Or words and phrases I desperately want to use everyday but can't because I'm American and say "y'all" a lot.
Cor
Blimey
Shenanigans
Pub
Cuppa
Toff
Tosser
Shite
Shag
Row
Prat
Snog (to snog)
Sod Off
Lift
Kip (to kip)
Summat
Nutter
Panda Car (instead of Police Car - hehe)
Fortnight
Bonnet
Bloody
Chuffed
Fag (as in cigarette)
Fairy Cake (instead of cupcake - again - hehe)
Gaff
Ken
Piss Off
Pram
Bloke
Up the duff
On the lash
Nowt
Not Cricket
Bog Standard
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Passing Glance
Because someone loves me I ended up spending part of my day today looking up articles that propose to prove that the Harry Potter series is in fact Satan working through books.
Of course it's very difficult for me to believe books are evil. I've never been bitten by a book before...but I hear the letter Q can be quite rough when it's been drinking...
In all seriousness there is a lot of debate about fiction of any kind being moral. This post is not about that debate.
This post is about a scrap of an article that jumped out at me from the doomsday prophecies that have been flooding my mind and computer screen:
Lots of the emails revealed another problem. Many email addresses had words in them that were occultist in nature. Words like witch, poison, potion, cat, goddess, etc. were in the email addresses. This represents the large number of children and young people who are already involved deeply in the occult and the like.
I can perhaps see how a word like Witch could be considered occultist. Witches are often linked with the occult. At the same time I can make enough concessions to allow that Goddess could be irreversibly linked with Polytheistic Religions - and therefore could be occultist (If a is sometimes b and b is sometimes c then a could be c...and a train leaves Chicago at 4:35PM traveling east...).
I am less willing to allow that potion or poison are in fact occultists words at all. There is nothing occult about cyanide. And potion is a word that means any mixture...but I will concede that these two terms could in fact be used with a nod to dark or evil doings.
However! Though cat could also be linked to something occult I do not believe the use of it in an email address speaks to the evil and dark nature of the emailer. A cat is occult now? A cat? What? Why? Because it has four legs and goes mew? All shall look on the quadruped and despair! Cat is an occult word? Cat??? What if...god-forbid (and apparently He does) the girls name is Catherine? What do you think about your occultist cat now huh buddy? And if cat is bad we better darn well look out for worse words such as dog (which incidentally used to be the shape of an Egyptian God AND the specter of death in divination) or bird (Alfred Hitchcock anyone?)
Oh yes, all those evil people calling themselves cat are to be scorned and feared. The idea of a cuddly, warm, purring ball of fur is indeed a notion to be shunned by God-fearing (and they do) individuals.
You know what I say to that? Huh? Do you?
OH MY GOD KITTENS!!!
MEW, MEW, MEW!!!
(If you would like a full context of this article it comes in two parts:
Harry Potter And The Antichrist
The Truth about The Harry Potter Series)
Of course it's very difficult for me to believe books are evil. I've never been bitten by a book before...but I hear the letter Q can be quite rough when it's been drinking...
In all seriousness there is a lot of debate about fiction of any kind being moral. This post is not about that debate.
This post is about a scrap of an article that jumped out at me from the doomsday prophecies that have been flooding my mind and computer screen:
Lots of the emails revealed another problem. Many email addresses had words in them that were occultist in nature. Words like witch, poison, potion, cat, goddess, etc. were in the email addresses. This represents the large number of children and young people who are already involved deeply in the occult and the like.
I can perhaps see how a word like Witch could be considered occultist. Witches are often linked with the occult. At the same time I can make enough concessions to allow that Goddess could be irreversibly linked with Polytheistic Religions - and therefore could be occultist (If a is sometimes b and b is sometimes c then a could be c...and a train leaves Chicago at 4:35PM traveling east...).
I am less willing to allow that potion or poison are in fact occultists words at all. There is nothing occult about cyanide. And potion is a word that means any mixture...but I will concede that these two terms could in fact be used with a nod to dark or evil doings.
However! Though cat could also be linked to something occult I do not believe the use of it in an email address speaks to the evil and dark nature of the emailer. A cat is occult now? A cat? What? Why? Because it has four legs and goes mew? All shall look on the quadruped and despair! Cat is an occult word? Cat??? What if...god-forbid (and apparently He does) the girls name is Catherine? What do you think about your occultist cat now huh buddy? And if cat is bad we better darn well look out for worse words such as dog (which incidentally used to be the shape of an Egyptian God AND the specter of death in divination) or bird (Alfred Hitchcock anyone?)
Oh yes, all those evil people calling themselves cat are to be scorned and feared. The idea of a cuddly, warm, purring ball of fur is indeed a notion to be shunned by God-fearing (and they do) individuals.
You know what I say to that? Huh? Do you?
OH MY GOD KITTENS!!!
MEW, MEW, MEW!!!
(If you would like a full context of this article it comes in two parts:
Harry Potter And The Antichrist
The Truth about The Harry Potter Series)
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Scraps from the table
Through fleeting periods of consciousness, between the "owie owie owie" and "take another scary vicodin pill" parts of recovery I have come up with one simple, profound and completely unshakeable idea:
I hate Ellsworth Toohey*. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate him with the fury of a thousand rabid dogs who have been kicked repeatedly by his shiny, pointed shoes.
I HATE ELLSWORTH TOOHEY.
That's all.
*From Sparknotes.
As a side note I am tempted to say I hate Ellsworth Toohey more than I hate the oral surgeon who kept calling me "pretty girl" while I was choking on my teeth and blood was dripping down my chin...but the jury is still out.
I hate Ellsworth Toohey*. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I hate him with the fury of a thousand rabid dogs who have been kicked repeatedly by his shiny, pointed shoes.
I HATE ELLSWORTH TOOHEY.
That's all.
*From Sparknotes.
As a side note I am tempted to say I hate Ellsworth Toohey more than I hate the oral surgeon who kept calling me "pretty girl" while I was choking on my teeth and blood was dripping down my chin...but the jury is still out.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
A peek in to real life:
Today I go to get my wisdom teeth pulled out. They haven't brought me much wisdom, but I am sad to see them go.
I am attempting to post before my third valium (yes I did in fact say third) takes effect.
I stumbling out of the shower, feeling both groggy and absolutely terrified to the point that I know my stomach has lept out of my chest and out the door. It's probably playing soccer in the park right now. Thankfully, it left a bunch of mexican jumping beans in it's place.
My husband the ever stoic man pulled me back into bed for a few extra cuddles.
"Just think, after today you can eat all the pudding you like."
"Oh." Says I.
"You like pudding don't you?"
"Yes." I say.
"You can have all the pudding you want."
"Oh." I say. I leave out the part about me only really liking tapioca pudding, and only because I can chew the tapioca part.
He really did try though. Sometimes he just doesn't get it.
I am attempting to post before my third valium (yes I did in fact say third) takes effect.
I stumbling out of the shower, feeling both groggy and absolutely terrified to the point that I know my stomach has lept out of my chest and out the door. It's probably playing soccer in the park right now. Thankfully, it left a bunch of mexican jumping beans in it's place.
My husband the ever stoic man pulled me back into bed for a few extra cuddles.
"Just think, after today you can eat all the pudding you like."
"Oh." Says I.
"You like pudding don't you?"
"Yes." I say.
"You can have all the pudding you want."
"Oh." I say. I leave out the part about me only really liking tapioca pudding, and only because I can chew the tapioca part.
He really did try though. Sometimes he just doesn't get it.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Words cannot express...
...but that's a good thing since no one would understand them anyway.
The Washington Post reported today:
Literacy Falls for Graduates From College, Testing Finds
The most disturbing:
Three percent of college graduates who took the test in 2003, representing some 800,000 Americans, demonstrated "below basic" literacy, meaning that they could not perform more than the simplest skills, like locating easily identifiable information in short prose.
