I am so guilty of a typical "guy" thing.
I have a selective memory.
If what you are talking about isn't interesting or weird to me, chances are I am nodding politely and thinking about coffee.
And my rote memory skills? So so so bad. Unlike most girls I know that can throw arguments back into their boyfriends' faces months and even years afterward, I can NEVER remember conversations word for word. I can remember the gist of the conversation and how it made me feel but what was actually said? No clue (unless what was said was unexpected or funny).
I have a very-detail oriented job, so I make check lists and take copious notes so I have something to refer to. Circuit boards? Printer mechanisms? Software versions? Yawn. When someone at work starts babbling at me I always grab my notebook or open my email so I know what the hell they are talking about and I don't just give them a blank stare and start drooling. Because that would be really pretty and professional.
I think my brain likes to fuck with me. When I am trying to learn something new, I only seem to remember the action (or whatever) if it is different or stands out. Therefore, I mostly remember how to do things in the wrong way because that's what I remember.
Tie my shoes? backwards
(my right-handed mom tried to teach me how to tie my shoes for months. The time it stuck was when my left-handed dad showed me. Therefore, my bows are always upside down.)
Bellyroll? backwards
(no clue how I fucked this one up. But I did. It's not WRONG per se, but opposite of the way everyone else first learns.)
Play the finger cymbals? backwards
(instead of playing with one dominant hand, I alternate between my left and right hands being dominant, which makes it more difficult to change patterns when the music changes. So now I have to re-teach myself using a dominant hand.)
I'd be a spectacular brain in an alternate universe.
But as things are now...
I want coffee.
3.22.2006
3.15.2006
Labor of Love (really long post)
On March13th, 1997, I was one week from my due date, sitting at my desk at work.
My office was full of older middle-aged men and here I was, a 24 year old woman and 9 months pregnant. They were like a bunch of worried mother hens - it was quite cute and endearing. My supervisor (another middle-aged man) poked his head in my cube "Are you ok? Your water hasn't broken or anything, has it?" he jokingly asked. "Not yet, Wayne!" I shot back.
About an hour later, I felt the urge to pee YET AGAIN, so I waddled to the bathroom in the hall. When I pulled down my pants and panties, I noticed they were wet. Not much, but a little. Hmmm...
I knew this could be my water breaking... and I was having Braxton Hicks contractions, but I had been having those since I as 6 months along. I was still a week from my due date and this was my first baby... there was NO WAY I was going to be early. I decided to check again later.
(The day before I had wiped off what looked like a bunch of snot - with no blood. I had no idea this bloodfree mess was the "bloody show" and birth was imminent. I was a dumbass.)
So half an hour later, I checked. And they were even more wet than they were before - and I had dried them off and put on a panty-liner. Hmmm...
So I mosied up to Wayne's desk. "Uh, Wayne... I think I need to go. I think my water broke a little." He jumped up so fast he knocked his chair over. "Are you ok? Are you having labor pains?" I assured him I was fine and that I may be wrong, but I thought I needed to be checked out by my doctor anyway.
I called and met my husband at home. We called the hospital and told them what was going on and they told us to come in so they could check me. But since I felt perfectly fine, we took our sweet time. We straightened up the house. C did the dishes while I took a shower and shaved my legs. We finally hit the road and went to the hospital.
When we got there, I still felt fine. No labor pains, no more leaking than there was before. A nurse came in and put me on fetal heart monitor and a contraction monitor and did a litmus test to see if the fluid was just pee or amniotic fluid. He said he'd be back in a minute. My husband and I talked about what we were going to do for dinner that night, because I still felt perfectly fine and was expecting to be told to go home when the nurse came back.
Dumb. Ass.
The nurse came back in and smiled and said he hoped I brought my bag because we were having a baby! And I was indeed in labor - contractions were 3-5 minutes apart! I was dilated 2-3 cent. and 100% effaced! And since I didn't know how long my water had been broken and the chances of the infection increased exponentially as the minutes ticked by, I was being put on pitocyn (labor inducer/intensifier) and IV penicillin too!
Surprise!
You know all those shows where they show the mom walking the halls and taking a shower to ease the pains of labor? Yeah, I wasn't allowed to do that. But I didn't mind. I was comfortable. I was just sitting in the bed, hooked up to monitors and the IV, watching TV. I could feel the pressure from the contractions, and see my stomach tightening into a hard little ball every few minutes, but it still didn't hurt. I knew pitocyn was supposed to make your contractions 3 times as hard and more painful then normal, but it didn't seem to be hurting me. I didn't need pain meds. All those other women are wimps! This was easy!
A couple hours later, a doctor came in to check me and said I was 6 cent. dilated, but that the baby's heart rate was dropping a little with each contraction which is normal in most cases, but they wanted to put in a fetal scalp electrode to monitor her heartrate better. Ok! No problem!
The doctor bent over to insert the electrode and splllooooooooooooooosh - the rest of my water broke. All over him. (I peed on him when I was pushing later, too. Poor guy.)
And whhhhhhhhooooooooooooa nelly! Where the %&@%$#!!!!! did all this pain come from?
Apparently, the amniotic fluid CUSHIONS the contractions and when it is all gone, the pain takes over. And BOY did it take over.
I curled into a fetal position and clamped onto C's hand for dear life. I puffed and breathed for all I was worth. I clenched my teeth. I wimpered. And then I asked for an epidural. I puffed and breathed and clenched my teeth and wimpered some more. And some more.
Until FORTY-FIVE minutes passed.
FINALLY the anesthesiologist strolled in, with his little red cart in tow. Then the nurse announced that I was dilated to 10 cent., and the anesthesiologist strolled right back out. @&%$#!!!!
The nurse told me to sit up and push. I sat up and pushed as hard as I could. Right as I felt something tear, the nurse yelled at me to stop pushing and to try not to push anymore.
Then about 15 people ran into the room.
The baby was in distress - her heartrate plummeted from 140 bpm to 60 bpm when I pushed which only meant one thing... the cord was wrapped around her neck and each push made it tighter. She may be strangled to death by her own cord if they couldn't get her out immediately.
A nurse stuck her hand between my legs and held the baby's head in to relieve the pressure of the cord from around the baby's neck. The doctors tried to use the suction cup on her head to pull her out as I pushed, but it was too slick from my blood, so it wouldn't stay attached. Then they grabbed the forceps. Normally the doctors give you an episiotomy to accomodate the forceps, but I had already torn so much that they didn't need to. But as they inserted them into my vagina and around her head, I felt myself tear some more. They told me to push one more time while they pulled. They delivered her head and saw the cord was wrapped around her neck not once, but TWICE.
