable" meant, but I put them in my purse and headed off to work.

INSUPERABLE: incapable of being surmounted, overcome, passed over, or solved.

Insuperable is a state of mind. Today I am insuperable, well, actually yesterday I was. I'm not feeling up to it today.

The other day a little girl knocked on my door to ask if my cat could come out to play. I told her my cat was already out playing, and if she could catch the cat, she could play with her. Sounded fair to me.

Last night I dreamed that my cat jumped off a bridge, never to be seen again. The again, I dreamed my pet panda fell off the same bridge on the same day and he too was never seen again. I really miss that panda.

Age eight: I've seen the world-

a child molester rolling by slowly in a beat up Caddy-
In motion

the 'fuck rock' just behind the fence in the woods-
In action

a used condom on the playground-
In full view

the ambulence came-- fat Pam O.D.ed . . .again
she can't do it right

Brenda had my brother's abortion . . .
sophmore year

patty-cake?
You know this one?
"Peanut butter mother fucker, two time bitch
mess around with me you get your ass kicked
'cause I'm a TT tucker and a bad mother fucker."
Mother goose has flown

Mouse was arrested-
all his kids got lice-
his house aint nothin' but roaches nohow

If you touch me there again, I'm telling my mom,
and she'll kill you-- you know she's crazy.
For real.

What'chu laughin' at fool? You on welfare too!

Age eight. I've seen the world.

motion
action
full view
dying
killing
rhyming
incarcerated
crazy
living
life of mine
age eight

"My captures continue to tourment me with bizzare dangling objects. They eat sumptuous meals while I am given only dry cereal to eat. My only consolation is that occationally I am able to destroy a piece of their furniture."

Happy Easter to all you peeps.


Although Just Born acquired Rodda for its jelly-bean-making capabilities, the Born family was fascinated with the three-dimensional marshmallow Easter chicks, called Peeps, that Rodda was also making at the time. Lauren Easterly, the Peeps brand manager at Just Born, said that a group of women at Rodda made Peeps by hand in the back of the factory. In 1953, it took Rodda 27 hours to make one Peep. Just Born mechanized Peep production and was able to bring the confection to consumers on a mass scale by 1954.

"We aren't women if we aren't desperate."

-she didn't want you to know she said it outloud.

"In these two tongue twisters, attention to the aspiration of prevocalic
plosives may be helpful for some students."

(I ask you, if a native English speaker can't read the directions, how can
the students learn to say the tongue twisters?)

pk

I went to go see a life size replica of the Tabernacle yesterday. It was a very odd and particular kind of thing . . . it didn’t really have the same look that had I imagined, although they had gone from the biblical descriptions. Of course, since the presentation was Christian, it was “How to find Jesus in the Tabernacle.” (I’m pretty sure at this point that going to see a Jewish reproduction of the Tabernacle would have been far more interesting.) I mean, I got the idea that if Jesus was lurking in the Tabernacle and I was looking for him, he could have just popped out of the Ark and said, “Ha! You would have never found me in there!” (You know that, “ye who look upon it shall die” thing would have deterred the search.)

Our oft tongue tied guide would point out a feature of the Tabernacle and ask this question, “What does that represent?” If you said, “Jesus” you were right nine out of ten times. If, however, you hit that rare occasion when the answer was other than “Jesus,” he would answer your mistake with a resolute and triumphant “NO!” (As in “HA-Ha! You fools! You know nothing- Nothing about this tabernacle or Jesus! I will now enlighten you!”)

First he told us where all the materials made to build the Tabernacle came from. “The linen came from Egypt; the ram skins came from New Zealand, the cloud came from Canada”. Let me repeat that. The Cloud, the “Glory of the LORD” came from . . . Canada. Fine.

Then he told us about the gate. “Does anyone know why the colors red, purple, white and blue were used?” “Jesus was a king (purple) who came from heaven (blue,) lived a perfect life (white) and shed his blood (red) for us.” (Or those are the most expensive/royal colors in the ancient world.)

“Does anyone know why the gate is thirty feet wide?” (He got me there, because I’m pretty sure the ancient Hebrews weren’t using the English\US measurement system.) The answer of course is that “Jesus’ earthly ministry began when he was 30 years old. OR maybe it was to be big enough that everyone could come to him through the door which is Him.” (So, even those double wide fat asses can come?)

“Please save your questions until after the tour. Thank you.”

The brazen alter had four horns. Why? “because Jesus had four horns?” No. The horns symbolize strength. “because the priests had to be really strong to get all those bulls up on top of that thing?” No, because when Abraham was going to sacrifice his son, there was a ram caught in a thicket by his horns. “But what does that have to do with . . .”
“Please hold your questions.”

The Table of Shewbread held twelve loaves of flat bread. “These loaves were pierced for quick baking. Just like Jesus was pierced.” (For quick baking?)

In conclusion, from this tour I learned that God is from Canada, Jesus’ favorite colors are red, blue, purple and white. Jesus thinks fat people are a-okay, but he did not have horns. He was a fan of the quick bake method.

I woke up the other morning with my finger pressing my nose. Now, there is no way to know for sure at this point, but I’m pretty sure that I was desperately pressing my nose in a vain attempt to turn my alarm off. (Some how confusing my nose with the snooze button) Yes, well --- these things happen.

I think I had a karmic moment tonight. I was sitting at a traffic light, in the lane next to the biggest ambulance I'd ever seen. For some reason I had the urge to lean forward and crane my neck up to look into the driver's seat of the ambulance. At that exact same moment that ambulance driver was craning his neck to look down and back into my car. I know it doesn't sound too unusual, but it seem so at the time.

