Writing Rainbow

LOL HAHA

2010-12-15T21:29:00.000-08:00

Oh, that the world really LOL'd and hahad verbally as it did in the written world. This is just one of the messages - the infinite messages I've received where I've been incredulous that the author of said message was as humored as he/ she claimed: "For sure let's go to austin haha. When will you be here? LOL."

Stop this nonsense. I'm trying to feel like I'm with this guy in person. I'm always trying to get the feeling as though I'm having a real conversation with whomever I'm communicating. So I interpret the style literally, and I want to know:

Did you really think it was funny, your statement "Let's go to Austin." Was that just a joke?

Or did you not really want to go, so much so that you think it's laughable?

Or maybe "haha" means you audibly went "haha" after typing "Let's go to Austin."

Again, the laughter leads me to believe that a trip to Austin is funny to you for some reason. And I want to know why, jerk.

And why are you laughing out loud that I'm going to visit you? You're a family member whom I seldom see. It's so funny to you that I'm going to be around you soon that you must laugh out loud? Or is that a lie, as I suspect, because I know you, and you have a good, smart sense of humor, and you don't typically laugh out loud at things that aren't funny. Why would the time of my arrival to Austin be laugh-worthy? Laughing takes energy. Why is it so darn funny that I'm going to be in Austin?

I suspect that hahas and LOLs are inserted in the place of punctuation or communication of feelings. I think maybe you meant to say: "For sure let's go to Austin. That will be fun. When will you be here? I'm so excited!"

Hell, why not just say it? Why water/ dumb down your feelings? Oh, I know. That's all people know to do. They've forgotten real etiquette. So I say to all you young whipper snappers, "I love you, but please don't insult me or yourself by dumbing down your emotional expression......LOL haha MUAHAHAHA hee hee."

About as Similar as Danny DeVito and Arnold

2009-08-23T17:41:00.000-07:00

Do a quick side-by-side. No, do a slow side-by-side. Do we look like twins? No. But for some reason, we got called "spooky" by a spooky grocery store checker yesterday for not being twins.

That's pretty much the story. We went into Tom Thumb (Nadege took a picture of it, so amused that we have a grocery store named after a tiny fictional man.) yesterday. Things went considerably normally until we got to the checkout line. The guy bagged my items up and gave me careful instructions about swiping my credit card, choosing the appropriate credit/debit option, asked me if I wanted cash back...you know, pretty much the same exact thing the machine was asking me at the very same time. While he was schooling Nadege in the same fashion, he asked if we were twins.

At this point, we take a quick look at each other to figure out why. Well, we're both caucasian, both in our young 30s, roughly the same height, give or take a couple of inches........we both have teeth, we both smile, we both have two eyeballs. That's pretty much where it stops, as you can see.

So we looked back at the guy and said "no." He paused and continued ogling us, mystified. The awkwardness was broken with even more awkwardness when he replied "spooooooooky."

How do you respond to this? HE WAS THE SPOOKY ONE! Should we have said, "No, not really. You see, she has dark hair and I have lighter hair. She has brown eyes and I have green eyes. She looks French and I look like an Irish alcoholic." Instead, we just let the spookiness linger in the air until finally - sweet finally - Nadege was instructed to sign her name on the pin pad. Thank goodness for that bit of direction, because who knows how she would've proceeded with that transaction.

By the way, I do realize that two out of my last three posts have been about grocery store experiences. Life is slower in Fort Worth.

We Don't Need Another Hero, Apparently.

2009-07-12T20:27:00.000-07:00

During a living room discussion with my family today, we broached the subject of ridiculous team/mascot names, like the Fighting Turkeys, the Cranes and the Doves, among others. One thing led to another, and we decided to dive right into the topic of politically correct mascots, which most people can agree has been carried a little too far.

When it comes to naming mascots, schools and professional teams seem to have "reservations" about honoring Native Americans, their brave characteristics and their traditional appearances. Many teams that used to use names like "Braves," "Chiefs," or "Cherokees" as scare tactics, have renamed their mascots something along the lines of "Mighty Mules" or "Corn Huskers." Sure, references to agriculture can be intimidating, but not as intimidating as tribes of people who fought fearlessly for their culture and land. Right? Logic tells me it's racist to erase Native American symbolism.