The Washington Post reported today:
Literacy Falls for Graduates From College, Testing Finds
The most disturbing:
Three percent of college graduates who took the test in 2003, representing some 800,000 Americans, demonstrated "below basic" literacy, meaning that they could not perform more than the simplest skills, like locating easily identifiable information in short prose.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Stopping to smell the potential posts
Ever notice how blogging makes you start to notice little things in a much bigger way? Today only one really huge thing happened to me, but because I blog a thousand little things are popping up and vying for attention. All because I know I can make a blog post about them.
Even the fact that I notice these things seems important.
It feels nice.
Even the fact that I notice these things seems important.
It feels nice.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Deny, Deny, Deny
At around this time of year a huge box containing a "bushel" of citrus fruits from Florida finds itself blocking my doorway. Usually it's accompanied by a puffing, semi-irate postman.
The post women never get irate of course.
In any case, every year I get a huge amount of oranges or grapefruits or a mixture of the two and every year I eat so many I get literally sick off them. Not sick of them but sick off them.
I always pictured that one year I would turn a strange shade of yellowy orange and bright I'm-happy-pink inside. I imagine myself bleeding grapefruit juice and crying large orange tears in the same shape as those little cell sections citrus fruit comes in. (If you don't know what I'm talking about you haven't dissected an orange down to the molecule like I have.)
Despite my daydreams of crayon skin tragedies I never once imagined that eating an orange would turn me green. Dark, pretty, forest green.
But that Rutaceae family is tricky.
I was finishing my last section of delicious Florida orange when I decided I should make the journey from the floor in the living room to the floor in the office. (Different carpet - same color.) Being the conscientious girl who listened to Smokey the Bear (and secretly coveted his hat) I got up to blow out the smelly sage candle and trot off.
The candle is perfect. It smells good but not perfumy, when it's cool it's a pretty shade of light, misty green. When all three wicks are lighted it melts into a pool of deep, dark, pretty forest green. I like to poke my nose over the rim of the glass and look at the three little flames seemingly floating in a pool of green. Having my hands full of left) orange peel and right) last section of orange I decided I would just poke my nose over a little to blow them out. To get good aim of course.
I did, it was still as pretty as I thought it would be and then I huffed.
One flame out.
I puffed.
Two flames out.
I blew the candle...sideways. The flame flickered then returned.
Aw well, just blow a little harder.
Again, it bent to the side, then stood back up and stuck it's little flamey tongue at me.
I glared, then took a bite of my orange for strength before taking a deep breath and blooooooooooooooowing!
The flame went out, unfortunately so did the wax. A big splash of hot, green wax splashed out of the candle holder and straight into my face.
At first I was scared. I thought for sure I was burned, but for some reason I didn't feel that much pain. In the time it took me to gasp in shock then sort out what happened the wax had cooled and was now keeping my face immobile. I was stuck looking scared. And I felt scared...and utterly alone. Not even the cat saw this. (And the cat would be the perfect witness because she never laughs at mommy.) The more I stood there shocked and alone the more my mind thought of really horrible things. Third degree burns, peoples faces melting off, this one time when a centipede slapped across my face and I had a line of angry red cockeyed over my whole left side. The orange in my hand started to drip and squish as my fingers fisted over it. That calmed me down enough to put the remains in the trash and head upstairs to check out the damage. I had already ruined my husbands wife, I didn't want to ruin the carpet too.
As I walked up the stairs and past my roommates bedroom I was struck by the fact that I didn't scream, I didn't even squeal. I was only shocked by this because I realized that my roommate was sleeping and had I screamed at the top of my lungs as my face was being burned off and frozen "Madame Tussaud" style he would have rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Bastard.
Upon encountering the mirror I saw what you would expect. There I was, behind a mask of wax. Half my nose was covered in a shadow of green. My cheek looked like a put-put course without the windmill. There was a few strange blobs stuck mid-flight on my chin. My glasses were mostly speckled (thank goodness I didn't have my contacts in) and my right eye looked like it had been crying true, blue (I mean green) crocodile tears.
Of all the colors I had ever pictured my skin in, of all the strange things I imagined would happen to my face, never did I think I'd be staring at it covered in wax sage.
It was even freakier to have to not wipe, but scrape and chisel it off my face. Lucky it did come off and there are only a few angry red spots that I'm sure will go away soon.
What, you may ask, does any of this have to do with my bushel of christmas oranges? Other than the fact I pulverized one in my fit of girly panic?
Well you don't think I blew hot wax into my face all by myself do you? No! Of course not...it was the oranges fault. Honestly...those thing ought to come with a warning!
The post women never get irate of course.
In any case, every year I get a huge amount of oranges or grapefruits or a mixture of the two and every year I eat so many I get literally sick off them. Not sick of them but sick off them.
I always pictured that one year I would turn a strange shade of yellowy orange and bright I'm-happy-pink inside. I imagine myself bleeding grapefruit juice and crying large orange tears in the same shape as those little cell sections citrus fruit comes in. (If you don't know what I'm talking about you haven't dissected an orange down to the molecule like I have.)
Despite my daydreams of crayon skin tragedies I never once imagined that eating an orange would turn me green. Dark, pretty, forest green.
But that Rutaceae family is tricky.
I was finishing my last section of delicious Florida orange when I decided I should make the journey from the floor in the living room to the floor in the office. (Different carpet - same color.) Being the conscientious girl who listened to Smokey the Bear (and secretly coveted his hat) I got up to blow out the smelly sage candle and trot off.
The candle is perfect. It smells good but not perfumy, when it's cool it's a pretty shade of light, misty green. When all three wicks are lighted it melts into a pool of deep, dark, pretty forest green. I like to poke my nose over the rim of the glass and look at the three little flames seemingly floating in a pool of green. Having my hands full of left) orange peel and right) last section of orange I decided I would just poke my nose over a little to blow them out. To get good aim of course.
I did, it was still as pretty as I thought it would be and then I huffed.
One flame out.
I puffed.
Two flames out.
I blew the candle...sideways. The flame flickered then returned.
Aw well, just blow a little harder.
Again, it bent to the side, then stood back up and stuck it's little flamey tongue at me.
I glared, then took a bite of my orange for strength before taking a deep breath and blooooooooooooooowing!
The flame went out, unfortunately so did the wax. A big splash of hot, green wax splashed out of the candle holder and straight into my face.
At first I was scared. I thought for sure I was burned, but for some reason I didn't feel that much pain. In the time it took me to gasp in shock then sort out what happened the wax had cooled and was now keeping my face immobile. I was stuck looking scared. And I felt scared...and utterly alone. Not even the cat saw this. (And the cat would be the perfect witness because she never laughs at mommy.) The more I stood there shocked and alone the more my mind thought of really horrible things. Third degree burns, peoples faces melting off, this one time when a centipede slapped across my face and I had a line of angry red cockeyed over my whole left side. The orange in my hand started to drip and squish as my fingers fisted over it. That calmed me down enough to put the remains in the trash and head upstairs to check out the damage. I had already ruined my husbands wife, I didn't want to ruin the carpet too.
As I walked up the stairs and past my roommates bedroom I was struck by the fact that I didn't scream, I didn't even squeal. I was only shocked by this because I realized that my roommate was sleeping and had I screamed at the top of my lungs as my face was being burned off and frozen "Madame Tussaud" style he would have rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Bastard.
Upon encountering the mirror I saw what you would expect. There I was, behind a mask of wax. Half my nose was covered in a shadow of green. My cheek looked like a put-put course without the windmill. There was a few strange blobs stuck mid-flight on my chin. My glasses were mostly speckled (thank goodness I didn't have my contacts in) and my right eye looked like it had been crying true, blue (I mean green) crocodile tears.
Of all the colors I had ever pictured my skin in, of all the strange things I imagined would happen to my face, never did I think I'd be staring at it covered in wax sage.
It was even freakier to have to not wipe, but scrape and chisel it off my face. Lucky it did come off and there are only a few angry red spots that I'm sure will go away soon.