I’ve taken to carrying a second purse. It started out as a lunch bag. It has now evolved into a bag I may or may not need at any given time. In my second purse I carry; snacks, water, a barrette, a bandana, the book I’m reading, extra batteries, lip gloss and a flyer from a fabric store. It has room for all the things I think I might want or need, but I don’t really want to be committed to carrying around all the time, so I can switch things out. Like “Mmm, this might take a while, I better take my book and my water, but I don’t think I’ll need my check book.” Switch out- leave one purse in the car.

So I’m taking step aerobics class. I admit it freely—I am a white girl with no rhythm. The leader is also a dance instructor. She’s a middle aged woman who steps and jumps and stretches and in general moves so gracefully. I’ve been there four times. I still flounder around like a dying fish. I watch the leader intently—she steps with her left leg—I see it, I comprehend it I know I should be doing the same thing—instead my right leg tries to imitate the movement (and does so quite poorly .)

I stop, I start again, “on the beat, one-two-three-dang off again!” Half a step off and doing everything backwards, I feel I must be the bane of this poor woman’s step aerobic career.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to fall off the step pretty soon.

The workout mat they handed me this week had the work “HELP” scratched onto the surface.
I feel the pain man. I feel the pain.

(outside a gymnasium) She came puffing through the door, and complaining bitterly with a adolescent daughter in tow . . . “This is ridiculous! It’s so Stupid!” She wears an exercise outfit. “I (huff-puff-waddle-waddle) can’t believe how STUPID it is!” She’s a larger woman.

The daughter: “Mo-o-om!” That sing-song three syllable “I can’t believe you are saying this out loud, there are people here!” chastisement a child gives to a parent.

The source of the complaint: She couldn’t find the elevator to get to the gym . . . which is on the second floor.

God forbid that a fat woman has to walk up twenty steps to get to a gym to do . . . whatever she was going to be doing there . . . obviously not the stair climbing machine.

I dreamed last night that I was explaining my materialism to a Lebanise man. Honestly, I should learn more about Lebanon.

How one thing leads to another . . . I forgot to feed my cat the other day, the result was that I peed on her toy. Funny how things work out. I got up and went into the bathroom to discover pads and tampons all over the floor with a light sprinkling of Q-tips. The cat must have been anxious. I peed as usual, but when I went to flush—I saw a blue thing, I looked closer, it was one of the cat’s toys, in the toilet. Already peed on. I knew I had to pull it out, else it would clog up the toilet. Ick.
In the living room, papers everywhere, in the kitchen—she had made tiny little puncture marks in the plastic cat food container . . .the one I bought because she kept eating holes in the paper cat food bags.
Mental note: don’t forget to feed the cat.

I just wanted to know how to crochet a granny square! I put in "granny square instructions" in google and the first hit said, "Granny square instructions" and I made the mistake of clicking on it . . . to find, much to my horor an pornography site . . . with pictures of old women doing . . . things . . .

Here is a marker of life:

Barbara E. Hindle: September 12, 1924 – December 15, 2003

It is impossible for me to define a life which helped to define mine, but here I honor my grandmother’s memory. My spiritual leader and provider.

She had a misunderstood daughter in my mother, and I believe she strove to correct her perceived failings in me.

I can only hope I gave her something in return.

She had a family burial plot, but she chose instead to be cremated and to have her ashes scattered in the same lake my mother’s ashes had been scattered. My aunt said the idea fascinated my grandmother, to have those ashes travel the lakes and rivers, to reach the Gulf, and move on the oceans- to move at one with my mother, just once.

I rejoice her body and spirit have found a better way. I rejoice that she has been and will always be part of who I am.

"The plot is so Captitizing, and when you think it needs a better ending, you think back over everything you've read, and say "It's good enough." "

"When I read this book, I knew this was THE book. It touched me, but not really."

These are reviews from a book that I read as a teenager. I kind of wanted to read it again, but maybe I'm remembering it as much better than it really was . . .

that's all I have to say to you and your vengence of signs, Travis

I went to Thrift town yesterday. I saw 7 pairs of women's size 11W shoes. They were all outrageous, red snake skin heals and baby-blue-see- through-sling-backs . . . I think a drag queen died and donated his wardrobe to charity.

You're Animal Farm!

by George Orwell

You are living proof that power corrupts and whoever leads you will
become just as bad as the past leaders. You're quite conflicted about this emotionally
and waver from hopelessly idealistic to tragically jaded. Ultimately, you know you can't
trust pigs. Your best moments are when you're down on all fours.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

people dressed up like food make me smile. Everytime.

I've discovered something about myself: I have the habit of taking pictures of signs.

I guess its a hobby? I never noticed I had so many pictures of signs!

My lips are almost back to normal.

A balanced mind observes the world with both innocent acceptance and cautious doubt.
I've been wearing one ear ring for a week. No one has said anything.

Today I learned about paper dresses. All the rage in the 60s until it was discovered they were not fire retardant, and wearing a paper dress you could just burst into flames at any second! Thus the demise of the paper dress craze. Long Live Nixon!

This is why I don't flip channels . . . usually. I was going through my meager number of stations when I came across the public television station. Within 5 seconds I had said "Ugh! Ahh! Ick!" concerning the introduction images for the program which was about to air.

But I was hooked, I had to see the brain surgery, I had to see the (artificial) limb replacement surgery . . . I had to know! So there I was, shunning American Idol, but like a magnet- stuck to the lives of these two people going through crazy tramatic surgeries on camera.

