Raise your hand if you know how funny it is to see a dachshund roll over. (my hand is way up) I taught Buzz to roll over last night and tonight. He still argues with me a lot about it, but he’ll do almost anything for bacon treats. I had to teach him in two phases. First he learned “roll” where he would lay on his side and I would give him a treat. Then while he was on his side, I would tell him “over” and give him a treat after I pushed him over myself. Now, if I say, “Buzz, RollOver!” he’ll sit there and bark at me for a while, and if I keep saying it he’ll finally get around to the “roll” part and I have to keep saying “over! Over!!! OVER!” and eventually he’ll wiggle his way over to the other side. I must say, it is ridiculous. I love it.

I tried to post the other day, but something was wrong with blogger, so here's my blitz of info for this morning . . .

Last night I went to rent a movie and I saw somethings that I needed (NEEDED) to have for my own to keep until death or possibly boredom part us . . . Season two of Wonder Woman, and seasons six and seven of X-Files (my missing years). I briefly thought to myself, "I shouldn't buy all theses" then I thought "screw that, the universe has aligned with me on this night that both of my missing seasons are here and on sale, and I have money, and I just don't feel like price hunting for Wonder Woman."

the bluebonnets are coming!

CMT celebrates the return of one the most beloved pop culture hit series, of all time, The Dukes of Hazzard. A six-figure income is being offered to a Dukes of Hazzard enthusiast to be the new Vice President, CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute. The job responsibilities for the Vice President, CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute are:

• watch The Dukes of Hazzard every weeknight on CMT;
• know the words to The Dukes of Hazzard theme song, "Good Ol' Boys," written and performed on the series by the legendary Waylon Jennings;
• serve as media expert on The Dukes of Hazzard for the CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute: must be available for TV, radio and newspaper interviews to share passion for The Dukes of Hazzard on CMT;
• write the CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute online blog for cmt.com;
• be passionate about The Dukes of Hazzard on CMT;
• make appearances at special events such as Dukesfest 2005 in Bristol, Tenn., (June 4-5, 2005).

Questions candidates will be asked include:

• If you Bo, Luke and Daisy took off in The General Lee, what would happen next?
• If Waylon Jennings wrote your theme song, what would be the title and chorus?
• Which character on The Dukes of Hazzard do you most identify with and why?

Umm, so, apply now! http://www.cmt.com/interact/sweepstakes/dukes_institute/

I dreamed last night that Napoleon Dynamite helped me escape from the clutches (what exactly is a “clutch”?) of an evil corporate giant in Dallas. It was “sweet.”

I also dreamed my dog had puppies, which is surprising since he’s male, even more surprising, in my dream he also had kittens. Sweet!

“Will you bring me my chap stick?”
“No, Napoleon.”
“But my lips hurt real bad!—Idiot!”

I took a quiz to see what Napoleon Dynamite character I am. I’m the tots. The picture won’t post . . . Idiot!

lemme try again.



sweet!

Southerners say my pronunciation patterns are nasally. I say, “At least I know and can pronounce the difference between pen and pin.” Northerners say my vowels are too long and twangy. I say, “Get off my back you bunch of pronunciation Nazis!”

I have difficulty hearing and can’t pronounce the difference between “cot” and “caught.”

So, sue me!
I’m a linguist, I’m an English teacher. (I’m a scientist.)
No, not really.

?????? ????!
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??????????????? ????? ??????????? ?? e-mail. ?????????????, ??????? ????????, ??????????, ???????????? ??????. ??????????? ?? ?????? ? ??????.
???????:
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???????? ???????!

Consider the Labradoodle

or the Doodleman Pinscher
Unfortunatly I could not find pictures of the Shih-Poo, the Cockapoo, the English Boodle, the Whoodle, the Schoodle or the St. Berdoodle.

I didn't make it up. http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/poodlemix.htm

Hey- looking for love, check out craigslist! I found this beauty!

I am gay, for now.
Reply to: anon-59780756@craigslist.orgDate: 2005-02-14, 9:24PM CSTI am a very cute 5'11", built like a boxer, witty, have sparkly green eyes and curly brown hair, and possess nice fashion sense. I have a wavering sexual preference; lately it's been men, but I am looking for a good woman for reproductive and companionship purposes. I can redecorate your house, host your dinner parties, eat your snatch like there's no tomorrow, and impress your mother with my non-nelly ways. I am successful (self employed; partner in a branding consultancy - my role is primarily that of creative director), have very little debt, and own an excruciatingly cute beagle looking for a mommy. I have many straight girl friends who can vouch for my urge to smooch and talent in the sack. I'd do my best friend and try to knock her up, but she's into black professors and while I can be a social chameleon, I can never fake THAT. You should be tall, curvy, mouthy, occasionally vulgar, into pasta and vodka, tolerant of beagles, and wanting a child within the next 3 to 5 years. I don't mind smokers, alcoholics, bipolar freaks, crazy exes, gambling issues, strange parents, or neuroses. Just let me dress you in well-chosen items from Kohl's. I iron like a Korean woman, cook like an Italian grandmother, and am pretty good about taking out the trash. Let me treat you right and give you a baby, baby. It will definitely be worth your while. I won't cheat on you with other chicks, that's for sure.it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
59780756

ao
Taste

Sometimes, sometimes I eat popcorn with hot sauce and garlic salt. I got the hot sauce part from my friends in Gill Village. . . they ate hot sauce (Tabasco sauce) on everything! You name it, they were willing to try it with hot sauce, a particular tribe of people those folks. For a short time I was one of them. Like Steve Martin, "I grew up a poor black child."

The garlic salt, I don't know where I came up with that-- aside, of course, from my impeccable culinary tastes and good sense in combining flavors and textures (I don't want to hear any comments on that one!)

We used to "huff it."

I remember opening a bag of microwave popcorn, and steam rising to meet our faces . . . the secret is to put the hot sauce on first, and shake it up for even coverage. Then, when you put the garlic salt on, it sticks to the hot sauce, close the bag and shake it up.

Open up the bag and huff it. Stick your face down in the bag and take a deep breath, inhale until your nostrils twitch and your eyes water. (But don't sneeze!) That's how you know you got the right amount of hot sauce and garlic salt. That's how you know.

I'm gourmet now. I have chipotle Tabasco sauce and garlic and herb (salt free) seasoning.

So, when I'm complaining about grammar (I didn't drop it after all) this is what I'm complaining about . . . not where to put the comma.

I am worth $1,820,458.00 on HumanForSale.com

take that and rewind it back!

The Lion and I discussed where the symbol for the heart came from. She was told it was modeled after a frog heart . . . Here's what I found.



coinage of Cyrene, which features a seed pod of the revered plant

Perhaps the first known use of the heart shape comes from the 7thcentury BC, in Cyrene. In that city, at that time, Silphium was a plant so highly prized for it's use as birth control that it became extinct. The seeds of Silphium were shaped like hearts, however, making historians believe that the heart shape we know today was based upon this early form of birth control.

Much later, heart symbols show up in stained glass windows, symbolizing the soul or love of Jesus. (Perhaps because the roman soldier who pierced Jesus' heart at the time of the crucifixion saw blood and water flow from Christ's heart.) Later still, the Catholic Church claimed the symbol of the heart originated with St. Margaret Marie Alacoque, who had a vision in the 17th century where she saw a heart shape surrounded by a crown of thorns.

In the Middle Ages, the heart sign was associated with signs for union, togetherness, fire, and flight. More recently, in Sweden, the symbol was used to denote a coed toilet. On an ancient Greek amphora, hearts represented leaves on Dionysus' wreath, although later, the heart's association with Eros, god of sexual love, and Cupid, his Roman counterpart, prevailed. Apparently Aztecs, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, Celts, and Taoists all use this fortuitous symbol.

You scored as The Brown Ajah. You are best suited for the Brown Ajah. Dreamy eyes, and ink stained fingers are the mark of this Ajah. These Aes Sedai are the historians, librarians, scientists, and engineers of the White Tower. They are in charge of the Tower Libraries and as such are usually more negotiable than probably anyone else. These Aes Sedai are usually so caught up in their studies and research projects that they are oblivious to current events in the world. The Brown Ajah 95% The Red Ajah 80% The Green Ajah 70% The Blue Ajah 65% The Gray Ajah 60% The Yellow Ajah 55% The Black Ajah 50% The White Ajah 40% What Ajah are you best suited for? created with QuizFarm.com

The red Ajah was formed to stop the spread of the breaking. They're mandate is to search out men who can channel, take them to the tower for trial (to make sure that they can channel) and then to gentle them (cut/remove they're ability to touch the true source). The Red Ajah more so than the other Ajah keep to themselves. Very few Reds have friends outside of their Ajah.
The reds have grown to have a stigma of being mean, over the years. This is probably a because of the type of woman who chose the Red. Of which there are two. The first are women who hate men, whether they had been raped, beaten, or lesbians probably depends on the woman herself, and RJ has never said why these woman hate men. A good example of this type of Red is Liandrin. The second type are women who actually want to help the men they are searching out. This group seems to be a lot smaller.
Generally if an accepted is tough, mean, or snotty, it is assume they will chose the Red. Elaida is the first Red Ajah to wear the Stole of the Amyrlin seat since Bonhwin basically because of their volatile personalities.

hmmm, my 85% Redness is with the minority group, I'm pretty sure. I just want to help!