What, you may ask, does any of this have to do with my bushel of christmas oranges? Other than the fact I pulverized one in my fit of girly panic?
Well you don't think I blew hot wax into my face all by myself do you? No! Of course not...it was the oranges fault. Honestly...those thing ought to come with a warning!
Changing Mantras
There are three boxes floating around in Vietnam that can't be delivered. They've been there two months. They couldn't clear customs, they couldn't be delivered, they were being sent to the wrong place, the wrong person. Three lonely little packages that were forgotten by one very crazy VP are sitting in a room designated for "terrorist paraphernalia". They contain t-shirts...of poor quality cotton.
I yelled at people in English, they yelled at me in Vietnamese, in Korean, in Chinese too - probably. Everyday I'd start by making a call to UPS US, then UPS Vietnam, then UPS Singapore. By 10AM I would be hoarse, crazy and no closer to getting the three boxes where they needed to be. By 2PM my crazy VP would have yelled at me too - in English - and I would be plotting interesting ways to murder him with poor quality cotton and a piece of cardboard.
Two months of this I kept my morale up by thinking: I'm going back to school. I'm going back to school. I will get my degree, I will get a job that has nothing to do with being an assistant. I will never have to chase a man down the I-95 to give him his laptop. I will never have to track someone else's packages through the rural areas of a small Asian country. I am going back to school!
Today I finally started filling out my work forms (again, thank you HR for dragging your butt on that!) and doing the math. Let's see, one class - three credits...that won't be so bad. Okay, and one consolidation fee. Well okay, you need to keep the roof from failing down. 14.4%. I said keep the roof up...not put on a new one. And a lab fee. A lab fee? For what? I'm taking a math class. There is no lab. One lab fee - $50. Fine, three credits, one consolidation fee, one lab fee...so thats...And a parking fee. For what? You don't have any parking lots! And a student services fee. Student Services? What are you going to do...give me another free pencil? And out-of-county fees. Hang-on...I live here! Out-of-county fees and 14.4% of that. And then? Book fees. Three books. It's one class. Three books and a professor made cd - $30 I can make a cd for 75 cents...how can you charge $30 for a powerpoint presentation? And a water fee. A water fee? In case you use a water fountain. You are charging me for something I may use? Yes. What now...want me to open a vein too. Three pints please. What?!?!? And 14.4% of your lung.
Now the one thing keeping my morale up at work is the thought: At 5PM I am going to have a beer. At 5PM I am going to have a beer.
I yelled at people in English, they yelled at me in Vietnamese, in Korean, in Chinese too - probably. Everyday I'd start by making a call to UPS US, then UPS Vietnam, then UPS Singapore. By 10AM I would be hoarse, crazy and no closer to getting the three boxes where they needed to be. By 2PM my crazy VP would have yelled at me too - in English - and I would be plotting interesting ways to murder him with poor quality cotton and a piece of cardboard.
Two months of this I kept my morale up by thinking: I'm going back to school. I'm going back to school. I will get my degree, I will get a job that has nothing to do with being an assistant. I will never have to chase a man down the I-95 to give him his laptop. I will never have to track someone else's packages through the rural areas of a small Asian country. I am going back to school!
Today I finally started filling out my work forms (again, thank you HR for dragging your butt on that!) and doing the math. Let's see, one class - three credits...that won't be so bad. Okay, and one consolidation fee. Well okay, you need to keep the roof from failing down. 14.4%. I said keep the roof up...not put on a new one. And a lab fee. A lab fee? For what? I'm taking a math class. There is no lab. One lab fee - $50. Fine, three credits, one consolidation fee, one lab fee...so thats...And a parking fee. For what? You don't have any parking lots! And a student services fee. Student Services? What are you going to do...give me another free pencil? And out-of-county fees. Hang-on...I live here! Out-of-county fees and 14.4% of that. And then? Book fees. Three books. It's one class. Three books and a professor made cd - $30 I can make a cd for 75 cents...how can you charge $30 for a powerpoint presentation? And a water fee. A water fee? In case you use a water fountain. You are charging me for something I may use? Yes. What now...want me to open a vein too. Three pints please. What?!?!? And 14.4% of your lung.
Now the one thing keeping my morale up at work is the thought: At 5PM I am going to have a beer. At 5PM I am going to have a beer.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
It's the little things
I trudge in from the snow. Drop the purse in the floor, hang the coat, stomp over to the refridgerator to drop the milk off. Realize it's hard to carry milk when your gloves are still on. Take off the gloves, kick off the boots and plop down on the couch. Whew. I'm home.
That's when I hear heavy foot steps bounding down the stairs and my husband comes racing into the room.
God he's gorgeous. His blond hair is shiny and spikes up today. His white t-shirt is stretched thin and tight over his chest. Mmmm, I love that chest. I know underneath it there is a patch of fur that is just enough to nuzzle into and kiss. I love that patch of fur. I love nuzzling against him. I love the way his skin smells and I love the way it makes his clothes smell. He's eight feet away, but already I can imagine his scent. Yummy. He's yummy.
I rush up from the couch to nuzzle against him immediately. Yep, he smells as good as I think. He hasn't shaved in days and he's growing this beard and mustache. It's soft now, soft and a little bristly. He keeps itching at it. I know he wanted to shave it off already. I whined because I like it so much, but in the next twenty minutes it will be gone.
What is it about beards? Not full-grown Santa Beards but the George-Michael-that-is-way-more-than-a-five-o'clock-shadow beards? Is it possible to look at a guy with that kind of fuzz on his face and not think "rugged" "manly" "delicious"? I can't. Especially my husband. His beard is rare (being in the Military it doesn't often get a chance to grow) and it's beautiful. He's very blond, but his beard has specks of bright Irish-like red. And a little brown, and then his normal blond that looks like gold. When he stands in the light his beard shines. It matches his blue eyes. He looks like he has a halo.
I adore kissing it. The beard, not the halo. Sliding my lips down his jaw, under his chin, down his neck. Smooth with the grain, rough and sharp when I kiss. If I could I'd nuzzle my own face against it-the coarseness could make me purr. It's so much different from his normal fur. His normal fur is long enough to drag your fingers through, you can get tangled and lost in it. His beard is like a barrier between my kisses and his beautiful face.
It's like his beard is making him play hard to get.
It makes me want to get him more.
One year, on my birthday, I had just woken up and was staring at him. He had a little bit of stubble and I had pushed the curtains of the windows open just enough that the sun illuminated his face. I was luxuriating in the glow. Picking out all the colors and sparkle. His soft lashes made it seem all the better as they fluttered against his cheek. Sometimes I wish I were a lash, or a freckle. I can't think of a better employment than being that close to him. I woke him up with kisses, he returned with kisses...long...passionate kisses. I buried my face in his chest and I rubbed my forehead along his chin. We were both hot sticky and sweaty and everything was so perfect.
When he got up to shower and let me lie in bed and regain my strength I stopped him.
Don't shave today.
He didn't.
Best birthday present I ever got.
That's when I hear heavy foot steps bounding down the stairs and my husband comes racing into the room.
God he's gorgeous. His blond hair is shiny and spikes up today. His white t-shirt is stretched thin and tight over his chest. Mmmm, I love that chest. I know underneath it there is a patch of fur that is just enough to nuzzle into and kiss. I love that patch of fur. I love nuzzling against him. I love the way his skin smells and I love the way it makes his clothes smell. He's eight feet away, but already I can imagine his scent. Yummy. He's yummy.
I rush up from the couch to nuzzle against him immediately. Yep, he smells as good as I think. He hasn't shaved in days and he's growing this beard and mustache. It's soft now, soft and a little bristly. He keeps itching at it. I know he wanted to shave it off already. I whined because I like it so much, but in the next twenty minutes it will be gone.