One was a 60 something woman who had been blind for almost 30 years. The doctors were implanting electrodes on her brain to stimulate her visual cortex. The desired result was for a camera attached to a pair of glasses to feed images to a computer, the computer to translate them to the brain, and the brain to translate a dot matrix to the eye. She could "see" what they called phonemes- twinkling dots outlining contrasts. A $100, 000 dollar venture to see twinkling outlines. Risking death or brain damage-- I'm not sure I'd be able to go so far. She had 40 wires coming out of two "ports" in the back of her head, and a bulky, heavy computer to wear around her waist. The doctor called it a "vacation from blindness" not a cure. But he hopes to advance it into a cure in the future.

A special note for the roomie: they stuck her head back together with "biologic glue." Which to me looked Abysmal with a capital B!

The second person on the show was an older Norwegian man. He had lost his leg in a hiking accident. He was getting a titanium rod implanted into his bone so that he could attach an artificial leg without the use of a vacuum seal (which is how most artificial limbs are attached.) It was stated that "the discovery of titanium's adaptability to living tissue was an accident." The doctor then said, "I was implanting titanium in rabbit's legs . . . " Wait a minute? An accident?!

"I accidentally implanted a titanium rod in this rabbit's leg . . . " Or was it more like, "Well, I was implanting things into rabbit's legs, you know, to see what would happen . . . I implanted bologna, taco shells, pink erasers ( What floats aside from wood? more wood! rocks! small churches!) nothing happened. Well, of course the rabbits died, but aside from that, nothing, until I implanted the titanium!"

Anyway, this procedure was over 90% successful. But for some reason, which they didn't explain, it had only been preformed on less than 100 patients.

A balanced mind observes the world with both innocent acceptance and cautious doubt.

“Wendy,” he said, “don’t withdraw. I can’t help crowing, Wendy, when I’m pleased with myself.” Still she would not look up, though she was listening eagerly. “Wendy,” he continued, in a voice that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, “Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys.”

Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many inches, and she peeped out of the bedclothes.

“Do you really think so, Peter?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I think it’s perfectly sweet of you,” she declared, “and I’ll get up again;” and she sat with him on the side of the bed. She also said she would give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did not know what she meant, and he held out his hand expectantly.”

“Surely you know what a kiss is?” she asked, aghast.
“I shall know when you give it to me,” he replied stiffly; and not to hurt his feelings she gave him a thimble.

“Now,” said he, “shall I give you a kiss?” and she replied with a slight primness, “If you please.” She made herself rather cheap by inclining her face toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn button into her hand; so she slowly returned her face to where it had been before, and said nicely that she would wear his kiss on the chain round her neck. It was lucky that she did put it on that chain, for it was afterwards to save her life.

Peter Pan

I think I could write a paper about this excerpt, very insightful concerning the male anf female psyche.

The unthinkable has happened . . . I have chapped lips! Sigh

So, I’ve always hated snow. From the first time I touched it until I woke up this morning and saw it glistening on the black tree branches outside my window.

I stayed inside all day . . . occasionally glaring out the window at the slowly melting snow. My “White Valentine’s Day” has not been the greatest, besides the frozenness of it all, my would be Valentine is otherwise indisposed on this fine day.

About six o’clock, finally my boredom over came my anti-snow sentiments and I went out to start my car. I looked at the snow still piled on the windshield. I considered my options in removing it. I was against touching it if at all possible. I decided to see if my windshield wipers were powerful enough to push all that nasty wet snow off the windshield, thusly saving me from coming in direct contact with the stuff.

It seemed a brilliant idea, and as I turned the wipers on, I was delighted to see that it would work! Alas, as in the movies, when everything slows down just before tragedy strikes—I saw it happening, but I was frozen, I couldn’t react fast enough . . .

I had turned the wipers on before I closed the car door—all the snow that had been piled on the windshield, was suddenly wiped right off the glass and into my car, and on to my foot and all over my power windows and locks door panel . . . Just another one of my brilliant moments.

I had a dream the other night that I was to be the mother of the new prophet.

The atmosphere was somewhere between a Muslim state and the setting of one of my favorite negative utopia books The Handmaiden's Tale.

I was standing in a large, windowless room full of women, most of them preganent, like me. We were all wearing long robes and veils, waiting in line. We were all displeased about our situations and we were complaining and demanding our rights to the (female) authorities.

My neighbor in line had rights because she was wife of a high official. I had rights because I was to be the mother of the new prophet.

Then a woman came in and quickly, quietly said, "They will aim at the table tops." Then she closed the door. As she left the lights went out and the room was black. Somehow all the women knew that this declaration meant to get on the floor.

Then the men came with machine guns and shot at the level of the table tops. They left. No one was hurt.

From someone who's been to the UAE and Kish ("The Land of Tranquilizing," as advertised in the Kish Airport) I have this to say concerning the following excerpts from an article in the international section of MSN news . . .

"What the heck is he talking about?"
Thank you for your time.

Kish, one of the three free trade zones in Iran, is the Islamic Republic’s attempt to lure tourism and foreign exchange. The island operates as a kind of bridge between the conservative morality of mainland Iran and the bikini-and-booze freedoms in parts of the United Arab Emirates, 60 miles away.

Unlike the mainland, there are no rules to limit the mingling of unrelated men and women. They even get together in wet suits for scuba diving classes — impossible elsewhere under Iran’s strict dress codes. On the streets, women go without the long coat worn across Iran.

French lawmakers overwhelmingly back veil ban
Law would prohibit religious symbols in state schools
"The key passage of the law, which schools would apply from September, reads: “In primary and secondary state schools, wearing signs and clothes that conspicuously display the pupil’s religious affiliation is forbidden.”
The issue goes to the heart of France’s self-image as a secular state that keeps faith out of state schools and services to ensure no religion dominates or suffers discrimination.