I taught my dog the “speak” command. Now it’s just “bark, bark, bark!” any old time. That lesson was probably not one of my best moves. If I have a treat in my hand, it doesn’t matter what the command is, he’s going to do everything he knows to get it.

He knows, “sit” “down” and now “speak” he instinctively knew “jump.” So we have a routine. I get a milk bone and I say, “what do you do for this cookie?” and he sits (military precision as long as there is a cookie involved.) and I say, “what else?” and he lays down. And I say, “what else?” and he barks and then I hold the cookie up about waist high and he jumps. It usually takes 2 or 3 tries to get it. (he’s very short you see) Sometimes he’s just too excited so I have to say “down! Down! Down dumb dog!”
The other day he was barking his little head off to get some food and I said, “Shut up you tiny beast! You speak when I say “speak” not until then!!” Then I thought, ‘Wow, I say some really strange things to this little being.’ The other day I said, “Hey! Get away from there! You aren’t even allowed to sniff books!” (We’ve had a few incidents) Dare I say it’s like have a tiny disobedient slave to yell at for any given reason?

He doesn’t mean to be bad, the reasons that he is so bad are 1. he doesn’t know English and 2. he doesn’t have any thumbs 3. and he has a brain the size of a pitted prune.

If he knew English he certainly would understand that eating books and yarn is clearly unacceptable in Shannonland, for I have told him many and numerous times. If he had thumbs, he wouldn’t get in so much trouble because assuredly he would find much more suitable ways to pass his time. Instead of digging up house plants and shredding the carpet, he could play video games or write letters to the editor before he peed on the newspaper. If he had thumbs, he could write me a letter and say, “It hurt my feelings when you said you were going to strangle me with my own ears, and that is why, in an act of revenge, I pooed in your closet, twice.” If his brain was larger than a pitted prune, he would remember that I get loud and violent when he does certain things. He would remember before he did them, not when I get home and see what he’s done. If his brain wasn’t so tiny I suspect he wouldn’t try to eat his own poo, he wouldn’t try to molest people’s legs.

In short, life would be far different if Buzz knew English, had thumbs and had the a bigger brain.

Thank you for your attention
Sit!

Big news! I did well enough on my GRE to be accepted to UTA unconditionally! (Whahoo!) I was pretty darn sure when I saw those scores I was going to have to jump through some hoops to get accepted, but lo—either somebody made a mistake, or lots of folks are dumber than me! I’m not asking any questions.

The GRE is just a glorified SAT. Let me tell you a little story about me when I was in high school. All the Jr.s had to take the PSAT (Practice SAT) for placement or something. Then we all went to see our guidance councilors individually to talk about our scores and what tract we wanted to take for our Sr. year.

I walked in and my councilor said, “Well, Shannon, your score is right here in the middle of the bell curve.”
I said, “Well, that’s good right?”
He said, “Yes, usually yes, but not so much for you.”
He showed me the curve and explained how it was calculated and said, “So, here are your scores, Language skills, very good, 90 percentile. Math skills, not good, 20 percentile. When we average those together, you are in the middle of the bell curve.”

So, on my GRE, let’s just say there are some very similar scores. C’est la vie—I’m not teaching math!

I went to the mall and got a makeover at one of the counters last weekend. The girl made me up to look like I wasn’t wearing make up. I thought, “Well heck! What’s the point in that? I always look like that because I hardly ever wear make up!” (Yes, yes, the lipstick addiction still stands, but most days, that’s as far as it goes.) I’ve been working on my New Year’s resolution to start wearing eye makeup at least though, because I sure ain’t getting any younger and I need something to temper the downward spiral.

She said, “You have such flawless skin, you really don’t need base, but lets try some of this powder.” I wouldn’t go so far as flawless . . . quite possibly she was handing out the compliments with the hopes of receiving some sales. I didn’t even get mascara! I suppose it doesn’t matter, my eyelashes are already brown so no point in that, and black mascara makes my eyes look creepy. I don’t even want to look at my eyes when I wear it. (I do confess about twice a year I feel devious and wear it just to creep people out.) I did buy some “cheek tint.” So I look pink and rosy “Like a cute boy just walked by.” So said the sales girl.

Ash Wednesday is this week, and then 40 days of Lent. I love the way Christians fast. We’ll “fast” for 40 days, but that doesn’t include Sundays. And we are only be fasting from one thing. Traditionally, Greek Orthodox believers fast from meat for Lent. I don’t know what’s up with the Catholics, seems like they get to choose. Sometimes they give up gum, or Pepsi.

I’ve chosen wheat this year. (I fast from meat regularly) I like to choose something that will affect me on a daily basis, so I can remember what I’m doing. Not just what I’m fasting from, but what I’ve personally associated Lent with in these past few years. This is the time to fix broken things. This is the time to throw away things you don’t need. This is the time to give away things you thought you needed, you think you still need to make you happy. I guess this is spring cleaning for your soul.

Starting Wednesday, there are 40 days to consider the past year, who you’ve been and who you want to be after the resurrection. There are 40 days to bring yourself to change, 40 days to confess, apologize, forgive, atone and change.

Here we go

ao
I heard "My Sharona" three times last week.

Coinsidence?


Yes, yeah-- yeah probably it was.

I read a story in the paper last week about a woman charged with murdering her husband by giving him a sherry enema. I thought, "did I read that right?" Yes, and you did too. Well, who would have thought of such a creative way to kill a guy? Not me.

I once knew a medical professional who insisted if he ever encountered me in his hospital (or whoever,I'm sure this was a threat he used with many) that he was going to give me an enema! (not matter what the problem) Well, naturally you can be sure he never did encounter me. I know now though, the dangers of the enema! Maybe he thought I knew too much, that's why he wanted to get rid of me.

This is an example of bad! Bad hair! Bad HAIR! And North Korea says it is not Okay with them. I'm glad somebody has taken an official stand on this issue at last.

North Korea has launched a campaign urging men to get a proper socialist
short-back-and-sides haircut.
The Stalinist regime feels that long hair on
men is a sign of a corrupt capitalist lifestyle, reports the BBC.
The
campaign, by the state-run Pyongyang television, is entitled Let us trim our
hair in accordance with Socialist lifestyle.
It shows various state-approved
short hairstyles including the "flat-top crew cut," "middle hairstyle," "low
hairstyle," and "high hairstyle".
Men should get a haircut every 15 days, it
recommended.
Tidy attire "is important in repelling the enemies' manoeuvres
to infiltrate corrupt capitalist ideas and lifestyle and establishing the
socialist lifestyle of the military-first era," the campaign says.

It stressed the "negative effects" of long hair on "human intelligence
development", noting that long hair "consumes a great deal of nutrition" and
could thus rob the brain of energy.
Men should get a haircut every 15 days,
it recommended

AO




I want you to see something.
I want you to see this.

AO

What follows will be for you
Everytime, I’ll remember you
I want you to see it
I want to know you’ve seen it
I want you to know you’ll see again

Tell me this time
I won’t ask again.
Just this time
Tell me you see it.

Someday—someday I want you to tell me a story
Until then, I’ll tell you my stories
Some of them will be for you, but you have to share.

I’ll remember you as you remember me.

Your score as a human being is 88.25.
You are close to ideal. So close, and yet so far. Amusing, really, to watch someone squirm so close to the vaunted ranks of perfection and still remain so very, very ordinary. It is all one can do to keep one's ingratiating smile from polluting one's perfect face.Actually, one recommends you take the quiz again and lie a little.

http://hokev.brinkster.net/quiz/default.asp?quiz=Better%2BPerson&page=6&q1=1&q2=5&q3=5&q44=4&q41=1&q45=2&q43=3&q42=5

You are a WECF--Wacky Emotional Constructive Follower. This makes you a Candle burning at both ends.You work until you drop, and you play until you can stand to work again. You have so much enthusiasm that you can find it hard to control on your own, and you appreciate the guidance that channels your energy and lets you be your best.In a relationship, you require lots of attention and support. You often over-contribute and end up feeling depleted and cheated. You may benefit from more time alone than you grant yourself.Your driving force is the emotional support of others--especially affection. You can run on empty for miles if you have positive energy behind you. Without it--as it occasionally must run dry--you are depressive, listless, and difficult to motivate.You need a lot of affection. Get it any way you can, but never at the cost of your self-respect or well-being.Of the 89518 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 7.5 % are this type.

http://hokev.brinkster.net/quiz/default.asp?quiz=Better%2BPersonality&page=5&re=1&cd=1&lf=4&ws=4

Imagine your life as an arena.