What is it about beards? Not full-grown Santa Beards but the George-Michael-that-is-way-more-than-a-five-o'clock-shadow beards? Is it possible to look at a guy with that kind of fuzz on his face and not think "rugged" "manly" "delicious"? I can't. Especially my husband. His beard is rare (being in the Military it doesn't often get a chance to grow) and it's beautiful. He's very blond, but his beard has specks of bright Irish-like red. And a little brown, and then his normal blond that looks like gold. When he stands in the light his beard shines. It matches his blue eyes. He looks like he has a halo.
I adore kissing it. The beard, not the halo. Sliding my lips down his jaw, under his chin, down his neck. Smooth with the grain, rough and sharp when I kiss. If I could I'd nuzzle my own face against it-the coarseness could make me purr. It's so much different from his normal fur. His normal fur is long enough to drag your fingers through, you can get tangled and lost in it. His beard is like a barrier between my kisses and his beautiful face.
It's like his beard is making him play hard to get.
It makes me want to get him more.
One year, on my birthday, I had just woken up and was staring at him. He had a little bit of stubble and I had pushed the curtains of the windows open just enough that the sun illuminated his face. I was luxuriating in the glow. Picking out all the colors and sparkle. His soft lashes made it seem all the better as they fluttered against his cheek. Sometimes I wish I were a lash, or a freckle. I can't think of a better employment than being that close to him. I woke him up with kisses, he returned with kisses...long...passionate kisses. I buried my face in his chest and I rubbed my forehead along his chin. We were both hot sticky and sweaty and everything was so perfect.
When he got up to shower and let me lie in bed and regain my strength I stopped him.
Don't shave today.
He didn't.
Best birthday present I ever got.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Watch your tongue
I took a turn past our "beverage station" (consisting of a coffee maker, a water cooler and a sink) at work today and was met by my former boss and another manager.
"There is Beautiful Katy ______" she exclaimed.
I turned to smile and say hi to them both when I looked at Ms. XBoss's face freeze in terror.
"Oh, I am so sorry. I just meant that your jacket is very nice. I always liked this jacket." She was babbling and clearly agitated. Her eyes were big as saucers and she literally looked like a doe about to be mowed over by a semi.
I was curious why she was suddenly so apologetic, since she's never been apologetic to me even when she did something awful, but I figured that the graceful thing to do is drop it. So I did.
"Thank you. I like my jacket too. It's my favorite one."
"It's a good color on you...I mean it's a good color...it's pretty." Usually Ms. XBoss is more direct than this. I can't figure out why she keeps recanting.
"It's also fuzzy, I like how soft velour is, Vicki keeps petting me."
Ms. XBoss and Ms. Manager reach out to pet my proffered arm. I think it's funny, but Ms. XBoss catches herself and pulls her hand back like she just touched fire. I'm beginning to get a little freaked out. We chit-chat about how to find good, pretty jackets, but everything feels really strained and I want to go back to my desk.
"Hey, did you two hear that there is popcorn on my desk? Mr. NowBoss just opened the tin so it's good and fresh. You should come have some."
That did it, everyone around us peeks out from their cubicles. It really is like little prairie dogs peeking from their holes. Soon I'm inundated with popcorn questions and in the ensuing confusion I slink back to my desk and set out a few more cups. Everyone files over to get a cup of holiday candy and snacks. Ms. XBoss too.
"I'm really sorry about calling you beautiful before. I shouldn't say things like that."
"I'm not gonna complain...I'll take beautiful any day." I say, handing over a cup full of popcorn.
"Yeah, but you're not supposed to say things like that anymore. It's an office."
I'm stunned for a minute. I'm lucky enough to sit with a group of people who are funny, irreverent and not at all offended. We say lots of things we shouldn't...and Vicki has been petting me all day. We're the group who goes out and actually gets drunk and boisterous at happy hour rather than throwing back a Zima and leaving before six.
"Well I'm not easily offended. I married a sailor after all."
We part ways, she goes back to her desk smiling and with a full cup of popcorn, and I sit down at mine somewhat confused by the whole thing.
If I've learned anything it's that rules are created because something bad has happened in the past regarding the matter. That is to say, if you are told specifically that it is not allowed to ride a horse through the cafeteria, there is a good chance it's because someone once rode a horse through the cafeteria. Why else would they specifically tell you not to do that? Sure...no horse through the cafeteria, also no llamas, elephants and koala bears. This seems common sense. But they remind you about horses, because someone, somewhere, sometime, forgot.
So who was the person who got offended by being called beautiful? And who was the person who was so offended that they complained to HR? And how offended were they that HR, a decidedly whimpy area of our office, found themselves putting the fear of god into Ms. XBoss. She's a tough cookie, but she was genuinely afraid when she realized she had accidentally called me beautiful.
Are there really people out there who are so sensitive that even nice stuff gets to them? Whatever happened to writing things off as a quirky experience? Or even better, being able to take a compliment. With so many people in the world today, and so many opportunities to say whatever the hell you want to them, why are we discouraging the nice things? Must we resign ourselves to talking about the type of popcorn in the tin for eternity? Will I be an old woman reminiscing about that fine conversation I had with my best friend - talking about the best kind of cotton blend for socks?
And where - oh - where did we lose those morals from children's stories? Why must we punished an entire employee base because once upon a time someone called someone beautiful - and they didn't like it? Shouldn't the punishment fit the crime? Shouldn't the punishment fit the criminal?
And isn't it said that a kind word could save the world?
World War III isn't going to be started by war-mongers....it's going to be started by Human Resources!!!!
"There is Beautiful Katy ______" she exclaimed.
I turned to smile and say hi to them both when I looked at Ms. XBoss's face freeze in terror.
"Oh, I am so sorry. I just meant that your jacket is very nice. I always liked this jacket." She was babbling and clearly agitated. Her eyes were big as saucers and she literally looked like a doe about to be mowed over by a semi.
I was curious why she was suddenly so apologetic, since she's never been apologetic to me even when she did something awful, but I figured that the graceful thing to do is drop it. So I did.
"Thank you. I like my jacket too. It's my favorite one."
"It's a good color on you...I mean it's a good color...it's pretty." Usually Ms. XBoss is more direct than this. I can't figure out why she keeps recanting.
"It's also fuzzy, I like how soft velour is, Vicki keeps petting me."
Ms. XBoss and Ms. Manager reach out to pet my proffered arm. I think it's funny, but Ms. XBoss catches herself and pulls her hand back like she just touched fire. I'm beginning to get a little freaked out. We chit-chat about how to find good, pretty jackets, but everything feels really strained and I want to go back to my desk.
"Hey, did you two hear that there is popcorn on my desk? Mr. NowBoss just opened the tin so it's good and fresh. You should come have some."
That did it, everyone around us peeks out from their cubicles. It really is like little prairie dogs peeking from their holes. Soon I'm inundated with popcorn questions and in the ensuing confusion I slink back to my desk and set out a few more cups. Everyone files over to get a cup of holiday candy and snacks. Ms. XBoss too.
"I'm really sorry about calling you beautiful before. I shouldn't say things like that."
"I'm not gonna complain...I'll take beautiful any day." I say, handing over a cup full of popcorn.
"Yeah, but you're not supposed to say things like that anymore. It's an office."
I'm stunned for a minute. I'm lucky enough to sit with a group of people who are funny, irreverent and not at all offended. We say lots of things we shouldn't...and Vicki has been petting me all day. We're the group who goes out and actually gets drunk and boisterous at happy hour rather than throwing back a Zima and leaving before six.
"Well I'm not easily offended. I married a sailor after all."
We part ways, she goes back to her desk smiling and with a full cup of popcorn, and I sit down at mine somewhat confused by the whole thing.
If I've learned anything it's that rules are created because something bad has happened in the past regarding the matter. That is to say, if you are told specifically that it is not allowed to ride a horse through the cafeteria, there is a good chance it's because someone once rode a horse through the cafeteria. Why else would they specifically tell you not to do that? Sure...no horse through the cafeteria, also no llamas, elephants and koala bears. This seems common sense. But they remind you about horses, because someone, somewhere, sometime, forgot.