So they unwound the cord from around her neck and suctioned her mouth and nostrils and delivered her the rest of the way. But there was no crying from my baby. She was blue and limp. They carried her over to the incubator and started to work on her.
And, Thank God, she pinked right up and started wailing.
I have a picture of her with about 5 pairs of hands working on her - rubbing her down, listening to her heart, etc., and her little face is crinkled up and she looks PISSED. It's so cute.
I, on the other hand, was still a mess. I had a 3rd degree tear, meaning I had torn from the vaginal opening all the way up to my cervix and almost all the way thru the vaginal wall to my rectum. The forceps tore up the sides. I spent the next 45 minutes getting stitched up on a local anesthetic THAT NEVER TOOK EFFECT - I felt EVERY stitch.
THAT was fun.
But... all is well that ends well.
I found out there is such a thing called the "husband stitch" (ahem) and healed very well.
The baby, Lauren, was fine, minus a black eye from the forceps. She took to breastfeeding like a pig in a trough.
And the result is the lovely girl you see in the post below. She just turned nine on Monday.
She was worth every stitch.
My office was full of older middle-aged men and here I was, a 24 year old woman and 9 months pregnant. They were like a bunch of worried mother hens - it was quite cute and endearing. My supervisor (another middle-aged man) poked his head in my cube "Are you ok? Your water hasn't broken or anything, has it?" he jokingly asked. "Not yet, Wayne!" I shot back.
About an hour later, I felt the urge to pee YET AGAIN, so I waddled to the bathroom in the hall. When I pulled down my pants and panties, I noticed they were wet. Not much, but a little. Hmmm...
I knew this could be my water breaking... and I was having Braxton Hicks contractions, but I had been having those since I as 6 months along. I was still a week from my due date and this was my first baby... there was NO WAY I was going to be early. I decided to check again later.
(The day before I had wiped off what looked like a bunch of snot - with no blood. I had no idea this bloodfree mess was the "bloody show" and birth was imminent. I was a dumbass.)
So half an hour later, I checked. And they were even more wet than they were before - and I had dried them off and put on a panty-liner. Hmmm...
So I mosied up to Wayne's desk. "Uh, Wayne... I think I need to go. I think my water broke a little." He jumped up so fast he knocked his chair over. "Are you ok? Are you having labor pains?" I assured him I was fine and that I may be wrong, but I thought I needed to be checked out by my doctor anyway.
I called and met my husband at home. We called the hospital and told them what was going on and they told us to come in so they could check me. But since I felt perfectly fine, we took our sweet time. We straightened up the house. C did the dishes while I took a shower and shaved my legs. We finally hit the road and went to the hospital.
When we got there, I still felt fine. No labor pains, no more leaking than there was before. A nurse came in and put me on fetal heart monitor and a contraction monitor and did a litmus test to see if the fluid was just pee or amniotic fluid. He said he'd be back in a minute. My husband and I talked about what we were going to do for dinner that night, because I still felt perfectly fine and was expecting to be told to go home when the nurse came back.
Dumb. Ass.
The nurse came back in and smiled and said he hoped I brought my bag because we were having a baby! And I was indeed in labor - contractions were 3-5 minutes apart! I was dilated 2-3 cent. and 100% effaced! And since I didn't know how long my water had been broken and the chances of the infection increased exponentially as the minutes ticked by, I was being put on pitocyn (labor inducer/intensifier) and IV penicillin too!
Surprise!
You know all those shows where they show the mom walking the halls and taking a shower to ease the pains of labor? Yeah, I wasn't allowed to do that. But I didn't mind. I was comfortable. I was just sitting in the bed, hooked up to monitors and the IV, watching TV. I could feel the pressure from the contractions, and see my stomach tightening into a hard little ball every few minutes, but it still didn't hurt. I knew pitocyn was supposed to make your contractions 3 times as hard and more painful then normal, but it didn't seem to be hurting me. I didn't need pain meds. All those other women are wimps! This was easy!
A couple hours later, a doctor came in to check me and said I was 6 cent. dilated, but that the baby's heart rate was dropping a little with each contraction which is normal in most cases, but they wanted to put in a fetal scalp electrode to monitor her heartrate better. Ok! No problem!
The doctor bent over to insert the electrode and splllooooooooooooooosh - the rest of my water broke. All over him. (I peed on him when I was pushing later, too. Poor guy.)
And whhhhhhhhooooooooooooa nelly! Where the %&@%$#!!!!! did all this pain come from?
Apparently, the amniotic fluid CUSHIONS the contractions and when it is all gone, the pain takes over. And BOY did it take over.
I curled into a fetal position and clamped onto C's hand for dear life. I puffed and breathed for all I was worth. I clenched my teeth. I wimpered. And then I asked for an epidural. I puffed and breathed and clenched my teeth and wimpered some more. And some more.
Until FORTY-FIVE minutes passed.
FINALLY the anesthesiologist strolled in, with his little red cart in tow. Then the nurse announced that I was dilated to 10 cent., and the anesthesiologist strolled right back out. @&%$#!!!!
The nurse told me to sit up and push. I sat up and pushed as hard as I could. Right as I felt something tear, the nurse yelled at me to stop pushing and to try not to push anymore.
Then about 15 people ran into the room.
The baby was in distress - her heartrate plummeted from 140 bpm to 60 bpm when I pushed which only meant one thing... the cord was wrapped around her neck and each push made it tighter. She may be strangled to death by her own cord if they couldn't get her out immediately.
A nurse stuck her hand between my legs and held the baby's head in to relieve the pressure of the cord from around the baby's neck. The doctors tried to use the suction cup on her head to pull her out as I pushed, but it was too slick from my blood, so it wouldn't stay attached. Then they grabbed the forceps. Normally the doctors give you an episiotomy to accomodate the forceps, but I had already torn so much that they didn't need to. But as they inserted them into my vagina and around her head, I felt myself tear some more. They told me to push one more time while they pulled. They delivered her head and saw the cord was wrapped around her neck not once, but TWICE.
So they unwound the cord from around her neck and suctioned her mouth and nostrils and delivered her the rest of the way. But there was no crying from my baby. She was blue and limp. They carried her over to the incubator and started to work on her.
And, Thank God, she pinked right up and started wailing.
I have a picture of her with about 5 pairs of hands working on her - rubbing her down, listening to her heart, etc., and her little face is crinkled up and she looks PISSED. It's so cute.