I imagine it as everyone looking at what's happening on a track, and there being one runner. Everyone can see the runner, when she stops to rest, when she jumps the hurdles, when she sprints or slows down to walk. They can see when she is tired. They can see she runs alone, but she constantly scans the arena, seeking familiar faces, encouragement and direction from the stands. Sometimes the people in the arena have a better perspective on matters than the runner.

The people in the stands can move about the arena, but if they leave . . . there's an empty seat that nobody else can fill. If the one who left was sitting way up at the top of the stands, the runner may never miss that person; she may never notice the empty seat because she didn't know that person was watching. But if the one who leaves was sitting in the lower decks, low enough where the runner can see him clearly, if the runner was able read the expressions on the face of that spectator, when he leaves his seat empty, he is sorely missed. Over time the runner will learn to look to other faces for encouragement and direction, but that empty seat will still be there to remind her that someone is missing.

Somehow, it hurts less to know someone you used to call friend isn't gone, he's just way the heck up there in the cheap seats. Well, I've got these seats, down here on a lower deck and I think I'll just mark them "saved for Mr. and Mrs. J. Reb" You know, incase the occasion ever arises where they need a closer look.

I was talking to this girl one time, I didn't know her, a friend of an acquaintance and in my attempt at small talk I asked her if she was a student (she looked college age) and she said she was going to acting school. That surprised me because, well, she didn't have the actor look and didn't seem to have the actor temperament. She was a shortish, roundish, plain looking girl who came across as shy and uninspiring. (Which I know, is a terrible thing to say about a person I'd only met for like 10 minutes, but you know, first impressions)
I said, "What made you decide to go to acting school?"
She said, (in the same matter-of-fact tone she'd been using all along) "Oh, it's my passion."

Really? I didn't know you could be so disinterested sounding about a Passion!

Well, in thinking of that encounter I've decided to start informing everyone about all my "passions." I think it would be fine social experiment if every time someone said they like a certain thing (movie, song, show etc) I should matter of factly say, "Yes, I love it too, it's my passion." That in addition to all my other "passions" (aka, everything I like alright.)

A partial list of my "passions"

wiener dogs
the perfection of eggplant dip
negative utopia books
knitting
WonderWoman
words
Get Fuzzy comic
penguins
international travel
chipotle tobasco sauce
purses
mail

and
Jesus

I've pretty much convinced myself to drop grammar. I've never dropped a class before, but I've never failed a class before either and I feel something new will certainly occur this semester. I'm not ready for grammar. I know if I worked really hard, and dedicated alot of time and effort I would pass the class, but I'm not sure this is the time for all that. I need to get an A in my reading/writing class to boost my GPA in case tragedy strikes later. Both classes are alot of work (same crazy, excited prof I had last semester, not the one who thought I was a cheater, the other one.)

I've worked out my plan as well. I'm pretty sure I can convince them to transfer 6 credits. That leaves a remainder of 18 credits needed-- 6 credits of electives, 12 credits of required courses. I'm taking 3 credits this semester (if I drop grammar) That leaves 15 credits and comps to finish the degree. I can probably take 3 credits in the summer and 6 in the fall and 6 in the spring and comps.

I've also given some thought to going back to school full time and getting a part time job. Ah well, one day at a time. Either way, the ultimate goal is to graduated May 2006, maybe I'll get a ring this time (a graduation ring! I'm talking about graduate school! Not Bible college!) . Sparkly things do motivate me so.

Thank you to all my commenters, I am also quite taken with my new fangled commenting capabilities.

Travis: eggplant ala grill
FP: happy b-day
Anonymous: if you are who you purport to be, I'd still like that song-- private dancer by bob dylan will do-- I would also like to respond to you in a less public forum.
My email address is under my profile until such a time as I find out how to put it on the main screen.

Prick it all over with a fork. Place it directly on an oven rack and let it roast until completely pooped (about 45 minutes). When it is sagging, wrinkled, crumpled, and totally soft, you'll know it's ready. Remove it from the oven, and let cool. Scoop the insides out and mash well. Combine with rest of ingredients, except olive oil. Chill well. Drizzle the oil over the top before serving. Serve with assorted crackers.

what do you think I'm making?

Dorian Milam, of Bellville TX, I know you aren’t reading this, but I’m writing it to you, because I liked you, and you made me laugh.

The first time I met Dorian he was snickering and agreeing with Sam on some matter known only to themselves. The first thing Dorian said to me, after finding out I grew up in PA, was “You’re a Yankee!?” This he said with true shock and a hint of disapproval, I thought he was kidding.

Dorian informed me quickly that it there was never a “Civil War” a civil war indicates that one country was fighting against it’s self. The Southern states had declared themselves independent; therefore it should more rightly be called “The War Between the States.” I told him winners get to decide what a war is called. He was disgusted at my lack of interest in that major historical turning point in the lives of all Americans.

Dorian had strong opinions. He declared he loved Olivia Newton John and hated Abraham Lincoln. I thought he was more than a little eccentric.

Denise, our supervisor, thought of Dorian as a problem. Dorian was a problem, Anna was a problem, Sam and Brian were somewhat difficult, Misty quit and David, well he was a mystery, which only left Grant and I to work through the list in our weekly partner exchange.

I lived with Anna, so we didn’t work together; I suppose Denise felt I’d been through enough. Anna refused to work with Dorian or Sam, and after a short trial it was determined that she should also not be paired with Brian. Denise wouldn’t let Dorian and Sam work together fearing they would never get anything done, Sam and Brian were a bad mix, and David gave side-long looks at Sam, Dorian, Anna and me as if wondering what exactly we were doing there. Grant was mostly busy keeping up with Anna. I worked one week with each team member, (except Grant), and the rest of the summer I was with Dorian.

Dorian was a handsome young brown eyed man with a slow south Texas drawl. Everyday he wore rolled up blue jeans, and a white pocketed T-shirt. He kept his cigarettes in that pocket. More than one person had pulled me aside early in the summer to warn me about Dorian and his Southern charm with the girls. “He’s not serious you know, he’s just a flirt. Don’t believe how he acts and what he says, if you do he’ll break your heart.”

Dorian, you didn’t break my heart, but you did “hurt my feelers.” I was disappointed, and if I saw you today I’d say, “Dorian, I’m still disappointed.” But I would forgive you for a song. Bob Dylan? Tina Turner?

I thought Dorian was funny, and when I told him I’d been warned about him, he thought that was funny too. After that he did his best to ensure that everyone on our team was convinced that he was working diligently on his seduction of me. If I was sitting on the couch, he would sit next to me. If I was sitting on the couch and someone else was sitting next to me he would politely ask that person to move so he could sit next to me. If we were standing in a room talking about our work for the next day and someone walked by he would grab my hand or kiss my cheek as soon as that person looked our way. If I said I was going to the library, he said he was going to the library too. He would go to the 6th floor and I would go to the basement. We wouldn’t see each other until closing time, but when we walked back to the house and he was holding my hand, everyone assumed what they would. It didn’t matter how much I denied it, they knew what they saw.

Every morning we would eat breakfast, and meet in the parking lot by 7:30. With the assembly of that week’s volunteers we would have a short devotion and pray that God would bless our work and keep up safe at the work sites. Every morning I would find Dorian and say, “Dorian, did I tell you today that you’re my friend?”
He would say, “No.”
I would say, “Well, you are.”
He would say. “Okay.”
And that began our day.
Sometimes I asked him two or three times a day; always with the same responses. I suppose you can’t hear you have a friend too often.

One day I got up late, missed breakfast, and had to run some errands before we left for the work sites. I forgot to talk to Dorian at devotions. We were working together than day, but he seemed to be avoiding me. I though he was thinking about important things, so I left him to himself. We went home, got cleaned up, ate dinner and had our night devotions. On our way back to the office late that night I said, “Dorian, did I tell you today that you’re my friend?” He said, “NO! and I’ve been trying to figure out what I did wrong all day! Why didn’t you tell me?”
I confessed that I had only forgotten, than I thought he was avoiding me, so I didn’t do it at work, and I had just remembered again. He said he was avoiding me because he thought I was mad at him and he didn’t want to make it worse.
I said, “Well, you are.”
He said, with a great sigh of relief, “Okay.”
That ended our day, but I didn’t forget again.

I went to church with Dorian one Sunday. It was quite a large church and he told me to wait for him while he went to the restroom. While he was in there Abraham Lincoln walked by (full dress, top hat, beard and all.) When Dorian came out I said, “Uh, Abraham Lincoln just walked by.” Dorian said, “Yeah, I hate it when he comes here.” As if that explained everything.

At the end of the summer Dorian gave Sam a dollar. I asked what that was all about, but Dorian said it wasn’t important. Sam snickered.
I said, “What!?”
Dorian said, “Fine! We made a bet before you came on what you would look like, and we decided when we saw you that I won. But we changed our minds, so I gave the dollar back.”
Of course I had to ask, “What did you bet?”
Dorian had bet Sam that I wouldn’t be pretty. And Dorian said, “And I would have been able to keep that dollar if it weren’t for that dang black dress you wore on Sunday!”