So who was the person who got offended by being called beautiful? And who was the person who was so offended that they complained to HR? And how offended were they that HR, a decidedly whimpy area of our office, found themselves putting the fear of god into Ms. XBoss. She's a tough cookie, but she was genuinely afraid when she realized she had accidentally called me beautiful.
Are there really people out there who are so sensitive that even nice stuff gets to them? Whatever happened to writing things off as a quirky experience? Or even better, being able to take a compliment. With so many people in the world today, and so many opportunities to say whatever the hell you want to them, why are we discouraging the nice things? Must we resign ourselves to talking about the type of popcorn in the tin for eternity? Will I be an old woman reminiscing about that fine conversation I had with my best friend - talking about the best kind of cotton blend for socks?
And where - oh - where did we lose those morals from children's stories? Why must we punished an entire employee base because once upon a time someone called someone beautiful - and they didn't like it? Shouldn't the punishment fit the crime? Shouldn't the punishment fit the criminal?
And isn't it said that a kind word could save the world?
World War III isn't going to be started by war-mongers....it's going to be started by Human Resources!!!!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Putting the Christ back in...
...Jesus Christ! what are they thinking!
Today I read an article from the Washington Post: 'Holiday' Cards Ring Hollow for Some on Bushes' List.
Of course the first part of this that strikes me funny is the fact that no matter what he's doing, the President of the United States is going to piss someone off.
The second thing that struck me funny was this excerpt:
But the White House's explanation does not satisfy the groups -- which have grown in number in recent years -- that believe there is, in the words of the Heritage Foundation, a "war on Christmas" involving an "ever-stronger push toward a neutered 'holiday' season so that non-Christians won't be even the slightest bit offended."
So they want non-Christians to be at least a "little bit" offended? That's the Holiday Spirit!
I mean Christmas Spirit.
Today I read an article from the Washington Post: 'Holiday' Cards Ring Hollow for Some on Bushes' List.
Of course the first part of this that strikes me funny is the fact that no matter what he's doing, the President of the United States is going to piss someone off.
The second thing that struck me funny was this excerpt:
But the White House's explanation does not satisfy the groups -- which have grown in number in recent years -- that believe there is, in the words of the Heritage Foundation, a "war on Christmas" involving an "ever-stronger push toward a neutered 'holiday' season so that non-Christians won't be even the slightest bit offended."
So they want non-Christians to be at least a "little bit" offended? That's the Holiday Spirit!
I mean Christmas Spirit.
Copy Cat
I used to read this blog everyday. Lately however it's lost a little of it's witty, fun flavor and delved into an abstract writing style. Normally I love that style, it gives a piece a flavor of intimacy and mystery straight off. However, I just can't get into his version of it. I also couldn't understand why he went from fairly easy to comprehend-yet-complex storytelling to abstract fuck-the-establishment-and-your-need-for-exposition story-not-telling.
Then I realized that he'd been spending time with Mimi who is the third point in that whole "Bigshot New York Blog" phase that's going through the media right now (specifically the NYTimes). I never really got into Mimi's blog because it is written in that abstract style and jumping in the middle of that it's hard to find the hook. However, she is much better at it than "Rob" probably because she started in that style and Rob started as a narrative writer.
However, though one may think this is a critique on storytelling styles, it is not. The really interesting thing in the new writing development of a favorite blog is how influenced the writer has become by his companion. They say that after living with someone long enough you start to look like them, but you start to talk like them even sooner.
My husband and I have a lot of shared speech habits. I often find myself wondering how they started and who introduced them. For instance: whenever we see a little car, like a mini or a miata, we chirp out a happy "Meep meep!" I believe I started this based on a anecdote of his about japanese horns. Regardless we both now do it almost subconsciously.
His phrases have seeped into my vocabulary as well, "dumb ass" "vroom vroom" "you are fill of shit" "uh..."
However, as I start to list them, I realize that a a lot of the phrases I've picked up from him have been interjections. They have not replaced my personal exclamations such as "cool" "groovy" and "idiot".
I do know that a lot of my mannerisms have sneaked over to him, and a lot of my physical stances have originated from his. None of these, at least on my part, are conscious. I can't speak for my husband though. I do make a conscious effort at times to not say something anymore, but I pick up things from my husband like I pick up mud on my boots It just sticks to me.
I like it. It's much like having him being a part of me all the time. But I do wonder if it means more than we just spend a lot of time with one another.
In the case of the characters "Rob" and "Mimi", Rob declares himself an Alpha-male. Which usually means he's the secondary partner in a relationship. It's that whole freudian, projection thing going. (Please keep in mind I'm talking about the blog characters they portray on their blogs, I consider them about the same as I consider Heathcliff and Cathy.) In the case of my husband, he does not refer to himself as an alpha male. Which usually means he's the one in control. I usually take the role of making a lot of suggestions at once, choosing one about half the time. But often, even when it's me who chooses, we'll change our plans or ideas at the last minute based on his opinion. I don't mind at all. If I want something really bad I'll make sure to stomp my feet until I get it.
So does he.
I think he got the foot stomping from me.
Of course rather than it being a ying-yang thing. A balance and fight over power, it could be hero worship. Perhaps "Rob" really looks up to "Mimi" the way I look up to "C". Perhaps not. We could be looking for a guide. Maybe we want to become someone better through immolation. In my case I don't want to be like my husband at all. In fact that is the last thing I want to do. And I am certain he does not want to be like me. But I do want to be closer to him. I can literally hear his voice in my head when situations come up that I know he would comment on. I know what he would say, I know what he would do, and I wish he was there to say it. Instead, though it's C's voice in my head, it's my voice to the rest of the world. So I talk like him. He's everywhere I am, and no one knows it.
Reading "Rob's" new style though...I wonder if C's words come out just as awkward and loose fitting as "Mimi's" writing comes out broken and too tight on his blog. Perhaps the rest of the world can tell when I switch to my C-words. Perhaps I'm the only one who thinks it fun and comforting.
So in keeping with the theme of stealing from other bloggers I'm wrapping this up with a question:
Am I the only one that thinks this is fascinating? Do you have any habits you picked up from someone else?
Then I realized that he'd been spending time with Mimi who is the third point in that whole "Bigshot New York Blog" phase that's going through the media right now (specifically the NYTimes). I never really got into Mimi's blog because it is written in that abstract style and jumping in the middle of that it's hard to find the hook. However, she is much better at it than "Rob" probably because she started in that style and Rob started as a narrative writer.
However, though one may think this is a critique on storytelling styles, it is not. The really interesting thing in the new writing development of a favorite blog is how influenced the writer has become by his companion. They say that after living with someone long enough you start to look like them, but you start to talk like them even sooner.
My husband and I have a lot of shared speech habits. I often find myself wondering how they started and who introduced them. For instance: whenever we see a little car, like a mini or a miata, we chirp out a happy "Meep meep!" I believe I started this based on a anecdote of his about japanese horns. Regardless we both now do it almost subconsciously.
His phrases have seeped into my vocabulary as well, "dumb ass" "vroom vroom" "you are fill of shit" "uh..."
However, as I start to list them, I realize that a a lot of the phrases I've picked up from him have been interjections. They have not replaced my personal exclamations such as "cool" "groovy" and "idiot".
I do know that a lot of my mannerisms have sneaked over to him, and a lot of my physical stances have originated from his. None of these, at least on my part, are conscious. I can't speak for my husband though. I do make a conscious effort at times to not say something anymore, but I pick up things from my husband like I pick up mud on my boots It just sticks to me.
I like it. It's much like having him being a part of me all the time. But I do wonder if it means more than we just spend a lot of time with one another.