I, on the other hand, was still a mess. I had a 3rd degree tear, meaning I had torn from the vaginal opening all the way up to my cervix and almost all the way thru the vaginal wall to my rectum. The forceps tore up the sides. I spent the next 45 minutes getting stitched up on a local anesthetic THAT NEVER TOOK EFFECT - I felt EVERY stitch.
THAT was fun.
But... all is well that ends well.
I found out there is such a thing called the "husband stitch" (ahem) and healed very well.
The baby, Lauren, was fine, minus a black eye from the forceps. She took to breastfeeding like a pig in a trough.
And the result is the lovely girl you see in the post below. She just turned nine on Monday.
She was worth every stitch.
3.13.2006
Happy Birthday, Laurenia!
I was going to write Lauren's birth story for all the world to see, but it is rather long and gory and semi-scary. Suffice it to say she was blue.
But I'll post that another day and we can all share our birthing horror stories.
Today, I just want to say:
Happy 9th Birthday, Lauren!
Thank you for introducing me to how wonderful motherhood can be.
You are my heart of hearts.
But I'll post that another day and we can all share our birthing horror stories.
Today, I just want to say:
Happy 9th Birthday, Lauren!
Thank you for introducing me to how wonderful motherhood can be.
You are my heart of hearts.
3.06.2006
2.27.2006
Say, "Nacho Cheese Enchilada!!"
The whole time I was trying to take this picture, the three of us were giggling and I kept telling Lauren to close her mouth because she loves to leave it open like Fozzy Bear during photos for some weird reason and Ashlyn always makes googly eyes.
I was finally able to snap this one while Ashlyn and Lauren were both actually looking at the camera and smiling, but what you don't hear is Lauren saying, "Nacho cheese enchilada!" as I snapped.
I had just wiped ketchup off both their chins.
And neither one of them is wearing pants.
At least Lauren's mouth was closed.
I know it's a little fuzzy (took it with my phone), but I just love this picture of my girls, as much for what was going on "behind the scene" as in front of it.
2.24.2006
A Craigslist Valentine's Day
I know I already spewed forth my venom about Valentine's Day a week ago
(which was quite nice, actually. R and I had a nice dinner, a movie and great sex.)
But this guy has it bad. I'd feel sorry for him if I wasn't laughing so hard.
8) Lame message hearts. The only thing worse than feigning gratitude when you hand me three hearts with “Be Mine”, “You Stud”, “So Hot” is falsely complementing you on your third grade creativity. After that, I have the pleasure of choking down these delightful little confections that taste like a combination of elementary school chalk and baseball card chewing gum.
7) Overpriced Dinners. Thank you for bumping up your prices by $25 for the pleasure of eating your attempt at realizing your culinary dreams. Mmmmm… love that odd lemon/foot flavored cream sauce you doused on the new potatoes. Did you use dill on this flank steak you are passing off as veal? That makes you a real chef. This should go well with that moldy tasting boxed cabernet you’re serving at the reasonable price of $9 a glass. P.S. nobody likes FLAN!!
6) valentine Cards. Thanks sweety, I’m glad it took you 10 minutes to decide between the Whinny the Pooh card that said “You’re my Honey” and the Tiger Card that said “Your Terrifficccc!”. I want to poop on your head wasting 3 dollars.
5) DeBeers commercials. Oh DeBeers, You most bastards of the Belgium families. Congratulations on raping the people of South Africa, exporting all the wealth to Europe, and artificially inflating the price of diamonds by restricting the supply to the market. But why stop there you ask? You didn’t. You successfully launched a marketing campaign that has ever women in America believing that a not so rare carbon-carbon stone is the incarnation of love itself. Thanks for securing my dates disappointment when her gifts are wilted roses, dusty chocolates, and… an overpriced dinner. Diamonds are Forever?? Fuck You is Forever too you waffle-slinging assholes!!
4) That damn guy who goes overboard. Guess what dude, those years of being a neglectful father and husband or the affair you had with your coworker won’t be forgiven simply because you bought this girl a tennis bracelet, sent 100 roses to her work, and hired a wandering serenade for the night. The only thing your accomplishing is making the rest of us look bad. BTW- she’s sleeping with your best friend.
3) Valentine’s Night Sex. I just spent 4 hours pretending to enjoy the evening, I am half cocked on bad wine, and my stomach is turning because of that awful dinner and shitty candies. I am in no mood for athletics. It doesn’t help that my penis is on DEFCON 5 and about to blow any minute because you stopped having sex with me two weeks ago to make this night “special”. The most you can hope for is two minutes of awkward half pumps and that I don’t fart on you in my sleep as I try to digest all that nastiness.
2) Singles Parties. Hmm… two choices of girls here. The really drunk chick who wants to tell me about her shitty ex, or her fat friend who couldn’t get a date for the life of her. Hey Betty, here’s a tip, that bleach job you did for the hair on your upper lip glows underneath the black light. No I do not want to do a body shot off of you, you yeti.
1) Its my birthday god damn it. I either have to spend it with some needy girl who wants me to treat her like a princess, or all my bitter friends who don’t have a date for valentines day.
(which was quite nice, actually. R and I had a nice dinner, a movie and great sex.)
But this guy has it bad. I'd feel sorry for him if I wasn't laughing so hard.
8 things I hate about valentine's
8) Lame message hearts. The only thing worse than feigning gratitude when you hand me three hearts with “Be Mine”, “You Stud”, “So Hot” is falsely complementing you on your third grade creativity. After that, I have the pleasure of choking down these delightful little confections that taste like a combination of elementary school chalk and baseball card chewing gum.
7) Overpriced Dinners. Thank you for bumping up your prices by $25 for the pleasure of eating your attempt at realizing your culinary dreams. Mmmmm… love that odd lemon/foot flavored cream sauce you doused on the new potatoes. Did you use dill on this flank steak you are passing off as veal? That makes you a real chef. This should go well with that moldy tasting boxed cabernet you’re serving at the reasonable price of $9 a glass. P.S. nobody likes FLAN!!
6) valentine Cards. Thanks sweety, I’m glad it took you 10 minutes to decide between the Whinny the Pooh card that said “You’re my Honey” and the Tiger Card that said “Your Terrifficccc!”. I want to poop on your head wasting 3 dollars.