I hoped it was more than the dress that changed their minds.

Sam had said, “No matter what a girl looks like, she looks ten times better in the kitchen.” Maybe he saw me in the black dress in the kitchen.

I hoped it was more than that too, I always hoped they saw something inside.

Dorian, I saw you inside, I think I did. You were pretty too. I hope you still are.

This is why I hesitate periodically to blog: Ever so often I say to myself, "Self, what is the rest of the world blogging about?" So I hit the "next blog" button and I get this:

www.womenfishon.blogspot.com

"WomenFishOn - Lesbians Fishing in the USA
THE site for lesbians & their friends who fish or are interested in the fishing lifestyle. For some unknown reason, lesbians are severally under-represented in the sport of fishing. Is it because we concentrate ourselves in urban areas which favor other sports such as softball, golf or tennis? Fishing is the perfect sport for lesbians: the true 'butches' get to bait the hook, while true 'femmes' catch all the fish. "

Really? Truely? There is a society of lesbians who long to fish? and greatly desire to blog about it in community? My world is so small.

if none of the above image entries appeal to you--- we don't have much in common.

In my jr. year in high school, I started keeping a journal with me at all times. In this journal I would write anything that came to me, any thing that struck me as interesting or note worthy. I would also paste pictures in the pages, write letters to people I never intended to send, quotes, poetry, appointments, assignments, sunday school lessons. songs I liked, books I'd read. movies I'd watched-- everything-- it was always with me. I had it with me always always for years, 1992 through at least 2001.

I still keep a little note book in my purse, sort of like a vestage of all those years of carrying around those bigger books, but more for emergency, "I can't believe he just said that I've got to write it down!" purposes.

I was going through some of the pages tonight- generally I never re-read my journals, but these ones have pictures, so I just looked at them, and picked up on a few lines here and there to remember what was going on. I found this little jem-- ah I feel it must be republished, I sent it off to a few people via email when I first wrote it (1999) Now, here it is again- memories relived!

Ode to my nose pin

Oh, how I love my nose pin!
It gives me an excuse to stick my finger in!
And pick all those boogies out
It makes me want to stand and shout!

Sometimes you must clean your nose
When it won’t come out, no matter how hard you blows
You must stick your finger up in there
And look like you mean it when people stare

I must pick my boogies from around my nose pin
After all, you know, it ain’t no great sin
Pickin’ helps in your breathin’
And pickin’em out don’t make you no heathen!

I pick'em out on one side and then,
I pick'em out on the side with the pin.
I like it so much I tell all my friends,
They say, “Shannon that’s gross!”

But that doesn’t rhyme . . .

So I say, “Well that all depends,
On if you have a nose pin,
And how for you stick your finger in!”

The end

I miss my books, maybe I should make a resolution to keep one again, you know you can't say just everything on a blog after all.

At work not so long ago, my lab supervisor, Tom, was conducting an experiment. Part of his experiment included hooking a hose to a sink faucet and to secure the hose he started clamping it down to the eye-wash station. Here is a man who has been a chemist for longer than I have been alive and I just turned around and said, "You can't do that."
He said, "Do what?"
I said, "That's an eye wash station."
He said, "Oh! It is sure is! I shouldn't put this here . . . but this will only take a few minutes." and continued to fasten it down.
I said, (ever so calmly) "Well, I hope nobody's eyes burst into flame in the next few minutes." He said, "Burst into flames? Yeah, right, I'll just take this off right now."
I said, "Whatever, you're the supervisor."
He said, "Yeah, yeah, I'll just take this off."

apogee: (ap'o-je), n. that point in the orbit of a planet which is most distant from the earth.

isn't it interesting that we have a word for that?

The story is here: I was looking at a list of words, seeing which ones I knew, and which ones I should know and I came across apogee, (without the pronunciation guide) and I immediatly thought "apogee!" (a-po'-je) as though perhaps it were an East Indian name.

"Hello! My name is Apogee! You are being so nice to look at! Verdy nice! Verdy nice! You want to buy this? I will make special price for you! Verdy good price for my good friend, yeah?"

Apogee-- know it, love it, work it into your next conversation.

At work this morning I realized that all the managers, supervisors and otherwise responsible people were on vacation. So I turned to Flossie, my coworker and said, "Hey! We don't have any adult supervision today!" She said, "You're right" and I said, "well, except for me . . . I guess I'm an adult. I have a degree you know!" She just laughed and said, "You sure do!"

Of course my degree has absolutely nothing to do with my job. I made my "no adult supervision" comment in all earnestness since I am low man on the totem pole at work and I am much associated with my young coworker as we exude silliness about the place.

Today we were having a non-sensical conversation, basically ignoring the two other people sitting at the table with us. We discussed how tsunami was a pretty word, and if it didn't have such a horrible meaning we would name a daughter such a nice name. "This is my daughter Tsunami, and her twin Alluetta."

One of our table mates chimed in to say how tragic the tsunami was, and why did it have a "t" at the beginning? Well, we just didn't know, perhaps only because it is foreign, but there are plenty of English words with the same affliction! Knife, knee, knight (kanigit) not only that but pneumonia, psychology, how about comb and bomb (which I'm sure are supposed to rhyme, but they do not!)

Another person joined us and said, "what are you talking about?" and I said, "bombs!" (with the second b pronounced) He said, "oh." Flossie explained about the unpronounced letters. (I was content to leave him wondering if I was retarded, apparently she was a little more concerned for my dignity.)

He said, "well, I thought you'd be talking about sciency things, usually that's what people talk about here."

You see that was his mistake, taking us for scientists . . . We are just there for the love and attention, and the weekly pay check.

By that time the others had tired of our nonsense and moved on.

We moved on to discuss our British names recalling that mine was Cynthia Castlebottom. I declared that the spelling should henceforth be Tsythiab Castlebottom.

And Flossie said, you know when you watch a sitcom and you think, "nobody really has conversations like that!" We have those kinds of conversations all the time.

I said, "yes, I know." with a lateral lisp.

Everyday when I drive to work I pass Mac Author Blvd, and lately when I see I've been thinking about a song that always intrigued me a kid. "Mac Author's Park"

The words are (If I remember correctly) "Mac Author's Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet green icing flowing down. Someone left the cake out in the rain. I don't think that I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again!"

The only real way to know what that means would be to ask the writer, but in my mind it always meant- here is the end of a relationship, which was very good, but became neglected and the singer fears he will not have a relationship as good as that one again.

What a strange metaphor. Honestly, who would leave a cake out in the rain?! If there is cake and there is rain, the cake is coming with me to a dry spot. I would never forget a cake. A loaf of bread, maybe, but not a cake, especially a cake with green frosting. I mean, you don't come across a green frosted cake every day. Well, it's just a thought

I dreamed I was cutting out my ingrown toenail, and when I finally got it trimmed back so that it wouldn't hurt me, I pulled the toe nail back to see what was behind it and there were balls of yarn, papers and toys under there. I started to pull them out, but it was like an endless cavern!

I don't know what that means.

I also dreamed that I was cleaning someone's house and I noticed that the walls and blinds were especially dirty. I started scrubbing them down and the dirt was coming off easily. But they stopped me from cleaning because they said the paint would come off and the dyes in the curtains and blinds would run. I thought to myself in my dream that it would be better to have faded, clean walls and blinds than to have dirty ones, or they should just buy new if they were so worried about the colors.

I don't know what that means either.

I used to receive the Dallas Morning News. It got to the point where I never took them out of the the plastic bags and just threw them in the closet. I pulled the September 4 edition out yesterday to use it for wrapping paper, and I thouhg I'd read the funnies first. I found this.

Aside from Arafat's recent passing, this comic intrests me on several levels. First it is making a very non-pc statement about cultural norms in the Middle East, second, it is a pig making those comments . . . which makes an Islamic world leader cry --irony, yes?

My semester was going well until just a few weeks ago when my professor turned into an evil menace. I handed in a 10 page research paper on reform of western based ESL curriculums and materials to be used in the Middle East and other Muslim contexts.
His comment was that it was "An Excellent paper, but some sloppy academic writing" and gave me a B. Then he crossed out the B and gave me a C. My paper went from an A to a C! I was a bit concerned about the change since that paper was 30% of my grade, and C is as good as failing in grad school.

So I looked at the paper and he was right. I had forgotten one of my citations. I forgot one citation! I went to him and explained that I had simply forgotten it. It was a list and I had wondered if the citation needed to go at the beginning or the end or if it needed to be interspersed through out the list, then I suppose I got distracted and forgot. I made a mistake!

(Dear Jesus,
I made a mistake. I forgot a citation. Can I still come to heaven when I'm done here? Do you have enough blood to cover this one?)