Today I learned the largest fish ever caught was a Russian Sturgeon. It was 24 feel long, 3250 pounds and caught in the Volget River (Russia of course.) That is one big fish. Normal size for a Russian Sturgeon is about 8 feet and 46 pounds.

And they are ugly, and they are the biggest producers of caviar.

I also learned how to say, "I love you, stupid" in Swahili. Ask me sometime.

And the biggest and tallest mountain from base to top is Mauna Loa. But it doesn't get much recognition because it's hanging out in the Pacific.

I heard on the radio today that on Friday February 13th (the day before Valentine’s Day) you can go to a drive through Krispy Kream in Irving to get a free donut and a wedding ceremony.
They are marrying people at a drive through donut place!
Things may have gone too far this time.

Mad Lib Time!

I got a Mad Lib a Day calendar: Play along with me: This is one of my favorites-
(My words)
1. Silly word 1. Googly fart
2. Article of clothing (plural) 2. Pants
3. Plural noun 3. Folders
4. Verb (past tense) 4. Spat (on)
5. Adjective 5. Pretty



Got your words? Now fill in the blanks

On February 1, 1979, the _____1_______ Khomeni took over Iran. He made all women wear ____2______ on their heads, banned all ____3_____ and ____4_____ anyone who disagreed with him, thereby showing the world the _____5_____ side of Islam.

Learn something new today:

It’s good to learn something everyday. I’m sure we all learn something new almost everyday, but sometimes I just can’t pin point what I’ve learned. It is my mission this month to intentionally learn something new each day.

I had a bit of a late start on this one, but here’s what I got for the past few days: Today I looked up the definition of the Immaculate Conception. I had thought in the past that the term applied to the conception of Jesus, but somewhere in the back of my head I didn’t think that was right . . . I must have read something somewhere . . . I decided to find out about it.

The immaculate conception refers to Mary, the mother of Christ. According to the Catholic Church dogma, Mary was born without the burden of original sin (although she still carried the penalty of it, “Unfair!” I say.) Some theologians believed (believe) that Mary was sinless, because the redemption of Christ bought her whole and unblemished.

I read (am still reading) about all this from the Catholic Encyclopedia. What I thought would be a one to two page explanation (at the most) turned out to be a fourteen page article. Oh those Catholics do go on . . .

Yesterday I did some research on the “Bubble Boy.” I just watched the 1977 made for TV movie “Boy in the Plastic Bubble” starring a very young John Travolta. I had heard it was “based on a true story.” So I was trying to find the “true story.”

As it turns out there really was a Bubble Boy, but only one. A small percentage of children over the years have been born without immune systems. Today this condition is treated with drugs, blood transfusions and bone marrow transplants and is still very deadly.

The majority of the children born with out immune systems are boys. In the late 1950s (I think) a boy named David Vetter was born and immediately diagnosed with the disease. (His older brother had already died of the condition.) Soon after birth David was isolated. He remained in his “bubble” until he died as a result of experimental treatments at age 12.

I've got a web pet! Meet Princess Pricilla (the penguin).

I'm all about bartering lately. Everytime anyone asks me for the least little thing, "Hey, can I use your pen?" "Can I have a piece of gum?" "Will you come here for a minute?" I say, "What's in it for me?" "What am I going to get out of it?" "What have you done for me lately?" (Ooooo-yeah- thank you Miss Jackson, if you're nasty)

Oh, and speaking of stalking things. . . I think he's lusting after his girlfriend's neighbor's cat!

ok, so I'm stalking withadot's blog, so what of it?

When I was six I decided 6 was a great age to be, and that from that time forward 6 would be my favorite number: Thus not surprising to know . . .

My inner child is six years old!

Look what I can do! I can walk, I can run, I can
read! I like to do stuff, and there's a whole
big world out there to do it in. Just so long
as I can take my blankie and my Mommy and my
three best friends with me, of course.


How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla

I feel much more accomplished with this map, although there are still many places for me . . .



create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

Man, it's hard to visualize how many places you haven't been . . . here's a map



create your own visited country map
or write about it on the open travel guide

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/4096586/

Whale explodes in Taiwan . . . they needed to mention the size of his penis for what reason . . . ?

http://n.ethz.ch/student/mkos/pinguin.swf

Oh if only I knew how to make a link . . . this is a great fun game. I endorse it.
Click once for the penguin to drop, a second time for the swing.

Sure at home I'm Kermit, but at work . . .


You are Beaker.
You are very tense, stressed and paranoid. You hate
furthering the cause of science, as it tends to
get you blown up.

SPECIAL TALENTS:
Scientific assistant, Victim
LAST BOOK READ:
"1001 Meeps to a Bigger Vocabulary"

FAVORITE MOVIE:
"Run Silent, Run Meep"

QUOTE:
"Meep! Meep! Meep!"

NEVER LEAVES HOME WITHOUT:
Medical Coverage


What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

The cat knows the wrath of my rubber band gun. She might be out of heat now-- she's acting more like her "I'm really just a tiny little wild animal intent on destroying your home" self.

At the book store today I was suprised (I don't know why I let these things suprise me at this age) 1. The "Baptist Bible," edited by Dr. Criswell and 2. The "Gay Mystics" and I checked to make sure they didn't mean in the "I'm happy, jovial and fun-to-be-around" kind of way. I couldn't bear to investigate further as to who the gay mystics were/are or what made that Bible esp. Baptist.

I just found my cat closed in my room mate's room. Damn cat.