5) DeBeers commercials. Oh DeBeers, You most bastards of the Belgium families. Congratulations on raping the people of South Africa, exporting all the wealth to Europe, and artificially inflating the price of diamonds by restricting the supply to the market. But why stop there you ask? You didn’t. You successfully launched a marketing campaign that has ever women in America believing that a not so rare carbon-carbon stone is the incarnation of love itself. Thanks for securing my dates disappointment when her gifts are wilted roses, dusty chocolates, and… an overpriced dinner. Diamonds are Forever?? Fuck You is Forever too you waffle-slinging assholes!!
4) That damn guy who goes overboard. Guess what dude, those years of being a neglectful father and husband or the affair you had with your coworker won’t be forgiven simply because you bought this girl a tennis bracelet, sent 100 roses to her work, and hired a wandering serenade for the night. The only thing your accomplishing is making the rest of us look bad. BTW- she’s sleeping with your best friend.
3) Valentine’s Night Sex. I just spent 4 hours pretending to enjoy the evening, I am half cocked on bad wine, and my stomach is turning because of that awful dinner and shitty candies. I am in no mood for athletics. It doesn’t help that my penis is on DEFCON 5 and about to blow any minute because you stopped having sex with me two weeks ago to make this night “special”. The most you can hope for is two minutes of awkward half pumps and that I don’t fart on you in my sleep as I try to digest all that nastiness.
2) Singles Parties. Hmm… two choices of girls here. The really drunk chick who wants to tell me about her shitty ex, or her fat friend who couldn’t get a date for the life of her. Hey Betty, here’s a tip, that bleach job you did for the hair on your upper lip glows underneath the black light. No I do not want to do a body shot off of you, you yeti.
1) Its my birthday god damn it. I either have to spend it with some needy girl who wants me to treat her like a princess, or all my bitter friends who don’t have a date for valentines day.
2.22.2006
You! Shake Your Junk!
I have been so excited for the last couple of days because I'm going back to bellydance class and possibly a performance troupe after a 2 year absence.
(Due to a nasty divorce, lack of time, and lack of funds. Oh, and my dad had cancer, and my parents got divorced, and my boyfriend cheated on me with a psycho puta, and I got laid off, and I was in a bad car accident, and my daughter had a tumor -benign, thank God, but had to be surgically removed all the same. Those were two bad, bad, baaaaaaaaaaaaaad years. I hope 2004 and 2005 rot in the hell from whence they came and are never to be seen again. Or I will claw somebody's eyes out. Not mine of course, because then I would be miserable AND blind and who needs that?!)
Anyhoo...
I can't express how excited and happy to be taking class with my closest friend and excited and lusting after costumes and excited I am! Did I mention I am excited?!
I mean, to have an excuse to dress like this AND shake my junk (of which I have plenty - I am pretty bootylicious for a white girl):
Of course I'm not quite as thin or cut as she is (yet) and I'm about as white as Casper's ass... but on the plus side, my boobs are bigger than hers!
Besides, half the fun of bellydancing (besides being sore in muscles you never knew you had) is the costuming. I'm drooling just thinking about it.
I want to shake and puke just at the thought of public performances, but hopefully that will ease with time, practice, and confidence. Or it will end in complete and utter humiliation. Ya never can tell with those types of things.
But as long as I'm wearing something gorgeous and sparkly, I'm cool either way.
(Due to a nasty divorce, lack of time, and lack of funds. Oh, and my dad had cancer, and my parents got divorced, and my boyfriend cheated on me with a psycho puta, and I got laid off, and I was in a bad car accident, and my daughter had a tumor -benign, thank God, but had to be surgically removed all the same. Those were two bad, bad, baaaaaaaaaaaaaad years. I hope 2004 and 2005 rot in the hell from whence they came and are never to be seen again. Or I will claw somebody's eyes out. Not mine of course, because then I would be miserable AND blind and who needs that?!)
Anyhoo...
I can't express how excited and happy to be taking class with my closest friend and excited and lusting after costumes and excited I am! Did I mention I am excited?!
I mean, to have an excuse to dress like this AND shake my junk (of which I have plenty - I am pretty bootylicious for a white girl):
Of course I'm not quite as thin or cut as she is (yet) and I'm about as white as Casper's ass... but on the plus side, my boobs are bigger than hers!
Besides, half the fun of bellydancing (besides being sore in muscles you never knew you had) is the costuming. I'm drooling just thinking about it.
I want to shake and puke just at the thought of public performances, but hopefully that will ease with time, practice, and confidence. Or it will end in complete and utter humiliation. Ya never can tell with those types of things.
But as long as I'm wearing something gorgeous and sparkly, I'm cool either way.
2.17.2006
To Kill an American
Last week, in the midst of all the uproar in the Muslim communities about the Mohammed cartoons, I had a new little girl join my Brownie troop - she's in my daughter's third grade class. We were discussing other Girl Scouts around the world and I mentioned that some countries divide their scouting groups by religion. Then I mentioned that in the US, it doesn't matter what your religion is, what color your skin is, how much money you have, or whether or not you have a disability - all are welcome in the Girl Scouts of America.
Spontaneously, all the girls started comparing themselves and their differences in skin color (I have black, white, middle-eastern, and mixed-race girls in my troop), hair color, a few wear glasses, one little girl wears a hearing aid... etc.
Then the new little girl, Amna Nazir, quietly said, "I'm Muslim."
To which 8 other little voices replied, "COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!!!"
Amna broke into a huge grin.
There was no judgment, only curiosity and total acceptance.
I looked at the other table and saw Amna's mother and older brother smiling big smiles, too.
*****************************
Got this forwarded to me in email today, which I usually hate, but I thought this was worth passing on to the masses.
BTW, the forwarded email is from a co-worker who is from Ethiopia... and is Muslim.
****************************
You probably missed it in the rush of news last week, but there was actually a report that someone in Pakistan had published in a newspaper an offer of a reward to anyone who killed an American, any American.
So an Australian dentist wrote an editorial to the newspaper the following day to let everyone know what an American is, so they would know when they found one.
"An American is English, or French, or Italian, Irish, German, Spanish, Polish, Russian or Greek. An American may also be Canadian, Mexican, African, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Australian, Iranian, Asian, or Arab, or Pakistani or Afghanistani.
An American may also be a Comanche, Cherokee, Iroqouis, Blackfoot, Sioux, Navaho, Apache, Nez Pierce, Seminole or one of the many other tribes known as Native Americans.
An American is Christian, or Jewish, or Buddhist, or Muslim. In fact, there are more Muslims in America than in Afghanistan and more Jews in America than in Isreal. The only difference is that in America they are free to worship as each of them chooses.
An American is also free to believe in no religion at all. For that he will answer only to God, not to the government, or to armed thugs claiming to speak for the government AND for God.