I told my prof I thought two letter grades for a mistake was a bit harsh. He said, "oh that wasn't the only place." It wasn't huh? No, he pointed out a cited paraphrase he didn't like. He also pointed out a few other phrases and words he thought were questionable.

He pointed out my use of the phrases global culture, public property, Islamic Revolution and Islamic clergy.

If I understand the rules of plagerism correctly one needs only put quotes around words and phrases within a summerized text setting, (ie, I summerized and cited a section of an article) if the word or phrase in question is particular to the author. If for example this author coined the pharse global culture I would write it as "global culture" not just global culture.

As far as I'm concerned, however, the phrase global culture is public property! Anyone who reads or speakes about the world in a general context uses and is intimatly aquainted with the phrase global culture! It's not new!
And Islamic Revolution! That is the name of a historical event! How can I use other words for it? My sentance: "In 1978-1979 Ayatollah Knomeini led the Islamic Revolution in Iran, which toppled the Pahlavi dynasty and replaced it with Islamic rule."

Perhaps I should have written "In 1978-1979 "Ayatollah" Knomeini supposedly led the so called "Islamic Revolution." I don't believe it really happened, because after all, Iran isn't a real country and Islam isn't a real religion."

How would this sentance be interpreted: In 1775 Paul Revere rode to warn colonists of the begining of the "American Revolution." The quotation marks indicate to readers that either a. it wasn't a real event or b. this is just the title that some people call it, while others do not accept this title. Everyone calls it the American Revolution, just as everyone calls what happened in Iran in 1979 the Islamic Revolution.

I can't really protest the grade because I did forget the one citation, and it is up to the teacher's disgression as to how to deal with issues of "academic dishonesty."

However, I did tell him I disagreed with his assessment, that I wasn't a cheater. On his final he was nervy enough to ask "Why do you think your proffessor has such strong feelings regarding the issue of plagerism concerning the writings of graduate students and TESOL professionals?" for extra credit.

I wrote something along the lines of the importance of academic honesty so that one may be an example of excellence for fellow students, future students and for future-fellow professionals. Then I put "And so your professor doesn't take two letter grades off a paper worth 30% of your grade which could potentially cause you to have to take the class again as a result of a MISTAKE." I thought about adding something about the Islamic Revolution, but I didn't since I'd already written him another nasty little note in one of the "short answer" blanks of the test concerning the appropriateness of the question in light of the focus of the class and his comments on what and how to study for his final.

I'll probably have to take that class again. This degree is getting longer and longer.

So, I'm driving this Mercedes. I'm sure it was a really extraordinary car 25 years ago, but now it's just scary. The power steering fluid leaks, the oil leaks, the radio doesn't work, the interior lights are practically non-existent, I can't turn the heater off and I can't roll the windows down. The driver's side door won't lock and the other doors won't unlock. The sun roof works. The power seats work. The check break light never goes off and the turning signals blink when they want to.

My car is in the shop with as of yet unknown problems. Most importantly among these problems is that it won't start. I hope to find out what my course of action will be by Monday.

So, I think my most powerful planets are in retrograde or something . . . that was my excuse last time a “series of unfortunate events” happened to me. Let me tell you, Lemony Snicket or whatever her name is, don’t got that market cornered.

I suppose I’ll have to read the book to find out her gig, but I have a lot of complaining to do. Of course there is no time for it all now. I was diligently watching TV and knitting tonight. I finished my hat (oh-so-woefully-incorrectly-but-done) and my matching legwarmers got their final touch. Now, I shall begin work on the matching scarf and things will be well in my world. At least that is the theory.

I propose this theory to myself every day. Thus far I have been wrong (for at least the past two weeks) but I’m an optimist.

Today I was late for work. I had to stop by Auto Zone to get some power steering fluid. I am currently driving a friend’s car and while driving along yesterday it suddenly became nearly impossible to turn the wheel. I all but gave myself internal injuries trying to go around the block, because the needed U-turn was out of the question. It was 7 something AM, and I walked into Auto Zone and said, “I need steering fluid.”
The guy looked at me and cocked his head as if to say, “uh-oh crazy woman”
So I corrected myself by saying, “I need steering fluid,” and making pantomiming driving actions.
With rising intonation he said, “Steering fluid?”
I said, “Yes. I need (mental note, I know I’m missing a word here) steering fluid.”
He said, (as he suppressed a giggle) “You mean power steering fluid?”
And I said, “Yes Jack Ass POWER steering fluid! It’s freaking 7:00AM, get off my back! How often do you think I buy this crap?!”
No, I didn’t say that at all.
I said. “Yeah, that.”

As we approached the counter I realized that I had no idea where to put this power steering fluid. So I asked the guy if he would help me.
He said, “sure.”
When we got outside he said, “pop the hood.”
I said, “I don’t know how.”
Now, I am all about the “I’m just a girl, and this is a car!” routine, but my interactions up to that point with this guy were over the top even for me. Honestly though, I had no idea how to pop the hood. What made me feel better was that he didn’t know how to either. The manager of the store had to come out and find the well hidden lever.

So the guy puts the stuff in and it was like a freaking miracle fluid! Suddenly I could turn and have no worries of a hernia.

I got to work late and nobody was around. Eventually, I figured out there was a mandatory meeting. I ran up to it, got there just in time to win a prize and sign the attendance sheet. I got back to my desk and spilled an entire cup of hot tea all over my lap. From my hips to my knees—spiced tea with cream and sugar. (I just knew it was going to be really yummy too! Drat!)
Ironically the meeting I missed was concerning “spill clean up.” So . . . I had to go to Wal-Mart to buy new pants to wear the rest of the day.

Perhaps tomorrow I will chronicle why I was not driving my car and the other “personality quirks” of the car I’m currently driving.

The stars made me smile
I walked through the dew and
the stars made me smile
and my moon shadow smiled back

How evil are you?

hmmm-- I was hoping to be somewhat more sinister

drat!

I love presents, and who doesn’t? Blogging has been bountiful to me. Okay, well maybe two presents isn’t what some people would call bountiful, but what can I say? I’m present deprived.
A few years ago I wrote a blog about my “idiot strings.” I got reintroduced to the pleasures of mittens as my reward! That was fabulous, and I still have both of my mittens, even without the idiot strings.
This week I got a really special, unexpected gift by way of blog via fan/pen pal. (Fanpal?) I wrote about my much mourned over Mickey Mouse ring of ye old days of yore when vampires ate such trinkets to induce great fear and loathing from little girls such as I.
This week the vampires were vanquished and Mickey returned to me.
Amazing and Amazing again. I love it. Thank you Fanpal!
Mickey, we have a lot of catching up to do, so much has happened in the past 27 years.

It’s funny, although I was never a big Mickey Mouse fan, now two of my favorite things are Mickey themed. Of course the ring I’ve complained about for years, and my Mickey Mouse watch my grandmother gave me, which I’ve worn pretty much every day since I was a Jr. in High school.

Words we know and love:

Screw

The screw fell out, do you have another one?
I can’t screw this in, the wood is too hard.
Did you get anything done, or have you just been screwing around?
That used car salesman screwed him over.
Man, that dude is screwed up.
That dude is a screw up.
I saw this couple screwing along the side of the road!
Screw you!
Screwball!
He is so screwy.
I am so screwed.
Screw it!

Screw

A brown eyed handsome man:

I joined orkut- third invitation is a charm. It came from Ali Reza, he is a young Iranian man I tutored in English while I was in Dubai. I also spent lots of time with his, then secret crush, now wife, Marriam.

They are both adorable, and each (separately, since they were both from consevative families who would never agree that they should spend time together before certain arrangements had been made) made my time in Dubai more enjoyable by far.

He called me tonight, I haven't talked to him in years. He and Marriam are living and going to school in Sydney now. He is working at a Persian carpet store, and he says they are both very busy at "Uni."

When I think of Ali, this is what I remember first. Occationally we would go into the city and look for things in the bigger markets. Ali was very protective and responsible for my well being and never let me get lost. We walked along a street in Dubai, he was close enough to me to sing the call to prayer in my ear and he laughed when I smiled and asked him what it meant.

He would have liked for me to be converted. I fear I would have made an even worse Muslim than I do a Christian.

I told him about my dog. When he asked his name I told him his name is Buzz, I was going to call him "Buzorg" which is Farsi for "big," but nobody would get the joke.

Ali got it. :0)

I like this:


First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends ­
It gives a lovely light!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I had a dream, two dreams actually that vaguely follow this scenario: Much like the fantasy novels I’ve been reading lately, there is a young man in my dreams who is quite extraordinary.
However, he has only recently discovered how special he is. He grew up knowing nothing of his true identity, but suddenly it is revealed that he is a leader, a king, a warrior, a savior a sorcerer. It is prophesized that he will save the world, and while he travels with an entourage of devout followers and warriors for his cause, many are out to stop him, kill him, end the prophesy and make the days of man dark and ugly.