In the case of the characters "Rob" and "Mimi", Rob declares himself an Alpha-male. Which usually means he's the secondary partner in a relationship. It's that whole freudian, projection thing going. (Please keep in mind I'm talking about the blog characters they portray on their blogs, I consider them about the same as I consider Heathcliff and Cathy.) In the case of my husband, he does not refer to himself as an alpha male. Which usually means he's the one in control. I usually take the role of making a lot of suggestions at once, choosing one about half the time. But often, even when it's me who chooses, we'll change our plans or ideas at the last minute based on his opinion. I don't mind at all. If I want something really bad I'll make sure to stomp my feet until I get it.
So does he.
I think he got the foot stomping from me.
Of course rather than it being a ying-yang thing. A balance and fight over power, it could be hero worship. Perhaps "Rob" really looks up to "Mimi" the way I look up to "C". Perhaps not. We could be looking for a guide. Maybe we want to become someone better through immolation. In my case I don't want to be like my husband at all. In fact that is the last thing I want to do. And I am certain he does not want to be like me. But I do want to be closer to him. I can literally hear his voice in my head when situations come up that I know he would comment on. I know what he would say, I know what he would do, and I wish he was there to say it. Instead, though it's C's voice in my head, it's my voice to the rest of the world. So I talk like him. He's everywhere I am, and no one knows it.
Reading "Rob's" new style though...I wonder if C's words come out just as awkward and loose fitting as "Mimi's" writing comes out broken and too tight on his blog. Perhaps the rest of the world can tell when I switch to my C-words. Perhaps I'm the only one who thinks it fun and comforting.
So in keeping with the theme of stealing from other bloggers I'm wrapping this up with a question:
Am I the only one that thinks this is fascinating? Do you have any habits you picked up from someone else?
Monday, December 05, 2005
Movie Theater Phenomena
Movie theaters are strange worlds. It is as if they are a society all their own. Movie theaters are a strange hybrid between the private individual's living room and a public arena where hundreds of people are crammed together unnaturally.
This can only result in lawlessness, savagery and guerilla warfare.
And for some reason once I leave one, battle-weary and thoroughly beaten, I forget how bad it is.
Last night I entered into battle once again in the hopes of seeing Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy fall in love again. Surely a Sunday night crowd would be thinner and slightly more mature than a Friday or Saturday night group. Filled with people who either did not have to get up early the next morning (husband) for school or work and people who were grown-up enough to set their own curfews and knew they could function on only a few hours of sleep (me). Certainly those gimmee-gimmee monsters found in throngs any other night would not deign to show up on a Sunday. Saturday night is for being seen and admired, Sunday is for stomping around in pj's and fluffy bunny slippers.
Or not.
We find a seat, ironically not in our normal spot, the theater is surprisingly full - but being a girl kind of a flick - it's full with a lot of women wearing no make-up. I am among them, but I brought my arm candy with me - grudgingly.
"Popcorn sounds good" says the candy.
I drop off my coat and skip off to the concessions. As always there are many long lines all waiting at stations that are not manned. I bounce from back of one line to back of another trying to find one that actually serves people. All the while I eye the teenagers who are busy chatting about how "Brad is a jerk" and no about "What kind of candy Mr. Brad wants." Just as I'm about to get annoyed at the lack-luster customer service I find someone working with no line in front of her. As she scurries off to fill up the sodas and popcorn bag I collect napkins, straws and scope out where the salt and butter station is.
I always wondered who thought it was a good idea to only have one butter tin and one salt shaker in a movie theater that announces "30,000 customers a month." Perhaps if there were two of each, or maybe three, congestion at the condiment counter would be lessened. Like opening the stupid middle lane on the freeway during rush hour. You can't be saving that much money by not buying ONE MORE SALT SHAKER!
Regardless of the theaters accounting skills, one is all you have to work with, so you make a plan. Scope it out, find the line that's most organized, as soon as you get the bag, make a bee-line. I scooped it out and was pleasantly surprised to find only one man currently salting up his snack. Piece of cake, by the time my credit card is back in my hand he'll be done. I'll shake a little on then skip on back to catch the trailers. (I like the trailers.)
Except as I'm standing there, not more than four feet away I watch as he shakes the salt, shakes it some more, looks at the shaker, looks around his shoulder then walks away with shaker in hand.
My head nearly does a Linda Blair as I watch him confidently, knowingly walk away with what is probably the only container of salt you'll find in the whole damn theater.
And he knows it. This was no slip of the mind. He didn't walk away not realizing he was still holding the thing. He was salting as he was walking. He even looked around to see if the coast was clear.
I consider running after him and somehow injuring his yuppy pride by commenting loudly on the jerk-offishness that is he and his salt-shaker-stealing breathren...but the teenager behind the counter has my credit card still - and if you can't leave a salt-shaker unattended then I sure as heck ain't leaving my credit card behind.
I chew on why someone thinks it's okay to steal salt while I walk back to my seat. Once again I think of the innocent excuses, but none of them fit with the scene. No, he deliberately took that salt, and he knew he was depriving others of the use of it. The thing is I don't think he was guilty, or ashamed. I think he thought he deserved to take the salt back, that is was his right and other people would just have to deal. I've never thought that, I've never thought that I should have something to the detriment of others. Sure I've thought I deserved something more than someone else did, but I didn't want the other person to be deprived, I just wanted everyone to get their just desserts. And quite frankly if we're all paying $5 for a bag of popcorn, we all deserve use of the salt.
I ask my husband why he thinks it happened.
"People are idiots." he replies.
But somehow that doesn't work, he wasn't an idiot, he knew what he was doing was going to piss people off. That's why he made sure no one important was watching. Of course he missed me, but I'm a girl, and timid, and I think he knew I wouldn't pop him in the jaw over a salt-shaker. I'm not like him.
No I think that movie theaters bring out the worst in people. Behaviors that are okay when at home, like taking the salt into the living room with your pot pie, are suddenly manifesting in public. We sit in a dark room doing the same activity we do at home - staring at a screen. At home we pick up the phone, make ourselves a snack, talk into our pillows, so why not in a theater. It's dark, we're tricked into thinking we're living in a different world, so we don't notice there are other people sitting around us. We don't realize that when we put our feet up on the seat in front of us, we end up kicking someone's head. At home we never kick someone in the head when we put our feet up.
And of course when we're confronted with our lapse in etiquette we get defensive. How dare someone ask that I not talk on my cellphone, I talk on my cellphone all the time at home - and I watch t.v. doing it.
No people are idiots, they're just confused. Movie theaters mess with our heads, they make us forget who we are, where we are, how to behave. It's all fantasy and no one ever has a fantasy about waiting for other people and having to be more considerate. We want to be the prince and princesses, not the maids and butlers.
On the other hand, I hope salt-shaker-stealer guy has a prince of a heart attack. And they bury him with a pepper mill.
This can only result in lawlessness, savagery and guerilla warfare.
And for some reason once I leave one, battle-weary and thoroughly beaten, I forget how bad it is.
Last night I entered into battle once again in the hopes of seeing Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy fall in love again. Surely a Sunday night crowd would be thinner and slightly more mature than a Friday or Saturday night group. Filled with people who either did not have to get up early the next morning (husband) for school or work and people who were grown-up enough to set their own curfews and knew they could function on only a few hours of sleep (me). Certainly those gimmee-gimmee monsters found in throngs any other night would not deign to show up on a Sunday. Saturday night is for being seen and admired, Sunday is for stomping around in pj's and fluffy bunny slippers.
Or not.
We find a seat, ironically not in our normal spot, the theater is surprisingly full - but being a girl kind of a flick - it's full with a lot of women wearing no make-up. I am among them, but I brought my arm candy with me - grudgingly.
"Popcorn sounds good" says the candy.