Then there are bad words like "confederate" (which means, as my father pointed out, "unified"--TERRIBLE!) that have been obliterated from our vocabulary and imagery, as in mascot names, team names and flags. I grew up in Odessa/Midland, where we used to have the "Confederate Airforce Base." It's now the "Commemorative Airforce Base." I'm not one to fly a Confederate flag because I know it's now associated with racism, and I don't want to promote that in any way, but how far are we going to go to make sure sensitive people don't waste a tree, pulling too many tissues from the box?

I'll tell you how far. In 2005, New Mexico State decided their Mascot, Pistol Pete, needed to drop his weapon. According to NMSU, there was a real gunman in the 1800s who shot the men responsible for his father's death. Apparently, you don't name your mascot after someone who avenged his father's death 200 years ago. All the frat daddies who research their school histories would probably just go postal. So now, Pistol Pete (that's still his name) carries a lasso. Watch out, Pete, I'm good with a gun and now you're left holding a short rope.

Kfed Up.

2009-06-30T20:36:00.000-07:00

The littlest things in life can make me feel wealthy, like walking into a CVS after paying for my own oil change (not at CVS), my head held high, bringing whichever energy drink and greeting card I feel like straight up to the counter and paying for it with my hard-earned credit card.

So, I parked my clean car (a rarity for my car to be any color but "dirt") and sauntered toward the pharmacy in my summer dress (a little fancy for West Fort Worth). I think I had just finished replying to a text message when "Kfed" came limping out of the drugstore with his walk o' attitude. I could feel his eyes scanning me as though I were his own personal malt liquor aisle. I immediately decided I should've worn a longer dress, as this particular liquor was on reserve and not necessarily on the menu. I also applauded my inner self for just saying "no" to that Twinkie at the office. It was paying off. I mean, creepy or not, I was getting attention.

We passed one another. The inner battle of "Gross, stop looking at me" and "I must look extraordinary" was over. Phew. But he tossed a grenade back over his shoulder and hit me with a subtle, but direct, "Mmmmmm." Ouch.

It's not that these types of cats are unusual. One may throw one's high heel and hit an "mmmmm" guy. But it makes me wonder: Does it ever work for him? And if it does, does it only work on particular types of women? And if so, do I need a makeover? Is there some soul searching I should be doing based on this incident?

I haven't found the answer, but I just want to say that if you're an "mmmmm" guy, please stop and consider the following:

A. It won't work.

B. If it does work, you're making yourself a victim of a pretty trashy next few moments/years/babymama dramas.

C. If it doesn't work, you're making the victim of your disgusting display of auditory debauchery a bit bewildered and perhaps even disgusted, because, after all, she probably had dignity before she walked into the CVS, and now she's wondering if maybe her bra strap was showing or if she somehow gave off the impression that she liked the wife beater/boxer short scheme.

Moral of the story is, next time I need a greeting card, I'm wearing a Laura Ingles Wilder dress and heading to the Hallmark store. That's my grenade. Quite the warrior, huh?

Sweet Doris

2008-06-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

There's this lady. Her name is Doris. She's the first person I met here in FW. She has colored my whole view of the people here.

Doris runs a local coffee shop just south of downtown, in a developing neighborhood. It's called Gallery Art Cafe, kind of a catch-all coffee shop for diners, art patrons and bums like me looking for a place to do work with free Wi-Fi.

Doris co-owns the joint and works the register. The first time I came in, I told her I may make some strange requests because I was a recent Austin transplant and I wasn't sure of the small differences that might exist between coffee shops here and there (which was a nice way of saying that I figured a Fort Worth coffee shop might be unrefined and lacking in choices...I'm such a snob). I told her I wanted tea. "Hot tea?" she asked. I told her yes, and she said that I looked like a hot tea girl. I took that as a compliment, being that I'm a snob and all.

So Doris let me pick out my teabag and even let me have two for the price of one. A little later, she sat down at my table with me and asked me all about myself. I've never met a coffee shop owner - much less an employee - so sweet and genuinely interested in people.

Now, a week and three visits later, Doris has my self-designed business card and says she will do what she can to help me find a good job. I promised that if I got a freelance gig writing for the business publication here I would profile the Gallery Art Cafe. She hugged me.

Sweet Doris. Sweet Catholic Doris. I hope they make more like her around here.

A Love/Wait Relationship

2008-06-07T11:02:00.000-07:00

New template (not that the change will be at all noticeable or memorable to anyone but me...but it's a personal mile marker), new times. I'm just finishing out my first week in Fort Worth, Texas. I'd like to say I moved here, bought a new house, started a great job and am accruing a ton of friends. But I'd be lying. In fact, I live with my parents, telecommute from a coffee shop and am utterly thrilled to have conversation with people outside my bloodline.