In the second dream, which I remember more clearly, I am part of his entourage. I had always known him, and when he learns of his new role, I am the first to accept it. I embrace it before even he understands what has happened.

In the dream, I am very unselfish, none of the reality of the jealous “why aren’t I the special one?” or the pride “he is special, so by association, I am too.” In the dream, I understand true humility.

I carry with me a basket of sweet grass and wild flowers, and I spread them out before his feet on the path. And he asks me why I’ve done this. I don’t remember my answer. I don’t remember answering. I remember I loved him. I remember it was so easy to love him, without jealousy or pride or possession. I remember knowing that what is on the ground, beneath his feet is more blessed than that which has never known him.

Messianic, yes I know.

He was beautiful, and I miss knowing him as I knew him in my dream. It was only last night and I miss knowing him.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in his little book, Life Together states, “The final breakthrough to fellowship does not occur, because, though they have fellowship with on another as believers and as devout people, they do not have fellowship as the undevout, as sinners.” (110)

This was the quote used to open a skit I used to do with a performance group in college. The skit was about a young man confessing a sexual sin to his Sunday school class, and the class reacting to him, not in Christian love and understanding of weaknesses, but in revulsion and rejection.

One of the lines my friend was supposed to say after the secret was made known was, “I could always feel him watching me.” One day in practice she said, “I could always watch him feeling me.” Which, of course, was fabulously funny to me, and I still tease her about all these years later. The result of her slip of the tongue was that during every performance there was a longer than usual pause before that line so that she could make sure she was going to say it correctly.

Now, I’ve had the book Life Together on my shelf for several years, and I recently decided to read it through. Here are a few points of interest for me:

“If we do not give thanks daily for the Christian fellowship in which we have been placed, even where there is no greater experience, no discoverable riches, but much weakness, small faith and difficulty; if on the contrary, we only keep complaining to God that everything is so paltry and petty, so far from what we expected, then we hinder God from letting our fellowship grow according to the measure and riches which are there for us all in Jesus Christ.” P, 29

“Contrary to all my own opinions and convictions, Jesus Christ will tell me what love toward the brethren really is. Therefore, spiritual love is bound solely to the Word of Jesus Christ.” P.35

“Life together under the Word will remain sound and healthy only where it does not form itself into a movement, and order, a society, a collegium pietatis, but rather where it understands itself as being a s part of the one holy, catholic Christian Church, where it shares actively and passively in the sufferings and struggles and promise of the whole Church.” P. 37

“We are silent before hearing the Word because our thoughts are already directed to the
Word . . . We are silent after hearing the Word because the Word is still speaking and dwelling within us. We are silent at the beginning of the day because God should have the first word, and we are silent before going to sleep because the last word also belongs to God.” P.79

“Must it not be wholesome and conducive to humility for me to learn to bear such petty evils silently and patently?” p. 95

“Moreover, what we have said applies solely to confession between two Christians. A confession of sin in the presence of all the members of the congregation is not required to restore one to fellowship with the whole congregation. I meet the whole congregation in the one brother to whom I confess my sins and who forgives my sins. In the fellowship I find with this one brother I have already found fellowship with the whole congregation.” P. 113

http://www.roadsideamerica.com/attract/PALINcarp.html
http://www.grayco.com/cleveland/mott/sample4.html

It is, it is mesmerizing! About a million huge carp crammed together greedy for the tourist day old wonder bread. Yes, I did this as a child, yes I had a T-shirt proclaim "Pymatuning, where ducks walk on fish!" For some reason this fishy memory is intertwined with my remembrances of my visits to the pumpkin farm in the autumn.

In the north east mid-autumn when the leaves are still flaming, and hanging in their dying moments to sleepy trees. When the squirrels are frantic and the wind is sharp but not yet bitter. This is when the world seems to be nothing but orange and red and yellow, and the sidewalks and lawns are deep with leaves that whisper and splinter as they are waded through. This is the time to visit the pumpkin farm, where the pumpkins are piled in mountains impossible to climb- where the pumpkins range in size from what fits in a toddlers hand to what a toddler can fit inside.

I don't have any pictures from the pumpkin farm, I don't have any special memories, aside from the pumpkins and the atmosphere, but I treasure the memory, what there is of it-- those visits contain the indescribable glory of autumn in the north east, in the Sylvania by the Great Lakes.

I miss autumn, but not the long, long winter. Today I looked at a map of the county I grew up in, (searching for a pumpkin farm) and I wondered at how few towns were there. It's more agrarian than I remembered.

Look at both dolphins jumping out of the water. The dolphins areidentical. A closely monitored, scientific study revealed that in spite
of the fact that the dolphins are identical, a person under stress will
find differences in the two dolphins. If there are many differences
found between the dolphins, it means that the person is experiencing
significant amount of stress.
Look at the photograph. If you find more than one or two differencesyou may want to take a vacation.

In a rather disturbing report from the kitchen: I just found half a bag of frozen peas and carrots in the cabinent where I keep my tools. I suspect it has been there since yesterday morning when I had it out to pack my lunch at 6:15 am.

mental note: Pack lunch the night before to avoid finding random vegetables in unlikely places as a result of not being a morning person.

Here it is Halloween time again, and I thought, well time again to retell the old story about how Dracula ate my Micky Mouse ring. It’s an old tale, sad but true. I was sure I had given a very detailed account of the event on my blog, but alas, when I looked I found only 1 small reference, well 2, but only one showed up when I searched “Micky Mouse” in my archives, the other one was under “Dracula.”

When I was a child I was painfully shy. (Seriously.) I was terribly afraid to talk to strangers, unless I was animated about a certain subject, and they asked the right question. My mother, of course, knew what the right questions were to get me started on these certain topics. She thought it was really funny for me to explain things to people, because while my explanations made perfect sense to me, adult type people were baffled with my small child reasoning and conviction on the above mentioned topics. Therefore, she would set me up by telling people to ask me questions about my latest obsesion.

One of the big topics was how I was born with a bandage on my head, another important one was how Dracula ate my Micky Mouse ring.

Here’s the story, because I remember this happening:

My mother, brothers, grandmother and I had just gone to the downtown mall. A small, adjustable Micky Mouse ring had been purchaced. It was Micky standing sideways with this little hands behind his back. Adorable, and since I was only 3, even at the smallest adjutable size, it was too big.

After the mall we went to a haunted house. One of the first things to happen at the haunted house was a vampire jumped out at us. That scared me out of my skin, and I literally climbed up my mother’s leg. (which wasn’t easy because she wore a brace.) After that the haunted house was anti-climatic. (Maybe the monsters felt bad about scaring a little girl.) As soon as we got out of the haunted house, I realized that my brand new Micky Mouse ring was gone! And I knew, I knew in my heart that Dracula had eaten my ring! Nobody else would have done it, it had to be him because he was so mean and jumped out to scare me! (I’m not sure why I was convinced that he actually ate it, but that was the immediate conviction on the matter.)

I insisted that we go back and demand my Micky Mouse ring back! Oh I was livid about the affair and my mother said, “Are you going to tell Dracula to give it back?” and I said yes I would! So, we all trouped back to the haunted house and of course Dracula was the first to greet us again, an naturally I lost all my resolve and hid behind my mother. She asked about the ring, he said he never saw it, but I knew he was lying!

I knew he ate it! We looked around just incase, but it was gone, and I was so mad! So, ever after if my mother wanted to get me started, even into my adulthood, all she had to say was, “Ask Shannon about her Micky Mouse ring.” My response was always, “Dracula ate it!” And I would launch into this story about the haunted house and how scary Dracula was, and how mean he was to eat my ring and none of the other monsters were as mean or scary or bad as he was!

I still don’t like vampires, (well, who does? But I have an origional reason at least) and I still want my Micky Mouse ring back!

Everytime I try to do research on the computer, I feel like I have to wrestle with it to get any information. I keep getting the image of Jacob wrestling with God. If only I were more persistent like Jacob . . . "I'm not going to give up until you bless me." Man, if I had that kind of dedication, my fingers might never leave the keyboard . . . sigh . . . Of course Jacob gained a limp from that match . . . I'll probably get carpal tunnel, I think I already have carpal thumble from pipetting at work.

who's smarter? Me or the machine?

I fear it's the machine
(bastard!)

A few things my professor has said in class this semester:

"Get together with two other people in groups of four."
(I laughed out loud, and when he asked why I repeated what he said, and pointed out that would only be three.) To which he replied, "Well, genius isn't logical, or something."

"This exercise was kind of pointless, it's kind of like playing with yourself . . . "

"Imagine linguistic input is like rubber balls being thrown at you. In the class room it is manageable because the balls are limited, and you know what to look for. But in the real world, it's hard because a thousand rubber balls are coming at you and you are supposed to only catch the blue balls, but you don't know it and all the balls are hitting you, when all you wanted were the blue balls (giggles) blue balls, that's funny. Non native speakers, I'm laughing because the word "balls" in English is kind of funny."