An American lives in the most prosperous land in the history of the world. The root of that prosperity can be found in the Declaration of Independence, which recognizes the God given right of each person to the pursuit of happiness.
An American is generous. Americans have helped out just about every other nation in the world in their time of need, never asking a thing in return.
When Afghanistan was over-run by the Soviet army 20 years ago, Americans came with arms and supplies to enable the people to win back their country.
As of the morning of September 11, Americans had given more than any other nation to the poor in Afghanistan. Americans welcome the best of everything...the best products, the best books, the best music, the best food, the best services. But they also welcome the least.
The national symbol of America, The Statue of Liberty, welcomes your tired and your poor, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores, the homeless, tempest tossed. These, in fact, are the people who built America.
Some of them were working in the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on the morning of September 11, 2001, earning a better life for their families. It's been told that the World Trade Center victims were from at least 30 different countries, cultures, and first languages, including those that aided and abetted the terrorists.
So you can try to kill an American if you must. Hitler did. So did General Tojo, and Stalin, and Mao Tse-Tung, and other blood-thirsty tyrants in the world. But, in doing so you would just be killing yourself.
Because Americans are not a particular people from a particular place... they are the embodiment of the human spirit of freedom.
Everyone who holds to that spirit, everywhere, is an American."
***************************
Happy Friday, ya'll.
Spontaneously, all the girls started comparing themselves and their differences in skin color (I have black, white, middle-eastern, and mixed-race girls in my troop), hair color, a few wear glasses, one little girl wears a hearing aid... etc.
Then the new little girl, Amna Nazir, quietly said, "I'm Muslim."
To which 8 other little voices replied, "COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!!!"
Amna broke into a huge grin.
There was no judgment, only curiosity and total acceptance.
I looked at the other table and saw Amna's mother and older brother smiling big smiles, too.
*****************************
Got this forwarded to me in email today, which I usually hate, but I thought this was worth passing on to the masses.
BTW, the forwarded email is from a co-worker who is from Ethiopia... and is Muslim.
****************************
You probably missed it in the rush of news last week, but there was actually a report that someone in Pakistan had published in a newspaper an offer of a reward to anyone who killed an American, any American.
So an Australian dentist wrote an editorial to the newspaper the following day to let everyone know what an American is, so they would know when they found one.
"An American is English, or French, or Italian, Irish, German, Spanish, Polish, Russian or Greek. An American may also be Canadian, Mexican, African, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Australian, Iranian, Asian, or Arab, or Pakistani or Afghanistani.
An American may also be a Comanche, Cherokee, Iroqouis, Blackfoot, Sioux, Navaho, Apache, Nez Pierce, Seminole or one of the many other tribes known as Native Americans.
An American is Christian, or Jewish, or Buddhist, or Muslim. In fact, there are more Muslims in America than in Afghanistan and more Jews in America than in Isreal. The only difference is that in America they are free to worship as each of them chooses.
An American is also free to believe in no religion at all. For that he will answer only to God, not to the government, or to armed thugs claiming to speak for the government AND for God.
An American lives in the most prosperous land in the history of the world. The root of that prosperity can be found in the Declaration of Independence, which recognizes the God given right of each person to the pursuit of happiness.
An American is generous. Americans have helped out just about every other nation in the world in their time of need, never asking a thing in return.
When Afghanistan was over-run by the Soviet army 20 years ago, Americans came with arms and supplies to enable the people to win back their country.
As of the morning of September 11, Americans had given more than any other nation to the poor in Afghanistan. Americans welcome the best of everything...the best products, the best books, the best music, the best food, the best services. But they also welcome the least.
The national symbol of America, The Statue of Liberty, welcomes your tired and your poor, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores, the homeless, tempest tossed. These, in fact, are the people who built America.
Some of them were working in the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on the morning of September 11, 2001, earning a better life for their families. It's been told that the World Trade Center victims were from at least 30 different countries, cultures, and first languages, including those that aided and abetted the terrorists.
So you can try to kill an American if you must. Hitler did. So did General Tojo, and Stalin, and Mao Tse-Tung, and other blood-thirsty tyrants in the world. But, in doing so you would just be killing yourself.
Because Americans are not a particular people from a particular place... they are the embodiment of the human spirit of freedom.
Everyone who holds to that spirit, everywhere, is an American."
***************************
Happy Friday, ya'll.
2.14.2006
My Funny Anti-Valentine
I consider myself extremely lucky to have someone to share my life with that is loving, supportive and affectionate year-round and not just on days like today.
That being said, the commercialism and hypocrisy of Valentine's Day just twists my panties ( and not in a good way). What other day offers an excuse for people to act like great girlfriends/boyfriends/wives/husbands when they are actually fuckwits the rest of the year?
Call me crazy, but why does one arbitrary day in February mean you must rush out (along with everyone and their dog) and spend exorbitant amounts of money to prove their love? Alcohol? Always good. Cards and chocolates? Fine. Stuffed animals if you're over 12? Gag me. Diamonds? Run NOW.
There is a commercial for a jewelry store playing on TV every 10 minutes now that shows a little girl talking to an 20-something girl.
The little girl says, "Brian likes you."
20-something girl says, "How do you know?"
LG: "He told me!"
20 SG: "He told me too because I'm a gold-digging whore who only shags Brian when he buys me stuff!" while displaying a diamond pendant necklace.
Don't get me wrong, I think that children giving out Valentines to their classmates and having little parties is sweet - in fact I'm bringing cookies to my daughter's class in about an hour. I also think people SHOULD celebrate their love with occasional gifts and thoughtful notes, but on days that mean something - birthdays, anniversaries, special happenings, etc. But not because Hallmark and Nestles and Teleflora and Kay Jewelers tell you to.
So, in the spirit of my snarky anti-commercialism, here are some Anti-Valentines that I find very funny.
That being said, the commercialism and hypocrisy of Valentine's Day just twists my panties ( and not in a good way). What other day offers an excuse for people to act like great girlfriends/boyfriends/wives/husbands when they are actually fuckwits the rest of the year?
Call me crazy, but why does one arbitrary day in February mean you must rush out (along with everyone and their dog) and spend exorbitant amounts of money to prove their love? Alcohol? Always good. Cards and chocolates? Fine. Stuffed animals if you're over 12? Gag me. Diamonds? Run NOW.
There is a commercial for a jewelry store playing on TV every 10 minutes now that shows a little girl talking to an 20-something girl.
The little girl says, "Brian likes you."