What is most curious to me thus far is that people here have a recurring tire issue: nails and screws. My mom has recently had two screws in her tires, my dad has had one, and I just overheard a mother of two at this coffee shop talking about how last week, she got two nails in her tires. In a time and place where the most involved interaction involves ordering tea, I just think, what, with all I've been hearing about this issue, it must be widespread. And I want to get to the bottom of it. That's all.

My overall impression here is that people are extremely nice and eager to help. I met a chiropractor, for example, who put me in touch with the owner of an advertising agency, who gave me all sorts of helpful information. Doris the coffee shop owner even sat down at my table with me to chat. It's kind of amazing.

But in true form, the most truly tiresome part of being here is my family. Yesterday, my plan was:

Wake up.
Mow.
Work out.
Go swimming at my aunt's.

What really happened was:

Wake up.
Wait for my mother to wake up at 10:30.
Mow.
Wait for my mother to get ready to work out (which consists of an hour's preparation: One must mold the hair and apply the makeup to gauge the intensity of the workout, which, if certain intensity is reached, is marked by sweaty, matted hair and melted face paint).
Wait for my sister to wake up her husband.
Wait for said husband to get out of the bathroom.
Run to order business cards in the meantime.
Drive half a mile and turn around because there's - yes - a screw in the tire.
Drive myself to the gym.
Mostly socialize with sister and husband.
Drive an hour to aunt's and swim. Finally.
Go home (well, you know). Feed the monkey on my back called: Scrabulous.

And yes, waiting does bother me a GREAT deal, but like I told my mom yesterday, I like being bothered by my family, because it means I have a family. And if nothing else, I'm loving that.

Now, to get that job.

Master Cleanse part 1

2008-03-12T11:48:00.000-07:00

So I am doing the "Master Cleanse" thing. It is 10 days of lemonade and laxatives. Mmmm. Oh, and salt water.

Two nights ago, I drank some laxative tea. The following morning, drank some salt water. This is the food of the gods, I tell you. Then I went to work on making a thermos full of special lemonade, which consists of water, maple syrup, lemon (or lime) juice and cayenne pepper to taste. Just like mom used to make!

That thermos was empty by noon so I had to go down the street to the grocery store and pick up some more supplies. Long story short, yesterday wasn't too bad.

Today, other than watching people make sandwiches and smelling tacos and garlic waft about the office, I feel great. It's been quite sometime since I've actually jumped up and down with excitement, but today, in ping pong, I did just that.

Well, I'm being summoned to do some work. I could just do a cartwheel.

An Eighth Note Away from Home

2008-01-06T18:35:00.001-08:00

Do you ever hear songs so beautiful they make you cry? Like someone just spilled out the contents of their heart, like perfume, onto staff paper, and waved it through the air...I had forgotten the emotional rhythms that a song could evoke - rhythms pounding not so deeply within the shell of everyday life - shell so fragile that good reverb could just up and chip it away.

I am pausing a movie right now to capture this thought, because it is very seldom that a movie can stir...really stir. I'm inspired to write, to play, to think - but mostly, to feel. And I'm saying that's a good thing.

Ms. Pacman and Ghosts

2007-11-06T11:24:00.000-08:00

Kid Rock

2007-09-29T22:17:00.000-07:00

Used to hate kids. They took attention away from me. But man do I love me some KIDS now! If you're under the age of 14, I'm going to immediately get all Mother Goose on you and act like a big geek.

Here are my 2nd cousins, Zoe and Cole. They are the kids of cousin Casi, and I melt every time I see them.

Zoe on the right. I threatened the 10-year-old boys at the party tonight. They flirt with her, I kick them to the moon.

Here's "4-Tooth Cole." Not afraid to take out enemies with that melon head of his.

2nd Grade Rock Star

2007-09-29T22:07:00.000-07:00

THIS...would be my 7-year-old cousin. Clad in a black AC/DC shirt, she just was not afraid to bust out with some "TNT." Though it's obvious she learned the song from her has-been dad (no offense, Wes), I have to say she's WAY cooler than me. I still don't know the words to this song.

Sorry it's all dark. I'll post some photos of her so you can see what she might've looked like had it been daytime.

Caught With My Pants Down

2007-09-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

Today, I went to this boutique down the street to buy something for a family member who shall not be named. We are relatively the same size, so I was able to try clothes on as if I were her.