"This theory was put forth in the mid 1980s, then everyone jumped on the gang banging- er no, I mean gang wangon, what is it? Band wagon!"

All the puppy training articles say that if your puppy "goes" on the floor where he's not supposed to it's not his fault, it's your fault for giving him the chance.

In my defense, I'd like to say:
1. He is the same color as the carpet, and it's kinda hard to see where he is and what he's doing all the time.
2. He's very small, (reference the hard to see part in point 1)
3. Owners are told to be alert to the "sniff and circle" routine before the elimination time, he is always sniffing and circling! I think his huge ears drag his head down!
4. His legs are only 2 inches long, it is nearly impossible to discern when he is squatting and when he's just standing there.

I got a puppy



Welcome Buzz!

Buzz likes: long walks, chew toys, hanging out with me, eliminating on the carpet, eating the carpet, sniffing everything and peanut butter.

Buzz does not like: his collar, having his ears cleaned, being left alone- at any time, ever.

Buzz is afraid of: cars, people, other dogs, cats, large bugs, being locked in the bathroom forever.

I got the following email:

beauty government looks mother brown sir" sort deep a but if, dinner same decide
throw hurry commit"
power innocent often watched means" till an following plan corner wont twenty.
some taking recess practical" day months we physical cannot circumstances under.

it was not from anyone I knew, but it wasn't a mass junk mail. It got me thinking, maybe I am I spy, and I just don't know it.

You can be my body guard and I can be your long lost pal, you can call me Betty and when I call you I can call you Al.(I'll call you Al)

Letters between nerds, in coordinating a lunch date I wrote:

"wll sk flss f sh cn cm fr lnch frdy nd lt y knw.
shnnn
fll n y'r wn vwls"

he wrote:
"ao,
ea! e e knw.
oe
: i i ou o ooa"

I have serious questions as to whether or not it could get more nerdy.

I have comments. It is kind of odd that it doesn't say anywhere, "comments" you just have to know that when you press the time of publication for each entry that you may then post a comment.

Maybe I didn't get it set up quite right. Any comments?

I wonder why

I wonder why total strangers want to join my MSN group page. It only has personal pictures on it. You don't have to be a member to look at the pictures. I don't understand. I know some people have joined so they could put there nasty remarks (look at this pornography kind of thing) on my message board, but I just remove them and block them from writing anything again. I've admitted three strangers to join my group. Let's just see what happens this time.

hahahahahaha........... it's nibbling my toe.....

gimme little wiener

I got an email asking how I was doing-- I was compelled to reply with this:

I am inconspicuously blending in with the appropriate social strata in order to observe the general habits of individuals and the general population with intentions of ploting quiet and small subterfusions intended to disorient and interanally disquiet persons and populations as well to provide me with subtule amusements.

I'm taking a curriculum design course. The above statement would be considered a "goal" as opposed to a more specific "objective" which would be more like:

I will agrieve my coworkers by manipulating interactive toys to talk to one another with in my cubical space while I am away from my cubicle, thereby disturbing the peace and ability to consentrate of everyone in the surrounding area. I will achieve at least a 75 percent success rate. The measureable result of this procedure will be at least one coworkers becoming angry and producing a communication to the effect of "Shut those stupid Furbies up!"

which really looks into what I've been doing as opposed to how I've been doing.
Maybe I should reassess my reply.

I should have said, "I think I have bird flu."
I might have west nile.

I've not been feeling so very great for the past week and a half. I thought at first that it was just a result of my I'm- feeling-sorry-for myself-attitude, but I fear now it may be more involved than that, since I am feeling less sorry for myself, but still not doing so great physically.

I decided to skip my classes tonight as a result of my affliction. I should be doing some work for that class, but here I am instead, considering my growing affection for camoflauge items.

I made a purse a few weeks ago it's camo but feminin. I swore off the purchase of yarn, right after I bought a camo colored varigated skein. I'm making a hat, it will be camo, but feminin.

I carry two purses, it confuses people.

I forgot to talk like a pirate on "National talk like a Pirate" day. I think my inner pirate may be mute.

Sometimes I feel like I talk too much and I may have used up all my words for the day before noon. I wish I could explain that to people without using up more words.

I'm considering a vow of silence.

Tomorrow is Yom Kippur-- happy atonement everybody.

I realize I'm rambling-- it is soothing.

I need to urinate--- hmmm--- too much info?

Goodbye

Sorry, one more thing.

I'd like to announce that I will be starting up my own one page printed publication. It will be called "The 3rd Stall" It will be a bathroom reader. If you would like to contribute a short article, opinon, poem or quote for my publication or would like to receive a complimentary copy of The 3rd Stall for use in the public bathrooms you frequent, please contact me at flipflipsummer@hotmail.com

Thank you,
The Management

i was feeling very pithy, but it has all been erased

more on this subject later i've promised myself

I totally just got fan mail! Wow!

I've gotten a few comments on my blog before- usually from friends of friends who found my blog as a link. There was even one girl who wrote me a few lines in an email to tell me that she had found my blog when looking up "rocks." Interesting . . . yes . . . but those were all over a year ago when I spent more time playing with my bloggie. I've been ignoring it for the most part for a while.

Ahh- so now I am encouraged to be a blogger again.

I don't know what I'll write about . . . that's besides the point. Do I ever really write about anything?

Anyway, I was excited, thought I'd tell the world.

Other news:

"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and their like, "It's better than yours." Damn right it's better than yours, I could teach you but I've have to charge."

It's a catchy little number-- I can never hear it again with out thinking "The Fatman made a Funny" Reference the movie "Dodge Ball, a True Underdog's story." If you haven't seen it, it's playing at the dollar theaters, stay until the very end of the credits. If you have seen it- well I suggest you get the DVD when it comes out and look for the Fatman making a funny. I'm more than a little disturbed. But when it came on I was mesmerized, and grossed out at the same time.

I am three inches from my leggwarmer goal . . . Oh yes, I will have sweaters on my legs! Ha!

I bought a Cedar Hills High school letter jacket-- Red and black, the same colors as my Jr High (Meadville Bulldogs) my High school (North Forth Myers High Red Knights) and my college (Dallas Christian College we-aren't- quite- sure-somewhere- between-red-and-maroon-Crusaders.) It's really a nice jacket, red wool, black leather sleeves-- I'll just take the CH letter off.
I got a letter in High school :0) Academic letter in (of all subjects-- this is quite amazing Algebra II) Maybe I should put my letter on it.
The best part is that I got it for $3.50. I'm sure somewhere along the lines someone paid upwards of $100 for that little jem. I do so love the thrift stores!

"The anchor holds, though the ship is battered. The anchor holds, though the sails are torn. The anchor holds inspite of the storm."

I was thinking things haven't changed in so long, that is has been a long calm. I wonder if it hasn't been storming so long I don't even take notice of the dangers anymore.

The evil eye is the name for a sickness transmitted -- usually without intention -- by someone who is envious, jealous, or covetous. It is also called the invidious eye and the envious eye. In Hebrew it is ayin ha'ra (the evil eye), which in Yiddish is variously spelled ayin horoh, ayin hora, or ayen hara. In mainland Italian it is mal occhio (the bad eye) and in Spanish mal ojo or el ojo (the bad eye or just the eye). In Sicily it is jettatore (the projection [from the eye]) and in Farsi it is bla band (the eye of evil).

Dundes theorizes that the evil eye, which has a Middle-Eastern, Mediterranean, and Indo-European distribution pattern and was unknown in the Americas, Pacific Islands, Asia, Sub-Saharan Africa or Australia until the introduction of European culture, is based upon underlying beliefs about water equating to life and dryness equating to death. He posits that the true "evil" done by the evil eye is that it causes living beings to "dry up" -- notably babies, milking animals, young fruit trees, and nursing mothers. The harm caused by overlooking consists of sudden vomiting or diarrhoea in children, drying up of milk in nursing mothers or livestock, withering of fruit on orchard trees, and loss of potency in men. In short, the envious eye "dries up liquids," according to Professor Alan Dundes -- a fact that he contends demonstrates its Middle Eastern desert origins.
Only in Sicily and Southern Italy is it believed that some people can DELIBERATELY cast the evil eye on others. There the regionally idiosyncratic belief is that certain people (including at least one former Pope) are born with the evil eye and "project" it involuntarily. Such people are called jettatores ("projectors") and their specific form of evil eye is called jettatura ("projection") in contradistinction to the garden variety of envious or praising evil eye, which in Italian is called mal occhio ("bad eye"). Jettatores are not necessarily evil or envious people, according to this belief system, and they are often represented as being saddened and embarrassed by the harm they cause.
In the eastern Mediterranean and Aegean region, especially throughout Greece and up into Turkey, there is a strong tendency to view blue-eyed people as bearers of the evil eye -- probably because few locally-born people have blue eyes and those who do show up, such as tourists, are given to praising and cooing over babies, who are thought to be most at risk from the eye.
In Italy, the evil eye is said to affect men as well as children, nursing mothers, fruit trees, and dairy animals. It brings on impotence, through a drying up of the semen. Typical protective aversions of this problem include making the gestures called the mano fico ("fig hand") and the mano cornuto ("horned hand").
Mano fico is a hand gesture in which the thumb is inserted between the index and middle finger. It means literally means "fig hand" in Italian, but "fica" or fig is a common slang term for the female genitals, so the mano fico is a representation of the sex act (with the thumb as phallus).