20-something girl says, "How do you know?"
LG: "He told me!"
20 SG: "He told me too because I'm a gold-digging whore who only shags Brian when he buys me stuff!" while displaying a diamond pendant necklace.
Don't get me wrong, I think that children giving out Valentines to their classmates and having little parties is sweet - in fact I'm bringing cookies to my daughter's class in about an hour. I also think people SHOULD celebrate their love with occasional gifts and thoughtful notes, but on days that mean something - birthdays, anniversaries, special happenings, etc. But not because Hallmark and Nestles and Teleflora and Kay Jewelers tell you to.
So, in the spirit of my snarky anti-commercialism, here are some Anti-Valentines that I find very funny.
2.13.2006
Goofing off
I have a deadline on Wednesday. So what am I doing? Surfing the web and blogging, trying to kill the last painfully slow hour I'm chained to my desk.
So what happens then? The co-owner of the company walks up behind me to say hi and see how I'm doing. What do I have open? My Yahoo mail account that has a huge YAHOO GAMES banner flashing across the top.
Yeah, baby.
Hey, at least it's not porn.
*******************************
Evidence I live in the Washington D.C. area:
You know how kids spray paint street signs with grafitti and gang signs and stuff?
In my neighborhood and in the one where my kids attend school, there are 2 stop signs that I roll thru (hey, why lie?) every day. Instead of "I love you, boo" or "Gangstas 4eva" or whathaveyou, these stop signs say: Stop War and Stop Bush.
Political grafitti is such an oxymoron to me - it makes me chuckle.
*******************************
Another reason not to contribute to the Bush campaign (not that it matters anymore):
VP Dick Cheney shot a campaign contributor while out hunting in Texas (where else?) this weekend.
heh
hee hee
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Fortunately for the shootee, it he was just peppered with buckshot and will make a full recovery.
This just smacks of poetic justice to me.
So what happens then? The co-owner of the company walks up behind me to say hi and see how I'm doing. What do I have open? My Yahoo mail account that has a huge YAHOO GAMES banner flashing across the top.
Yeah, baby.
Hey, at least it's not porn.
*******************************
Evidence I live in the Washington D.C. area:
You know how kids spray paint street signs with grafitti and gang signs and stuff?
In my neighborhood and in the one where my kids attend school, there are 2 stop signs that I roll thru (hey, why lie?) every day. Instead of "I love you, boo" or "Gangstas 4eva" or whathaveyou, these stop signs say: Stop War and Stop Bush.
Political grafitti is such an oxymoron to me - it makes me chuckle.
*******************************
Another reason not to contribute to the Bush campaign (not that it matters anymore):
VP Dick Cheney shot a campaign contributor while out hunting in Texas (where else?) this weekend.
heh
hee hee
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Fortunately for the shootee, it he was just peppered with buckshot and will make a full recovery.
This just smacks of poetic justice to me.
I'm a mammal, you're a mammal, he's a mammal, she's a mammal....
What is it about snow that makes me want to hibernate?
There is nothing I would rather be doing right now than be in bed, napping with R - or maybe watching a good movie with some hot cocoa, which is exactly what I did this past weekend.
3 hours to go until I am doing just that.
Despite how much I dislike the white stuff (well, technically, I don't dislike snow, it's the ice that it turns into that I don't like so much), our local celebrity enjoyed it quite a bit.
The caption under this picture in The Washington Post says "Tai Shan huddles close to his mother for warmth."
Apparently, the photographer has been blinded by the snow because that is no huddling baby panda. That baby panda has a mouthful of mama's fur! He's not trying to get warm - he's biting the shit out of mama!
That furry little fucker is cute, tho, isn't he?
There is nothing I would rather be doing right now than be in bed, napping with R - or maybe watching a good movie with some hot cocoa, which is exactly what I did this past weekend.
3 hours to go until I am doing just that.
Despite how much I dislike the white stuff (well, technically, I don't dislike snow, it's the ice that it turns into that I don't like so much), our local celebrity enjoyed it quite a bit.
The caption under this picture in The Washington Post says "Tai Shan huddles close to his mother for warmth."
Apparently, the photographer has been blinded by the snow because that is no huddling baby panda. That baby panda has a mouthful of mama's fur! He's not trying to get warm - he's biting the shit out of mama!
That furry little fucker is cute, tho, isn't he?
2.06.2006
2.03.2006
Friday Funnies
The Muslims are up in arms across Europe and Asia because a Danish newspaper printed a comic that depicted the Prophet Mohammed. He wasn't doing anything atrocious, but apparently it is blaphemous to even draw Mohammed.
That's all well and good and to each his own... but here's the funny part, as stolen from a newspaper quote:
Mohammed: Believe it or Else!
Of course, the same could be said for most religions. And besides, what good is religion if you can't make fun of it?
******************************
This is more on the moronic side of fucking stupid:
The Kansas Attorney General has outlawed snogging by teenagers.
He needs to be shot and taken out of making OTHER people miserable.
******************************
Last but not least, here's a comic that could describe many relationships:
That's all well and good and to each his own... but here's the funny part, as stolen from a newspaper quote:
Mohammed: Believe it or Else!
Of course, the same could be said for most religions. And besides, what good is religion if you can't make fun of it?
******************************
This is more on the moronic side of fucking stupid:
The Kansas Attorney General has outlawed snogging by teenagers.
He needs to be shot and taken out of making OTHER people miserable.
******************************
Last but not least, here's a comic that could describe many relationships:
1.31.2006
Dream Day
WARNING! If you're at work, make sure no one is behind you when you open the link!
Let this be reason 1,453 why NOT to wear a strapless dress on your wedding day unless you have the tits to hold it up, or a really good seamstress.
Pic courtesy of Zelda.
Let this be reason 1,453 why NOT to wear a strapless dress on your wedding day unless you have the tits to hold it up, or a really good seamstress.
Pic courtesy of Zelda.
1.30.2006
Tales from the Crypt
R related this tale to me on his way home from work this morning, opening with "We had the weirdest thing happen last night!":
He was working the med-surg floors when they called a "code blue" over the PA. He and several nurses and a doctor went running and started trying to resucitate a man who was in cardiac and respiratory arrest - no pulse, no breathing... nothing. They worked on him for a good 20 minutes but to no avail. The doctor pronounced him dead.
They all consoled each other and cleaned up their areas, then went back to their rotations.
Then R heard a "code blue" announced AGAIN in the same area, so they all went running AGAIN.