I learned today that some people in the northwest traditionally eat catsup on their tacos. I believe there is something fundamentally wrong with that.

I decided to take a walk, and I figure if I taking a walk I should at least end up somewhere. I decided to end up at Goodwill. I bought four National Geographics, and two dresses. All for the low price of $13.84. As I was walking home, a guy came up to me to tell me his sad story about being homeless, broke, etc. So I gave him five bucks. He gave me a knock off Swiss Army knife, you know, in exchange. Then he blessed me-- that I might have a car under my feet so I didn't have to walk.

I wasn't brave enough to tell a man in wheelchair that I have a car, I like to walk.

sha-la-la-la-la-la live for today

You are Kermit the Frog.
You are reliable, responsible and caring. And you
have a habit of waving your arms about
maniacally.

FAVORITE EXPRESSIONS:
"Hi ho!" "Yaaay!" and
"Sheesh!"
FAVORITE MOVIE:
"How Green Was My Mother"

LAST BOOK READ:
"Surfin' the Webfoot: A Frog's Guide to the
Internet"

HOBBIES:
Sitting in the swamp playing banjo.

QUOTE:
"Hmm, my banjo is wet."


What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Where AIDS comes from:

What is the story you heard? I heard it came from Africa. Someone (an African someone to be sure) ate an infected monkey brain (uncooked, as a delicacy of course) and that person became infected and it just spread from there. It hopped continents with the travelers. Conclusion-AIDS came from Africa.

What have Africans heard?

AIDS came from Westerners. Westerners having beastial relations contracted the disease. Then, by way of research, poor Africans were intentially infected to see the course the disease woud run. In that way it was introduced to Africa.

I wonder where it came from according to Chinese people?

A while back I thought I saw a bumper sticker that said, "Don't mess with Jesus"

But when I got closer it just said, "Don't mess with Texas"

I was so dissapointed.

I think my cat's in heat.

I also think she thinks her name is "Get-down-get-back-get-out-stupid-beasty-cat!"

I found my "Magnum 12" rubberband gun under my bed today . . . I've pegged her several times already. It's alot easier than getting up to chase her away from something. It's like a remote control for my cat. :0)

Her name is Suzy. If I had a weiner dog, I'd name him Richard.

I lost my blogs about the mouse that stole the rhinestone belt and the cat who . . . I can't actually remember the point I was making about the cat . . Maybe I just lost the rhinestone belt . . . No, I blame the mouse! and the cat!

But now I can't find my medicine box!

Damn cat!

I resolve to make resolutions . . . before the end of the month.

I’m on the hunt . . . . looking for a place to meet some new people, do some Bible study, service projects . . . that kind of stuff. Church #6, Sunday school # 4.

I went to the single adult Sunday school class today. I’ve gone to a few, they are generally full of people who are either pretty but gay, or they are ugly, boring, weird beyond description, extremely needy or just plain dumb. I’m not saying this to be mean, I have been to several single adult classes, and it just so happens that these are the people who congregate for single adult groups. I mean when you start talking to them, you quickly realized why in fact they are single adults. A single adult class is where I found Betty. Go figure.

Because of the single adult stigma, at this church (which I like) I started in the college and career class. The people were nice, the teachers were okay, the material sucked and the format was even worse. (In case you don’t know already, I admit and fully embrace my status of Sunday school/Bible study snob).

So, there I was sitting in the single adult room, when behold, a beautiful man walked in! It was apparently his first time there as well. I had a dream last night that I met a beautiful man in the Mediterranean and we . . . ah well anyway- Mr Pretty-guy came and sat near me, everyone asked us all our business, I learned: Insurance guy, new in town, at least 28 years old (that’s how the class was divided.) I knew I liked him as soon as he laughed at my little joke. (SS teacher: What would you do if you had a dream about a man from Macedonia calling you to come help him? Me: I’d say, “where the heck is Macedonia?”)

We walked out together after class, and I confessed I didn’t really know how to get out of the church, but he didn’t either, so we wandered around until we found an exit sign. He asked if I would be there next week, and I said (in my head, “Oh yes, Mr Pretty-guy, you are worth coming back to look at.) out loud, “Yes, see you next week.”

As it turned out the rest of the class wasn’t too bad either. There were a few of the usual suspects: the very short round lady with no ankles to speak of and the tiniest feet I’d ever seen on an adult, one guy who kinda set off the gaydar, one foreign guy who didn’t know what hopscotch or pumpernickel were (don’t ask how I know that) and “the weird guy” You know that guy who usually gravitates toward me because of the universal pull I have which draws all weirdoes unto me wherever I go. His name was Billy-Bob of course.

The lesson- not too bad. Only one point to argue, which wasn’t the teacher’s statement, but the international student minister’s comment. (I think that is one of two jobs I’ve ever heard of which I felt qualified for in regard to my training and education.) We were talking about the calling of God in our lives. They started talking about the burning bush, and why doesn’t God make it so obvious to us now as he did to Moses then? Like, why don’t we get talking burning bushes? The guy said “Well, Moses had been praying and seeking God’s will with an open and pure heart, so God revealed himself in such an obvious way because he knew Moses trusted him.”

What the heck? Where did that come from? I mean, it’s possible, but what would lead a person to think of it? My Bible says Moses killed a guy in Egypt, fled into the desert, married a flock herder’s daughter and was out in the wilderness with his sheep when he saw this bush that was on fire but wasn’t burning up, so he said to himself “I will go over and see this strange sight.” (Exodus 3:3)

What I get from that is that Moses was a hothead who killed a guy because he was mad, ran away like a coward and hid in the desert until he was so bored with life that even a bush on fire was interesting to him.

