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.