All so very interesting. Watch out-- I'm dangerous one look and Bla-band! And I will not spit on you!

Welcome back to the Motherland, Keeper of MJ

>

I don't know you, and you don't know me.

I should really be preparing to be very busy starting next week. I came across a complaint of someone lamenting the fact that he would have to take 17 hours in school and work 20 hours a week. I assure this youngling- it can be done.

Now I begin 40 hours of work and 9 hours of grad school. This, I am also sure can be done. It may exclude my novel reading and knitting for some time. I will survive.

I was happy to discover that if three of my classes transfer into this degree, I could be done in the Spring. I have no idea what I will do at that time, but I'm sure I will be able to think of something.

I've been on a knitting frenzy the past few weeks. I think I finally discovered how easy it is. Of course I'm still working on beginner's projects, but at least now I can put it down and I'm not totally lost when I go to start again. It's beautiful. Now, I have to convince myself to stop buying yarn.

I never changed my calendar from July. I think that is uncharacteristic of me, but I'm not sure.

The news moved from fat people to hairy people. There was a man in China who has 96% of his body covered in hair. He has to have an ear operation to remove some of the hair from his ear because he was going deaf. Now, that's a lot o ear hair.

I encountered two incredible news stories today. One was about a 1073 pound man who finally admitted that he needed professional help with his weight problem. One person who weighs over a ton, now that is amazing. I wondered how anyone (the one eating and/or the one buying and serving the food) could let it go that far.

The second story, however, shocked me even more. It was about a 38 year old 4'10" woman who weighed 480. That is a lot for such a petit height. (Well that's a lot for any height, but the point is this woman must have just been a ball of fat.) This woman had not left her house for 6 years. Her neighbors didn't even know a woman lived there. More astounding is that she never, (never-ever) left her couch for 1 year.

When the police went in to search the house (presumedly because of the stench) they found feces and rotten food everywhere. They found this woman, still alive, but fused to the couch. He skin had grown around the fibers. They took the woman, still on the couch, to the hospital on a flat bed trailer. The woman died of morbid obesity before they could surgically remove her from her furniture.

The man living with her may be charged with neglect. He said he tried to get her off the couch, but he could not.

So, with that in mind, I need to start a diet/exercise plan. For real this time.

That is after my donut frenzy I've arranged for tomorrow in celebration of Friday the 13th.

www.phobialist.com

pick your fear!

some of my favorites:

fear of bald people- peladophobia
fear of constipation- Coprastasophobia
fear of Englishness- Anglophobia
fear of Friday the 13th - Paraskavedekatriaphobia
fear of gravity- Barophobia
fear of kissing- philemaphobia
fear of meat- carnophobia
fear of otters- Lutraphobia
fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth- Arachibutyrophobia
fear of the Pope- Papaphobia
fear of yourself- Autophobia
fear of sermons- Homilophobia
fear of vegetables- Lachanophobia
fear of long words- Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (what I didn't make it up)

And last, but certainly not least, for after reading the entire phobia list I have discovered this is my one true fear: alektorophobia- fear of chickens.

I'm not kidding either-all birds are scary but chickens are particularly vicious and wicked creatures.

 

RejeX

>

Natasha, a 5-year-old black macaque walks at the Safari Park near Tel Aviv Tuesday July 20, 2004. The young monkey began recently walking exclusively on her hind legs after a stomach ailment nearly killed her, zookeepers said.(AP Photo/Eli Dasa)

So-- Darwin was right?  We're all just monkeys with stomach aches?

Speaking of being easily distracted . . .   I almost rear ended someone on 360 the other day.  I was driving along-- la-la-la-minding my own business when this Coors Light truck drove by. 

I'm usually not distracted by beer trucks, but this one was craftily painted to attract attention from both sexes.  First, it wasn't a delivery truck, it was a silver SUV.  Second, it had scantily clad women in seductive positions painted all over the sides and back.  Third, (and this is what attracted my attention) it was glitter painted.  It was shiny silver with sparkly glitter paint mesmerizing me as it drove down the highway, making me wish my car was sparkly. 

Everyone knows that men are distracted by pictures of women with breasts on the verge of popping out of their tops, and women are drawn to sparkly things!  That was an ingenious beer truck!

I tried to take an ADD/ADHD test on line, but it took too long to load.  I got tired of waiting. 
Ironic. 
Maybe that was the test.  "How many times will one push the submit button, and for how long will one wait to take the test?  If he pushes the button twelve times in a 30 second span and gives up after a minute and a half  he has it."
If that were the case- I'd have it.

http://www.clarkson.edu/~hollenca/this_land_mov.swf

The first thing I heard when I walked into work this morning:
Two men conversing-
" . . . that really chaps my ass."
"I know."
"I went home last night and went straight to bed, because I knew that today we were going to be f- (glaces at me) screwed!"
"I know! Me too! I didn't even have any beers, I went straight to bed."
"Uh well, I had some beers, but I went straight to bed, but I couldn't sleep, because I didn't have any a/c!"
"Yeah, it's hot . . ."

I tell you what, these were not the kind of men I even wanted to consider with chapped asses, drinking beer in the heat. (Okay, so I don't want to consider anybody in that condition really, but as it turns out my imagination if formidable.)

One of the last things I moved out of the old apartment was the couch. 
 
Long ago and not so far away I thought I was losing my little bitty mind.  I wrapped two presents for Christmas.  I adorned them with mini Hershey bars.  I went to work.  When I came back from work, one present was gone, the other was missing a mini Hershey bar. 
 
I considered the possibility that I was mistaken, that I had not indeed wrapped the second gift, and there had been no mini Hershey bars to speak of.  Slowly, however, I realized that according to all the evidence (tape marks on the remaining present where a mini Hershey bar would have been, the inability to find the missing gift wrapped or unwrapped and the alleged sighting of a mouse of indeterminable size) that to be sure a rodent had absconded with my chocolate and my gift intended for my room mate.
 
I looked everywhere, I really did.  I informed my room mate that there had in fact been a gift, but that a mouse had stolen it.  I’m not absolutely sure she believed me . . . I mean what are the chances after all? 
 
When the couch was moved I found 2 mini Hershey bar wrappers, 1 chewed through wrapper and 1 rhinestone belt (that was the gift.)  Not only that, I found my lost-for-3- months-ring, 2 (unmatched) earrings, 1 shiny gold button and a whole bunch of mouse poop. 
 
Mystery Solved! 

A lesson to everyone (especially males, somehow most females seem to know this innately.)

Hypothetical situation: You and your friend are talking, joking, having a good ole time when suddenly your friend says, "Hey! Now I'm mad at you!" You are baffled. What have you done wrong? You ask, "Why, what happened? Why are you mad?" Your friend explains to you how you have offended him/but-usually-her. This explanation makes no sense at all to you. What do you do?

A.  Say, "Are you crazy? I don't know what you're talking about! Get over it!"
B.  Squint your eyes, focus on her and secretly hope that your much longed for laser eyes will    suddenly kick in and crisp her.
C.  Say, "I'm sorry I offended you, I didn't know what I did/said would upset you, I'll try not to do it again."
D.  Leave, hoping that when you've come back the alternate personality living in your friend's head will have gone by the time you come back.

The answer is C always C!! So what if you don't understand exactly what you did wrong?! You are apologizing for the perceived wrong! Most likely you will not be able to convince your friend that you honestly don't understand how what you've done is offensive. Apologize for (even unknowingly) causing the offended feeling. That way she won't be even more upset with you for being so rude as to not care weather or not she's upset.

I was feeling the domestic demi-goddess this weekend. I was sewing, I was knitting, I was cooking, I was thinking about cleaning. Actually I did my dishes as soon as I finished eating, which is mostly because I'm scared of the critters who might also like my cooking. But that's cleaning too right? I also swept the kitchen, but that too I must do everyday as a result of all the ex-critters who wandered into the boric acid whilst I was away.

I made these groovalicious wrap around pants. (Yes, PK, just like the shorts from the Philippines.) I was so proud of myself that I went out and bought a shirt just so I could wear them today. I started knitting a scarf as a gift-I'm using "eyelash" yarn, it looks like I'm knitting a something that is destined to become Elmo's new best friend on Sesame street.

I have been working a Mohawk labs for one year.  I get my one year pay raise next week.  No one has bothered to tell me how much or more likely how little that may be. I have my one year review next week.  My boss is afraid that she will make my cry during the review.   While I am a sensitive and emotional creature, I find that  scenario highly unlikely.  But why let her know that?