The cloth curtains were ample to hide me from public view. Unfortunately, it's hard to lock cloth curtains.

As I was straining a pair of jeans over my child-bearing hips, I heard someone across the curtain say, "Do you want to see a naked lady?" She jerked the curtain wide open, and we locked eyes while she processed what she had just done to me.

She returned me to my privacy and ran away in horror, clutching a(n obviously perverted) toddler in her arms.

I peaked my head out the curtain. Everyone in the store bugged their eyes i my direction to see what would happen next (yes, everyone had front-row tickets except the only other customer, who was obviously in another dressing room). Actually, I didn't give anyone time to guess, because I started laughing as soon as the lady averted her eyes. She apologized profusely while I explained that it was one of the funnier things that has happened to me.

In other news, I called the Cat Chat show on Martha Stewart radio and had Nadege (radio name "Hope") explain her rescue cat's digestive issues to the world. So all in all, the day has been fun. Except that I'm not making a dime!

Tonight, it's chicken wings and trivia. I'm trying to come up with a name for our team...thinking something like "Mahmud I'm a Dominate."

Short Story

2007-05-02T11:03:00.000-07:00

There was a time in Ireland, not so long ago, when midgets roamed the lands, setting up camp outside of small towns. The townspeople thrived on the nomadic dwarf industry in those days, manufacturing goods particularly suited to the midget consumer.

In fact, it was extremely difficult for these towns' "normal" sized people to function comfortably, as local goods and venues were too small.

One cool, rainy day in March, the O'Dometer little people crowded into a pub with dirt floors and wooden kegs for walls.

Stuck indoors all day with nothing to do but drink the walls, one lady dwarf got a little "free" and started doing the funky chicken dance. This woman was quite unattractive, and the midgets hated "the chicken." They were SO mad!

You know the rest. The piles of stools. The pole...

Anyway, the lives of the people in that angry mob were cut short because of their brutality, and all the midget bars in Ireland were shut down. But if you're ever in Ireland, ask them about the midgets and their bloody stools. They'll understand.

Moons Over My Hammy

2007-04-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

What's wrong with people? I mean, it took awhile, but I got used to seeing a little more backside than necessary when the uncompromising low-rise jeans showed up on the fashion scene. But if you'll notice, this girl's shirt is actually covering the top part of the buttocks. She is actually mooning folks. I can't think of anything else to say about this.

Co-Dependent Surprise

2007-04-19T16:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, it's a double dose. I haven't posted in awhile, so I guess I'll be (kind of) real. Let's see... geez, there is a lot of drama up in the world around me that I won't go into, so aside from that...

I'm going to a new church called Riverbend. It's Baptist, but you can't see it on the sign. It's big. There are a lot of people in the 20s-30s group. Anyway, I bumped into a long-lost family friend when I was in class one morning and flipped. And now we're kind of inseparable. My co-dependency is kind of pathetic.

That's us with Mandy - goes Mandy, Shelby, and me. Lil' 6-year-old Zoe took this picture. That kid's going somewhere.

Not unlike me - I've been going to tons o' events for iTaggit, comic conventions, antique shows, art shows, football games... Last week we handed out pencils at an art show. We thought they were going to be artist graphite pencils. Nope, turns out they were #2s. Just like they use in Algebra 2. Sorry, but no self-respecting artist is going to accept anything that remotely reminds him or her of math. So if anyone needs a pencil, you know where to get 'em.

And that is all for now.

Jada B.

That Man is CRACKED

2007-04-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

This dude. Is. Trippin'. Surrounded by an angry monkey, gossipy dwarfs, an acorn bell, a starfish, and a musical leprechan, he has GOT to feel out of place. I mean, what was he thinking getting mixed up in this crowd? Oh well, at least he's got a guardian angel on his shoulder.

Yes, I'm blogging. Gasp. And it's not for iTaggit this time. Gasp. It's about the deeper things in life.

Like Perrier, which I have developed a deep appreciation of, and not just because I get to pretend to be fluent in French if but just for one second.

What else has changed? I have been eating boiled eggs a lot. What does it mean when the white part comes off with the shell? Does that mean I cooked it too long? This recent batch gives me hiccups. Cooking is so hard.

Besides my recent eating and drinking episodes, I suppose I have been spending a great deal of time wondering about things, much like Thoreau. I'll be sharing more later. Please keep reminding me to post. I love love love posting!