I get that Moses noticed something out of the ordinary and went to check it out. I get that Moses had probably learned a thing or two about sheep and about himself in those 40 years he’d been gone and that he was ready to hear from God at that point.

Maybe God had tried to get his attention before the bush, but Moses was so caught up in himself and what he had done and what he was doing that he hadn’t noticed. That is conjecture, but at least my conjecture starts with a maybe!

I know the Bible can be made to say just about anything, and if it doesn’t say it, you can pretend its in there and 8 out of 10 people will go along with you.

“And the wise men were on their way to kill baby Jesus when-“
“WAIT A MINUTE! That’s not in there!”
“Oh, it’s not? I haven’t read the story in a long time.”

Read the story! And remember your “maybes” in conjecture! Someone might really think you know what you are talking about when you make statements out of things you’ve pulled out of your butt!

I have a small blister on my ankle as a result of "Tina-Turner-Barbie-dress-up-birthday-at-the-roller-rink-night."

quote of the week:

"He's just lucky I don't make his head explode with my laser eyes . . . he's just lucky I don't have laser eyes."

I miss my pudding pop.

I fell at work the other day. I was out on the roof, and I tripped over a huge cement block. I scraped my knee and got a little bruise. I made the mistake of mentioning it in joke to my boss, who immediatly asked me if I needed to go the the hospital.
I said "no, it still bends" He was insistant, "Do you need to see a doctor? Are you sure it's okay, maybe it will hurt later."

"Gosh, only if I'm lucky huh?" I wanted to tell him not to worry, I wasn't going to sue the company for letting me be dumb enough to fall over a cement block.

I'm thinking if I went to a doctor with this skinned knee, he would laugh at me.

The "Saftey Officer" came to ask me if I was okay, if I needed a doctor, and how it happened, and I had to explain why I was out on the roof (goofing off).

Mental note: Next time you're goofing off, and you skin you knee, TELL NO ONE!

In class the other night they came upon this conversation of seeing an animal being killed for the first time. Everyone had a story of a chicken or a pig or a goat.

I had a story too, but I didn’t tell them . . . they weren’t worth my story. But I think I’ll write it for posterity.

My grandfather had chickens, I may have talked about the chickens before . . . I was afraid of the chickens . . . anyway. There was this one chicken with a limp. My grandfather didn’t want it to breed other limping chickens, so he told my brother to kill it. The 13 year old gladly accepted the challenge. He grabbed his hatched, grabbed the chicken and headed down to the big boulder that stuck out of the ground at the end of the field.

Being a curious 5 year old, I of course followed the brother, the hatchet and the limping chicken.

He may have described to me what was going to happen, I don’t remember. I do remember the hatchet hitting the stone, the head falling to one side, the limping chicken falling to the other side, and the amazing sight of a headless, limping chicken with blood splirting out of his neck flapping and running in circles until he fell down, kicked his good leg a few times and then finally gave it up.

I don’t remember being traumatized by it at all. I did stop eating chicken not long after that. Maybe I was traumatized, and I’ve blocked it out. Who knows. I still don’t like chickens with or without heads.

I remembered the taste of an icicle, out of the blue, I remembered the taste . . . like the smell of cold on the wind . . . I haven’t tasted it; I haven’t smelled it for such a long time. Icicles and cold- cold cold enough to smell, they don’t come to this area often. And if they do, it’s hard to trust a city icicle . . .besides they are never big enough around here. And the smell, it was even so rare in the north. I don’t remember when I last smelled that smell, and I thought I had forgotten.

But it came to me in the middle of the day, in a tall building, under florescent lights. I was washing my hands and I tasted it . . . the very icicle that my brother and I broke of the eves of my grandparents’ house. The one that was nearly as big as I was. The one next to the one that fell when we were jiggling it. It fell and ripped my coat, a parka with a faux fur hood lining. It seems like a dream now.

Oh, I hated the snow and the ice, but I had to go out side for so many reasons. And I liked the creaks and cracks that the new, thin ice made when I walked across it. I liked the squeak of the coldest snow under my boots, and the collection on my soles that gained me up to three inches in the sticky snow. And I would watch the bubbles move under the ice before it was solid. And I liked to walk on the crusted over snow seeing how long I could stay on the surface then hearing the breaking glass sounds when I fell through. And I liked to look at a clean white expanse, and to walk across that expanse, my foot prints alone evidencing that I was the only person who had ever walked that space.

I liked those things, I haven’t thought of them for a long, long time. Or thought of the frost that painted its self across the window pane, and I would wipe it away, and I would lend it my breath, hot on cold, creating new intricate patterns unique and beautiful, and I would scratch them off again with my fingernail so I could see what the new snow again.

November 22, 2003: 78 degrees, Arlington, TX.

I heard a song today that made me smile. It was called, and I will quote, "What Would Willie Do?" "Willie loves all people, Willie loves all races, he even made a hit country song with Julio Iglasis, and that's not easy" It was a tribute song of all the greatness of Willie Nelson. It told of his adventures and misadventures, about the time his wife, whom he beat when he was drunk, how she one day had had enough so when he passed out, she sewed him up in a sheet and beat him with a broom stick. It talked about how he handled it when the IRS took all his stuff, his house, his golf course, all his cars. All he had left in the world was his tour bus, his four semis full of equipment and his crew of 40 people. But he bounced right back.

Indeed, Willie is an icon.

Another thing that made me smile today was the Asian man I saw crossing the road. I don't always smile at Asian men crossing the road, but this one was wearing high water pants that would have kept him dry for day in the time of Noah's flood. He had on white socks and black shoes. Very cute.