Lo and behold... a patient technician who had helped work on the guy the first time walked back by the room and saw the dead guy moving around on his bed AFTER he had already been down for 20 minutes!
The guy is now in critial condition in the ICU, on a ventilator.
R is still freaked out about it.
He was working the med-surg floors when they called a "code blue" over the PA. He and several nurses and a doctor went running and started trying to resucitate a man who was in cardiac and respiratory arrest - no pulse, no breathing... nothing. They worked on him for a good 20 minutes but to no avail. The doctor pronounced him dead.
They all consoled each other and cleaned up their areas, then went back to their rotations.
Then R heard a "code blue" announced AGAIN in the same area, so they all went running AGAIN.
Lo and behold... a patient technician who had helped work on the guy the first time walked back by the room and saw the dead guy moving around on his bed AFTER he had already been down for 20 minutes!
The guy is now in critial condition in the ICU, on a ventilator.
R is still freaked out about it.
1.26.2006
Dysfunctional Family Robinson
What else are you supposed to do when your heartless harpy wife dumps you for your younger brother?
Brilliant!
Happy HNT everyone!
What - you were expecting a picture? Well, I would be happy to oblige! I have one slight problem tho. I no longer have my favorite mode of last minute photography, i.e., my cell phone because...
I WASHED MY CELL PHONE IN HOT SOAPY WATER FOR HALF AN HOUR! (along with my jeans in which they were pocketed and a couple pairs of R's scrubs).
AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH
I have been so frustrated without it! And the worst part is that IT"S ALL MY FAULT!
Update:
I got a new phone after our interminably long quarterly meeting.
Ooooooooooooo SHINEY!!
What - you were expecting a picture? Well, I would be happy to oblige! I have one slight problem tho. I no longer have my favorite mode of last minute photography, i.e., my cell phone because...
I WASHED MY CELL PHONE IN HOT SOAPY WATER FOR HALF AN HOUR! (along with my jeans in which they were pocketed and a couple pairs of R's scrubs).
AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHH
I have been so frustrated without it! And the worst part is that IT"S ALL MY FAULT!
Update:
I got a new phone after our interminably long quarterly meeting.
Ooooooooooooo SHINEY!!
1.20.2006
The Doors, Part One
Sorry for the lack of posts - work has been extremely busy, but my boss is out today so I'm going to take some time and slack off and write in my blog. Then I'm going to take a long lunch and spend some time with my man, THEN I'll actually apply myself to the reformatting of a very ugly Installation and Operations Manual.
So, fueled on strong coffee and the breakfast of champions - frosted cherry poptarts, of course - I'm going to share the bizarre story of injuries caused by doors that have happened between my sister and I, you lucky bitches.
*****************************************
Cast of Characters:
Me: bratty 2 y/o
Sister: persnickety 6 y/o
Mom: stay-at-home mom
Dad: MSgt in the Army
Year: 1974
Place: Base housing, Ft Bragg, NC, a few blocks up from where Green Beret Jeffrey McDonald savagely murdered his family, smeared blood all over the walls and blamed a cult about a year previous to the incident about to be relayed. The book was called Fatal Vision and was a best seller.
Our story begins on a week day much like any other week day. My sister was in 1st grade, my dad was at work, and I was at home with my mother. Being 2, I idolized my sister and all her stuff, so while she was in school every day, I would venture into her room and pull out all her toys and play with them. She didn't like this very much because she didn't like me messing with her stuff and to tell the truth, she just really didn't like me at this point in our lives, period. Upon her return home every day, she would (understandably) blow a gasket when she saw I had trashed her room.
On this particular day, she had returned home to find I had trashed her room AGAIN. I was following her around like a puppy and she got fed up and shoved me out the door and slammed it in my face. Well, I didn't WANT to be shoved out of her room and have the door rudely slammed in my face, so I stuck my wee little hand between the jam and the oncoming heavy wood door.
Not so bright, in hind sight. Have I mentioned that children don't reach the age of reason until 6? And I was 1/3 of that age? Yeah. You know what's coming.
Within seconds my mom heard screaming. She ran upstairs to find both my sister and I screaming - me on one side of the door, and my sister on the other and blood everywhere.
You see, the slamming door severed the pinky finger on my left hand between the first joint and the base of my fingernail. I was on one side of the door trying to get the rest of my hand out of the jam and my sister was on the other side with my bloody finger.
Say it with me... eeeeewwww.
My mom yanked open the door to assess the damage. My finger was still attached, but it was dangling off on the side like a flower with a snapped stem, only attached by a piece of skin. She brought me into the bathroom and wrapped a cold wet washcloth around it, tried to reach my father but couldn't, so she called our neighbor, who rushed the three of us, all crying hysterically and covered in blood, to the emergency room at Womack Army Hospital.
Meanwhile, my dad was already on his way home for the day - hence the reason why my mom couldn't reach him. He gets home to find the front door open, blood tracked down the foyer, up the stairs, all in the hall, in my sister's room, pooled in the bathroom sink and all three of us missing. Not a good moment for my father. Since it was 1974, there were no cell phones, so he had no idea where we were or what had happened.
Luckily, my father is also a very rational and logical person, so he ran back out to his car and jumped in and hauled ass to the emergency room, figuring he would check there first and then deal with the next step if we were still nowhere to be found.
~~~Sidenote: Here's an interesting anecdote that my dad just revealed to my sister and I when they were visiting last month over Christmas that attests to the camaraderie and brotherhood of our nation's military: Upon our arrival at the ER, we were recognized by a friend of our dad - they had served in Vietnam together and become close friends. Since he didn't see my dad with us, he knew what kind of scene my dad was going to find when he got home. This friend and fellow soldier sent an escort of MPs to our house to find my dad and escort him to the ER, and also to tell him where we were and that we were ok so my dad wouldn't worry. I think that is the most considerate action I have ever heard in my life and if I knew where this guy was, I would find him and kiss him and thank him for being such a fantastic person. ~~~
My dad arrived at the ER and found my poor, scared 6 y/o sister curled up in a ball in the waiting room, all by herself, still covered in my blood, thinking she killed me. The idiots in the ER wouldn't let her back in the trauma bay with me and my mom.
He scooped her up and took her back to the trauma room and found my mom and me, with my finger stitched and bandaged with a cast that was so heavy that my finger was bending backwards because it couldn't support the weight.
We all went home and lived injury free happily ever after.
Well, until 11 years later...
So, fueled on strong coffee and the breakfast of champions - frosted cherry poptarts, of course - I'm going to share the bizarre story of injuries caused by doors that have happened between my sister and I, you lucky bitches.