I drop off my coat and skip off to the concessions. As always there are many long lines all waiting at stations that are not manned. I bounce from back of one line to back of another trying to find one that actually serves people. All the while I eye the teenagers who are busy chatting about how "Brad is a jerk" and no about "What kind of candy Mr. Brad wants." Just as I'm about to get annoyed at the lack-luster customer service I find someone working with no line in front of her. As she scurries off to fill up the sodas and popcorn bag I collect napkins, straws and scope out where the salt and butter station is.
I always wondered who thought it was a good idea to only have one butter tin and one salt shaker in a movie theater that announces "30,000 customers a month." Perhaps if there were two of each, or maybe three, congestion at the condiment counter would be lessened. Like opening the stupid middle lane on the freeway during rush hour. You can't be saving that much money by not buying ONE MORE SALT SHAKER!
Regardless of the theaters accounting skills, one is all you have to work with, so you make a plan. Scope it out, find the line that's most organized, as soon as you get the bag, make a bee-line. I scooped it out and was pleasantly surprised to find only one man currently salting up his snack. Piece of cake, by the time my credit card is back in my hand he'll be done. I'll shake a little on then skip on back to catch the trailers. (I like the trailers.)
Except as I'm standing there, not more than four feet away I watch as he shakes the salt, shakes it some more, looks at the shaker, looks around his shoulder then walks away with shaker in hand.
My head nearly does a Linda Blair as I watch him confidently, knowingly walk away with what is probably the only container of salt you'll find in the whole damn theater.
And he knows it. This was no slip of the mind. He didn't walk away not realizing he was still holding the thing. He was salting as he was walking. He even looked around to see if the coast was clear.
I consider running after him and somehow injuring his yuppy pride by commenting loudly on the jerk-offishness that is he and his salt-shaker-stealing breathren...but the teenager behind the counter has my credit card still - and if you can't leave a salt-shaker unattended then I sure as heck ain't leaving my credit card behind.
I chew on why someone thinks it's okay to steal salt while I walk back to my seat. Once again I think of the innocent excuses, but none of them fit with the scene. No, he deliberately took that salt, and he knew he was depriving others of the use of it. The thing is I don't think he was guilty, or ashamed. I think he thought he deserved to take the salt back, that is was his right and other people would just have to deal. I've never thought that, I've never thought that I should have something to the detriment of others. Sure I've thought I deserved something more than someone else did, but I didn't want the other person to be deprived, I just wanted everyone to get their just desserts. And quite frankly if we're all paying $5 for a bag of popcorn, we all deserve use of the salt.
I ask my husband why he thinks it happened.
"People are idiots." he replies.
But somehow that doesn't work, he wasn't an idiot, he knew what he was doing was going to piss people off. That's why he made sure no one important was watching. Of course he missed me, but I'm a girl, and timid, and I think he knew I wouldn't pop him in the jaw over a salt-shaker. I'm not like him.
No I think that movie theaters bring out the worst in people. Behaviors that are okay when at home, like taking the salt into the living room with your pot pie, are suddenly manifesting in public. We sit in a dark room doing the same activity we do at home - staring at a screen. At home we pick up the phone, make ourselves a snack, talk into our pillows, so why not in a theater. It's dark, we're tricked into thinking we're living in a different world, so we don't notice there are other people sitting around us. We don't realize that when we put our feet up on the seat in front of us, we end up kicking someone's head. At home we never kick someone in the head when we put our feet up.
And of course when we're confronted with our lapse in etiquette we get defensive. How dare someone ask that I not talk on my cellphone, I talk on my cellphone all the time at home - and I watch t.v. doing it.
No people are idiots, they're just confused. Movie theaters mess with our heads, they make us forget who we are, where we are, how to behave. It's all fantasy and no one ever has a fantasy about waiting for other people and having to be more considerate. We want to be the prince and princesses, not the maids and butlers.
On the other hand, I hope salt-shaker-stealer guy has a prince of a heart attack. And they bury him with a pepper mill.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Amusing
I'm still lack-luster about my blog. In anycase I have a short blogging story.
Yesterday I posted a comment in a persons blog agreeing with their numerous antagonists. It meant to go something much like "I agree with so-and-so when they said this-and-that. The character you show on your blog is a selfish, whiney, immature yuppy. If you didn't want to come off like that, then you should probably not write stories that reflect it."
But I said it nicer than that.
Surprisingly it was not the blog characters champions that jumped all over me, but the bloggers antagonists who have been saying much the same thing I said for months now.
Which just goes to show that antagonists really do want to stand alone.
(Addition: I don't want to color her blog unfairly which is why I did not link to it before. Opinionistas. She's a good blogger, but it's a bit like reading "Catcher in the Rye" while watching the Titanic sink. I can't look away!
Which I guess is both good AND bad.)
Yesterday I posted a comment in a persons blog agreeing with their numerous antagonists. It meant to go something much like "I agree with so-and-so when they said this-and-that. The character you show on your blog is a selfish, whiney, immature yuppy. If you didn't want to come off like that, then you should probably not write stories that reflect it."
But I said it nicer than that.
Surprisingly it was not the blog characters champions that jumped all over me, but the bloggers antagonists who have been saying much the same thing I said for months now.
Which just goes to show that antagonists really do want to stand alone.
(Addition: I don't want to color her blog unfairly which is why I did not link to it before. Opinionistas. She's a good blogger, but it's a bit like reading "Catcher in the Rye" while watching the Titanic sink. I can't look away!
Which I guess is both good AND bad.)
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Random crap no one cares about
It called to me...it said you must take me...I am a quiz...you cannot resist.
Via Impenetrable Prose and Poesy.
Via Impenetrable Prose and Poesy.
Advanced You scored 92% Beginner, 100% Intermediate, 86% Advanced, and 73% Expert! |
You have an extremely good understanding of beginner, intermediate, and advanced level commonly confused English words, getting at least 75% of each of these three levels' questions correct. This is an exceptional score. Remember, these are commonly confused English words, which means most people don't use them properly. You got an extremely respectable score.
|
My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
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| Link: The Commonly Confused Words Test written by shortredhead78 on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test |
Just painting
The canvas doesn't want to stay on the ground. I'm sitting on one corner and watching the paint can on the other corner warily. I'm sure the wind will pick up again and send it's contents flying up and all over the work we've already done. Somehow I don't think Helena and Lysander should be traipsing around in a forest of hot pink trees. So I watch the can while Rebecca paints the leaves and I don't hear the beginning of her thought.
"Sometimes I think I'm too smart." She's finishing up the shading with a bright yellow. Who would think to use a toxic yellow to paint a green tree? She did and it looks amazing.
"Too smart for what?" I say, wiggling over to the center of my edge so she can paint that corner.
"Too smart to, I dunno, grow-up maybe. Or to succeed."
"Like too many thoughts?"
"No, it's more I can't do all the things I think I should as a teenager, because I know I shouldn't."
"You are mature." I agree.
"So are you."
"It is sorta like missing out."
"Like when I started throwing up my food...I knew it was a bad idea. So I told my mom. And the psychiatrist just told me it was a bad idea, and I agreed, so that was the end of that."
"Well it kinda is a bad idea." We counter each other again, I move the can with pink paint and weight down the next corner. The wind is picking up, Rebecca's hair keeps blowing around and getting caught in the green and yellow paint. She looks like a fairy queen.
"I know it is, but at the same time, it would have been nice if I had kept it up just until I lost a little weight."
"But you knew that was unhealthy."
"Right. I analyze too much."
"I kinda get that. Everyone else has all this stuff they're going through and I know it's dumb, so I don't go through it."
"Exactly." Rebecca sits down on the other side of the canvas. I get out the white paint and we both take small brushes, highlighting the trunks and the branches. You could almost see Puck sitting in them, giggling at the bumbling lovers. "I just think that I'll never get to do anything, because I know how it will turn out."
"But you do stuff that's good. You've been all over."
"Not things other people do. You either. You're too smart. We won't ever get to be like others."