Just before that I had been sitting at a stop light listening to CCR when I suddenly realized that I was way into a shoulder dance. Blessed are the tinted windows.

Drat!

I had a Morman Jesus sighting. I was at 1/2 price books. I walked into the Christian section and there was this guy talking to this woman. He was holding a paper and explaining some point of theology to her. She kind of sounded like she didn't really want to know, but was indulging a stranger. I didn't pay much attention to them as I was hunting a book. But when I turned around and looked at them, the guy was Morman Jesus! He has shoulder length wavy blond hair, a full beard and blue eyes. He was shorter than I had imagined Morman Jesus. All the same, I felt like following him when he walked away, just to see where he was going. Maybe that was how James and John felt too.

People have been remembering me doing things I never did, being places I never was.

I was told that was better than not being remembered at all because at least they are thinking of me.

I'm not sure though.

maybe why I'm skeptical:
I was the youngest grandchild. That left me open to being picked on by not just my older brothers, buy by my cousins too. One time when I was a little kid, maybe 5, they showed me a piece of candy and said, "This is a pill."
I said, "No it' isn't." It looked like candy to me.
They insisted it was a pill and I had to take it. They said "Don't bite it, swollow it with water."
They gave it to me, I put it in my mouth and bit it. Just as I had suspected, a red hot.
I said, "It's candy."
They said, "It's a pill, now swallow it this time." And they gave me another one.
I bit it, and said, "It's candy."
They said, "NO! it's a pill! SWALLOW it!" and they gave me another one.

Now, even at the tender age of 5 I knew that this was a game all to my advantage: I figured if I went along with the story and swollowed the "pill", they would probably stop giving me candy, but if my skepticism remained, I could probably get all the candy I wanted.

I've been feeling pretty skeptical lately, where's my candy?

I dreamed of French Creek last night. A smallish river that runs through the town I grew up in, French Creek was locally famed because George Washington (so the story goes) threw a silver dollar into it. I don't think I ever knew why he threw it in.

I think I'll try to find out.

He probably did a lot of things in and around French Creek. He probably crossed it several times, (but the Delaware gets all the glory for that.) I expect he peed in it too (French Creek and the Delaware) but nobody really wants to talk about where the first President of the United States of America urinated.

I digress, but I think I will continueto digress: I never went swimming in French Creek myself, (although it is possible that President Washington did.) My brother and I would go down to the river sometimes, throw rocks and sticks, spit off the bridge, look for turtles on the banks, but we never got in, due to a healthy fear of the undercurrents instilled in us by our grandmother.

When my grandmother was a child, she and her little brother used to go swimming in French Creek. One day when he was about 10 and she was about 12, they were swimming. She said the last time she saw him he was laying on one of the cement support structures of the bridge. The next time she looked, he was gone. His body was found the next day. No one can say what happened. He was a strong swimmer. Maybe he hit his head, maybe he passed out, maybe he was sucked down by the under current. My brother and I never went swimming in French Creek.

My dream . . . I was standing near the bank when I decided to fly over the river (because you can do that in a dream) to get a better look. I was using some sort of small hang -gliding contraption. While I was over the river I notice how low the water was. I thought to myself that I had never seen the river so low, but I knew that it was still dangerous to get into the water.

As I was coming back across the river in my hang glider, I looked down and saw a large piece of debris floating down the center. It was shaped like a Star of David. I was wondering what it could be from when I lost control of my glider and plunged into the water. I was afraid, but I grabbed hold of the Star of David and I knew I would be okay until I could get out of the water.

So . . . should I become a Jew?

Should I avoid hang gliders?

Should I learn the history of French Creek?

I don't know.

I do know this: French Creek joins the Allegheny River in Franklin, PA . The Allegheny River joins the Monogahala River to form the Ohio River in Pittsburgh, PA. The Ohio River joins the Mississippi River in Cairo, IL. The Mississippi River empties into the Gulf of Mexico in New Orleans, LA.

Thank you Mrs. Zeigler 7th grade geography.

9. Apply it correctly. Surratt advises this method: Line and fill in lips with liner. Apply lipstick from the tube or using a lip brush (which eases color into tiny lip lines) over the liner. Blot once with a tissue, and lightly dust with face powder. Apply one more coat of lipstick, and you're set.

I went to inform the leasing office of my aptartment complex that there was a crack in my tub. My room mate had pointed it out, I would have never seen it.

The leasing agent wrote "Tub cra" and scratched it out. She wrote "Tub crac" and scratched it out. She wrote "Tub crak" and for a third time scratched it out. She wrote "Tub cr." She asked me, "How long has it been cracked?" I said I didn't know.

She gave me a look like I was the biggest idiot on the planet.

I'm thinking a woman who doesn't know how to spell "cracked" has no right to give such looks. I told her I wear glasses, but I take them off to shower so I can't see the crack, my room mate mentioned it to me.

She laughed at me as an adult might laugh at a child who is telling a story with too many details and said, "that doesn't matter."

I wanted to flick her forhead.

She asked me what my apartment number was. I was thinking I'd help her out by making it very simple. I said, "Four Zero Two."
She began to write as she spoke, "4 . . . "
I said "Zero Two."
She said "4 . . . "
I said "Zero Two."
She said "4 . . . "
I said, "Zero Two, Four Zero Two. FOUR ZERO TWO!"
She looked at me and asked with raising intonation "Oh two? four-oh-two?"
I said "Yes, four-oh-two." I guess that whole zero bit threw her off. I should have known when she couldn't spell cracked.

They must try hard to find the biggest dummies alive for that job. The first leasing agent I talked to wanted to be sure I made at least "ten hundred" dollars a month before I moved in.