*****************************************
Cast of Characters:
Me: bratty 2 y/o
Sister: persnickety 6 y/o
Mom: stay-at-home mom
Dad: MSgt in the Army
Year: 1974
Place: Base housing, Ft Bragg, NC, a few blocks up from where Green Beret Jeffrey McDonald savagely murdered his family, smeared blood all over the walls and blamed a cult about a year previous to the incident about to be relayed. The book was called Fatal Vision and was a best seller.
Our story begins on a week day much like any other week day. My sister was in 1st grade, my dad was at work, and I was at home with my mother. Being 2, I idolized my sister and all her stuff, so while she was in school every day, I would venture into her room and pull out all her toys and play with them. She didn't like this very much because she didn't like me messing with her stuff and to tell the truth, she just really didn't like me at this point in our lives, period. Upon her return home every day, she would (understandably) blow a gasket when she saw I had trashed her room.
On this particular day, she had returned home to find I had trashed her room AGAIN. I was following her around like a puppy and she got fed up and shoved me out the door and slammed it in my face. Well, I didn't WANT to be shoved out of her room and have the door rudely slammed in my face, so I stuck my wee little hand between the jam and the oncoming heavy wood door.
Not so bright, in hind sight. Have I mentioned that children don't reach the age of reason until 6? And I was 1/3 of that age? Yeah. You know what's coming.
Within seconds my mom heard screaming. She ran upstairs to find both my sister and I screaming - me on one side of the door, and my sister on the other and blood everywhere.
You see, the slamming door severed the pinky finger on my left hand between the first joint and the base of my fingernail. I was on one side of the door trying to get the rest of my hand out of the jam and my sister was on the other side with my bloody finger.
Say it with me... eeeeewwww.
My mom yanked open the door to assess the damage. My finger was still attached, but it was dangling off on the side like a flower with a snapped stem, only attached by a piece of skin. She brought me into the bathroom and wrapped a cold wet washcloth around it, tried to reach my father but couldn't, so she called our neighbor, who rushed the three of us, all crying hysterically and covered in blood, to the emergency room at Womack Army Hospital.
Meanwhile, my dad was already on his way home for the day - hence the reason why my mom couldn't reach him. He gets home to find the front door open, blood tracked down the foyer, up the stairs, all in the hall, in my sister's room, pooled in the bathroom sink and all three of us missing. Not a good moment for my father. Since it was 1974, there were no cell phones, so he had no idea where we were or what had happened.
Luckily, my father is also a very rational and logical person, so he ran back out to his car and jumped in and hauled ass to the emergency room, figuring he would check there first and then deal with the next step if we were still nowhere to be found.
~~~Sidenote: Here's an interesting anecdote that my dad just revealed to my sister and I when they were visiting last month over Christmas that attests to the camaraderie and brotherhood of our nation's military: Upon our arrival at the ER, we were recognized by a friend of our dad - they had served in Vietnam together and become close friends. Since he didn't see my dad with us, he knew what kind of scene my dad was going to find when he got home. This friend and fellow soldier sent an escort of MPs to our house to find my dad and escort him to the ER, and also to tell him where we were and that we were ok so my dad wouldn't worry. I think that is the most considerate action I have ever heard in my life and if I knew where this guy was, I would find him and kiss him and thank him for being such a fantastic person. ~~~
My dad arrived at the ER and found my poor, scared 6 y/o sister curled up in a ball in the waiting room, all by herself, still covered in my blood, thinking she killed me. The idiots in the ER wouldn't let her back in the trauma bay with me and my mom.
He scooped her up and took her back to the trauma room and found my mom and me, with my finger stitched and bandaged with a cast that was so heavy that my finger was bending backwards because it couldn't support the weight.
We all went home and lived injury free happily ever after.
Well, until 11 years later...
1.10.2006
5 Neurotic Habits
This is a stolen meme - I'm tired of memes, but I found this one interesting so here goes:
1. I minored in Deaf Education in college (learnedAmerican Sign Language). Ever since then, when I have an imaginary conversation going on in my head, I sometimes spell it with my fingers, too.
2. When I walk into someone's house, I always imagine how I would decorate it, because I think most people's decorating skills suck ass - except mine, of course.
3. When I get interested in something, I dive into it, but to an extreme. I learn everything I can and even consider changing my career, but chicken out and stay with what's safe and stable. Possible careers so far: nurse, deaf education teacher, casino dealer, chinese linguist, nuclear engineer, mid-wife, candle maker, coffee shop owner, gift basket maker, professional belly dancer, pastry chef.
4. When I walk by a mirror, I ALWAYS check my reflection because I am vain.
5. I wake up several times during the night and look at the clock just to see how much more time I have left before I have to get up.
And here are three bonus quirks, because I'm on a roll:
6. When I'm reading a novel for pleasure, if I skim over a part to see what happens later in the story-line, I feel like I MUST go back and read the part I skimmed over. If I don't, I feel guilty. I have no idea why.
7. I rub my feet together when I'm turned on, and also when I am in a state of post-coital bliss.
8. I can't fall asleep if my feet are cold.
1. I minored in Deaf Education in college (learnedAmerican Sign Language). Ever since then, when I have an imaginary conversation going on in my head, I sometimes spell it with my fingers, too.
2. When I walk into someone's house, I always imagine how I would decorate it, because I think most people's decorating skills suck ass - except mine, of course.
3. When I get interested in something, I dive into it, but to an extreme. I learn everything I can and even consider changing my career, but chicken out and stay with what's safe and stable. Possible careers so far: nurse, deaf education teacher, casino dealer, chinese linguist, nuclear engineer, mid-wife, candle maker, coffee shop owner, gift basket maker, professional belly dancer, pastry chef.
4. When I walk by a mirror, I ALWAYS check my reflection because I am vain.
5. I wake up several times during the night and look at the clock just to see how much more time I have left before I have to get up.
And here are three bonus quirks, because I'm on a roll:
6. When I'm reading a novel for pleasure, if I skim over a part to see what happens later in the story-line, I feel like I MUST go back and read the part I skimmed over. If I don't, I feel guilty. I have no idea why.
7. I rub my feet together when I'm turned on, and also when I am in a state of post-coital bliss.
8. I can't fall asleep if my feet are cold.
10 for Tuesday
10 places I'd like to visit before I die (in no particular order):
1. Mexico
2. Marrakech
3. Giza
4. French Riviera
5. Venice
6. Rome
7. London
8.Taj Mahal
9. Beijing
10. Athens
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