By other people, we mean teenagers. I look around. While Rebecca and I have finished twelve canvases of trees that are now peppering the lawn of our "quad" our co-crew members have managed to climb a real tree and are currently drawing on the concrete table "Melissa is a fat pig" and "Joseph is a fag." The girls are lying on the benches, their head in some boys lap. They're cute, skinny, their clothes are tight and ride up on the top and down on the bottom. I think this is no tragedy since none of them have breasts or hips and look more like boys than the boys do.
David is trying to wave me over to watch him try and skateboard down a flight of stairs. He does this every afternoon. Ever since we broke up he keeps wanting me to come watch him play. We don't know it but soon, after we've gotten back together, he'll fall down the staircase railing and get a crack in his skull. His step-mother will then proceed to beat him after their trip to the ER. Eventually he will run away to Alaska without telling his Father. Only a handful of us will know about it and we will be threatened with beatings ourselves for letting him go.
I will only hear from him twice after that. Once to let me know he got there safe and once to let me know he has become a manager for Subway. There will be rumors he has gotten married to a girl he got pregnant. But I will never know for sure.
I turn back to Rebecca. She's not skinny, but she is very developed and curves beautifully.
"You should do a painting of yourself. You're so beautiful."
"I was thinking maybe I'd do a body study of myself. But I need photos."
"I can take them for you." We finish the painting in silence and go to clean the brushes together.
"Maybe," I say "you are just too advanced for right now...but eventually you'll find something challenging later."
"I don't know if I've ever been challenged."
"Me either."
"It's the analysis. I'm too detached."
"Right, life would be easier if I didn't know so much about it."
"Exactly, you're smart, and so you can see what will work and won't and why. All these rumors and myths, they're so easy to see through."
"It's like understanding something you're not supposed to explain." I nod.
Again I look around. Peggy and Mark are in the parking lot making out. Mark is spindly and tall, Peggy is pure skeleton. She had a mother who was a dancer and wanted Peggy to be too. She's a good one. But she's been anorexic since she was 12. She's extremely protective of the other girls and forces us all to eat whenever we can. Lately she's been gaining some weight and looks really good, all of us are unsure if we should congratulate her on how fabulous she looks or if we should keep quiet for fear she may think she's gaining weight again and spiral back to 85 lbs. Once again, we don't know that in a few years she will have become a model in New York and be raped by one of her agents. She looks weak, but she's strong and soon after she will move to California and run her own business.
Mark will go to school, break more hearts, and disappear. Mark never was more than tall and spindly, and desperate to be strange. He never really made it.
"We think too much, but we're not too smart." I tell Rebecca. She nods.
In a few years Rebecca will have joined an art commune and be forbidden to speak with any of her friends. She has disappeared somewhere in the hills of North Carolina. I met someone from her commune at a concert in Louisiana a few years ago. There were no women around and I didn't ask about her. I don't know if her name is still her name. I don't even know if she still paints. I hope she does.
Soon after I graduate I will remember her saying "Maybe I'm too smart." and take it too heart. I'll spend so much of my time pretending to not be smart, pretending to be the girls who giggle over boys skating down stairs that I'll lose focus and forget I ever was intelligent.
I know where I got that idea, but I don't know where she got hers. I guess we did do something teenage and stupid. But it affected us far later than it should have.
"Sometimes I think I'm too smart." She's finishing up the shading with a bright yellow. Who would think to use a toxic yellow to paint a green tree? She did and it looks amazing.
"Too smart for what?" I say, wiggling over to the center of my edge so she can paint that corner.
"Too smart to, I dunno, grow-up maybe. Or to succeed."
"Like too many thoughts?"
"No, it's more I can't do all the things I think I should as a teenager, because I know I shouldn't."
"You are mature." I agree.
"So are you."
"It is sorta like missing out."
"Like when I started throwing up my food...I knew it was a bad idea. So I told my mom. And the psychiatrist just told me it was a bad idea, and I agreed, so that was the end of that."
"Well it kinda is a bad idea." We counter each other again, I move the can with pink paint and weight down the next corner. The wind is picking up, Rebecca's hair keeps blowing around and getting caught in the green and yellow paint. She looks like a fairy queen.
"I know it is, but at the same time, it would have been nice if I had kept it up just until I lost a little weight."
"But you knew that was unhealthy."
"Right. I analyze too much."
"I kinda get that. Everyone else has all this stuff they're going through and I know it's dumb, so I don't go through it."
"Exactly." Rebecca sits down on the other side of the canvas. I get out the white paint and we both take small brushes, highlighting the trunks and the branches. You could almost see Puck sitting in them, giggling at the bumbling lovers. "I just think that I'll never get to do anything, because I know how it will turn out."
"But you do stuff that's good. You've been all over."
"Not things other people do. You either. You're too smart. We won't ever get to be like others."
By other people, we mean teenagers. I look around. While Rebecca and I have finished twelve canvases of trees that are now peppering the lawn of our "quad" our co-crew members have managed to climb a real tree and are currently drawing on the concrete table "Melissa is a fat pig" and "Joseph is a fag." The girls are lying on the benches, their head in some boys lap. They're cute, skinny, their clothes are tight and ride up on the top and down on the bottom. I think this is no tragedy since none of them have breasts or hips and look more like boys than the boys do.
David is trying to wave me over to watch him try and skateboard down a flight of stairs. He does this every afternoon. Ever since we broke up he keeps wanting me to come watch him play. We don't know it but soon, after we've gotten back together, he'll fall down the staircase railing and get a crack in his skull. His step-mother will then proceed to beat him after their trip to the ER. Eventually he will run away to Alaska without telling his Father. Only a handful of us will know about it and we will be threatened with beatings ourselves for letting him go.
I will only hear from him twice after that. Once to let me know he got there safe and once to let me know he has become a manager for Subway. There will be rumors he has gotten married to a girl he got pregnant. But I will never know for sure.
I turn back to Rebecca. She's not skinny, but she is very developed and curves beautifully.
"You should do a painting of yourself. You're so beautiful."
"I was thinking maybe I'd do a body study of myself. But I need photos."
"I can take them for you." We finish the painting in silence and go to clean the brushes together.
"Maybe," I say "you are just too advanced for right now...but eventually you'll find something challenging later."
"I don't know if I've ever been challenged."
"Me either."
"It's the analysis. I'm too detached."
"Right, life would be easier if I didn't know so much about it."
"Exactly, you're smart, and so you can see what will work and won't and why. All these rumors and myths, they're so easy to see through."
"It's like understanding something you're not supposed to explain." I nod.
Again I look around. Peggy and Mark are in the parking lot making out. Mark is spindly and tall, Peggy is pure skeleton. She had a mother who was a dancer and wanted Peggy to be too. She's a good one. But she's been anorexic since she was 12. She's extremely protective of the other girls and forces us all to eat whenever we can. Lately she's been gaining some weight and looks really good, all of us are unsure if we should congratulate her on how fabulous she looks or if we should keep quiet for fear she may think she's gaining weight again and spiral back to 85 lbs. Once again, we don't know that in a few years she will have become a model in New York and be raped by one of her agents. She looks weak, but she's strong and soon after she will move to California and run her own business.
Mark will go to school, break more hearts, and disappear. Mark never was more than tall and spindly, and desperate to be strange. He never really made it.
"We think too much, but we're not too smart." I tell Rebecca. She nods.
In a few years Rebecca will have joined an art commune and be forbidden to speak with any of her friends. She has disappeared somewhere in the hills of North Carolina. I met someone from her commune at a concert in Louisiana a few years ago. There were no women around and I didn't ask about her. I don't know if her name is still her name. I don't even know if she still paints. I hope she does.
Soon after I graduate I will remember her saying "Maybe I'm too smart." and take it too heart. I'll spend so much of my time pretending to not be smart, pretending to be the girls who giggle over boys skating down stairs that I'll lose focus and forget I ever was intelligent.
I know where I got that idea, but I don't know where she got hers. I guess we did do something teenage and stupid. But it affected us far later than it should have.
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