"Did that really happen?" said Maggie White. She was an dull person, but a sensational invitation to make babies. Men looked at her and wanted to fill her up with babies right away. She hadn't had even one baby yet. She used birth control."
Slauterhouse Five-- Kurt Vonnegut

I don't know which one I like more, "Love, love the Jews" to the tune of "Love, Love me Do," or "Baa, Baa We're Lambs" to the tune of "Bar-Barbara Ann." I got a tape from my friend of Christian parodies of popular secular songs . . . I can only hope they were intended to be funny, because that they are.

The degeneration of a conversation:

Flossie and I were admiring our new "associate appriciation" t-shirts and I tried to say that I was going to alter mine, but the words got jumbled up and some strange made up lanugage came out instead. She matched my made up language with her made up language, and I responded in an Asian sounding made up langauge and a bow. She said, "It looks like you're praying to your t-shirt." At which time she got down on her knees and began to worship my t-shirt.

The I thought, "Good Lord! This conversation was so normal less than a minute ago! How does this happen?!" It's not like it was an isolated incidence either. This is why people ask if we've been huffing gas from the lab.

I bought a dvd player. When I turned it on for the firs time it said, "WAIT . . . LORD"
Well, that caught me off guard. I wasn't sure how I felt about my new audio visiual equipment addressing me as "LORD" when I realized that it had really said "LOAD."

Which makes me wonder 1. why I can't read and 2. why I often assume the oddest things when I misunderstand a word or situation.

One time I was riding with my friend when I saw a sign that said, "10% DISC NT" So I said, "Hey did you see that? It said 10% disco night!" (It was a Ci Ci's pizza place) "What does it mean? Is it 10% off if you dress like a disco person? or do they play disco music and you get 10% off?"

My friend looked at me and said, "Are you kidding? That says '10% DISCOUNT' the "U" fell out!"

Oh. I still thought Disco night would be more fun.

Not only can I not read, I can't speak either! The other day I was making fun of my co-worker for saying "elbow tennis" in stead of tennis elbow and I was all. "Oh no, I have tellbow ennis! . . . ah wait . . . I mean elbow tennis . . . I mean tennis elbow . . . dang it!"

Those brain cells are going fast.

http://msn.match.com/msn/article.aspx?articleid=1274&trackingid=516311&bannerid=542128

What is your flirting style quiz:

my score: Your flirting form is like that perfect martini — a great balance of style and smoothness. Your twist? Your natural curiosity about people leaves them feeling like they made a real connection. How's that for a perfect 10?

See, even the non social type can do it right if we really try!

I went to get my hair cut on my birthday. I hadn’t had it done in a while, because well, I hate paying to get it cut. I mean, it’s not like I have a “do” so I don’t have to worry about it growing out. My general pattern is to get it cut to my shoulders and let it grow for a few years. When it’s too heavy, and it gives me a head ache, I get it cut again.

So off to the Vietnamase school of cosmetology I go, for an experience and a $5.00 hair cut.

I walk in, and immediately get the sensation of being foreign. I’ve entered a strange new land. I am the only white person in the room and a foot taller than anyone in the salon.

I am greated: “Hello! You wan’ hair cut?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You sign paper.”

The paper is to remind me that I am getting my hair cut at a reduced rate because it will be done by an advanced student of cosmetology. The school is not responsible for my satisfaction.

Fine, I live on the edge, I sign the paper.

Then I am asked, “How you wan’ hair?”
“I want three inches off the back, long layers in the front, and bangs.”
“Ah, okay, okay, no problem, you follow her to shampoo room.”

So I picked up my purse and when I turned to “follow her.” I couldn’t tell which one she was! Dash it! They are all small Asian women with black hair! So I wandered around until I found a room with a very large black man sitting on a very small chair. He was getting a pedicure. It seemed Alice-in-Wonderlandishly out of place. I said, “I’m looking for the shampoo room.” I was told to come in.

While my hair was shampooed I was told several times “How Fine, how good,” my hair was. “Your hair very fine! So much! Very nice!” I figured by “Fine” she meant “good,” and by good she probably meant full or healthy or thick, or some adjective that goes with “nice” for hair, but I suppressed the English teacher inside of me and didn’t correct her with a lesson on what “fine” means in connection with hair.

So my little Vietnamese student of cosmetology started cutting my hair. I could tell she was a little nervous, I think she even measured my hair to be sure she got three inches exactly. She was a little shaky and she asked, “You in hurry?” “No? Okay, I go slow, be very careful.”

So, an hour and a half later, after several consultations with other students and teachers, after every student there gathered around what turned out to be that day’s lesson plan (me and my long layers) the teacher/owner of the school finished off my $5.00 hair cut with a razor comb and a flourish. There was applause and someone spoke from the crowd to announce “He is a master with scissors!”

I half expected the scene to go hazy and an ancient blind master to appear saying, “Grasshopper, you must not let the scissors master you--- you must be the master--- of the scissors!”

The paomnnehil pweor of the hmuan mnid.

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total
mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the
huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a
wlohe.

Amzanig huh?

It's good to be a ledgend somewhere, to be that person someone's mother says "why can't you be more like . . . ." about. Yes, someday when I've disappeared without a forwarding address, you'll be sitting around saying, "Yes, I know Shannon would do that." (or would never do that which you will have done) "I wonder what she's doing now . . . she's probably in Mongolia, acting as the saviour to a goat set for sacrifice, a goat long ago spray painted pink and decorated with tinsle in anticiplation of a feast."

Yes, and most likely that will be exactly what I'll be doing.