Breaking News: Ice Is Slippery

2007-01-17T06:36:00.000-08:00

Furious Winter Storm Covers Ground in Half Inch of Snow

Okay, I've been home three days in a row (five if you count Saturday and Sunday). Life isn't too exciting for me. I mean, I spent last night sliding, on foot, down the I-35 access road to the upper deck. Because it was covered in ice.

The rest of Austin is pretty bored, too. The only subject that got local news coverage last night was the snow and icy conditions. The breaking news was that the Governor's Inauguration Ball was not canceled. They actually interviewed guests about how they got to the capitol in such severe weather conditions.

"Well, I thought that if I got outside and went really slowly, I could get here really slowly. So I went outside and took everything slowly and now I'm here."

For those of you who don't live here, it has been raining, drizzling, and lightly snowing for three days. Well, the snow only lasted half a day, but it still happened. Because of this, the roads, at times, have been icy. And pretty much all the businesses in the city have been shut down for three days.

Back to the news. Here is a paraphrased quote from the field reporter: "I'm standing here, on a patch of ice, actually, and it is really slippery. I have to be really careful so I don't fall on camera."

Really? Hmm. Get off the patch of ice, then.

They interviewed several people who had to brave the weather yesterday. Below the interviewees' talking heads, of course, would be their name. Below that would read "Slipped on Ice" or "Fell on Ice" or "Looking for Ice Patches."

And that pretty much sums up the status of everyone who leaves the house.

Look Ma, Cancer Stories!

2006-12-11T20:47:00.000-08:00

Being a mother is easy. But from where I'm standing, being a good mother takes superhuman powers. Or a lot of help from God. I'm not sure when the time comes that I'll ever have feet big enough to fill my mother's shoes. I was reminded today what a good parent she is. (It can't go unsaid that my father, a.k.a. Nurse Delton, is an incredible parent as well, but today a certain tv show triggered a particular memory having to do with my mother.)

Let it be noted that this picture is not of my mother. This is Amy Grant, someone whose life and career my mother has been forced to follow for the past 22 years, but she did not give birth to me (Amy Grant - not my mom. My mom gave birth to me.) Also, this child isn't Amy Grant's child. Nor is this child me. So to recap, it's Amy Grant (not my mom) and a child who has cancer (not Amy Grant's child or me).

So during Thanksgiving last month, I spent a lot of time glued to a) my computer, b) the TV, and c) the couch. Ahoy, they were exciting times. During one of these nail-biting adventures, a St. Jude's Hospital telethon made an appearance on the TV. I was locked into the Inter Web and not paying much attention to television - until I heard "Amy Grant." My ears perked. I cranked up the volume. Ooh! Amy Grant was going to be on this telethon!

My mom sauntered into the living room and asked if she could change the channel. "Uh, news flash. Amy Grant is going to be on this show." Okay, I'm sure the dialogue was not quite so cool and apathetic. It was probably more like, "Mama, mama, guess who's gonna be on this show?" To which she most likely responded, "Amy Grant." I think at that moment, she knew if she was going to watch TV, she had only the one choice.

Several times through the first hour of the show, I would hear an occasional "How sad," from the corner of my ear, which was tuning out the sunny, "Little Kayla has terminal cancer and six weeks to live" type dialogue. My mom was a helpless victim whose heart was undoubtedly going out to these dying children. My heart, on the other hand, was more like going out to a comedian on youtube.com.

After about an hour of the program, my mom asked if we could change the channel. "I can't stand it anymore. It's too sad. And Amy Grant hasn't even been on yet." She was on the verge of tears.

Okay, who, but an awesome mom, would watch over an hour of heart-wrenching programming about dying children just so a self-absorbed, obsessive fan could catch a glimpse of her favorite childhood singer? Nobody. That's who.

And so, to my mother I say, there's nobody like you. Next time I'm over, I'll put on some Sesame Street and do a little jig to put a smile on your face. I don't know why. I'm just sayin'. I will.

amazon.boring_nerd

2006-12-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

I went to amazon.com today and was awakened to my true nature.

Your Recently Viewed Items

Christmas to Remember ~ Amy Grant (Audio CD) (72) 20 used & new from $5.25	The Total Money Makeover: A Proven Plan for Financial Fitness by Dave Ramsey (Hardcover) (178) Price: $24.99 $16.49 You Save: $8.50 (34%) 77 used & new from $9.95 In Stock	Crossing the Chasm by Geoffrey A. Moore (Paperback) (84) Price: $17.95 $12.21 You Save: $5.74 (32%) 75 used & new from $7.45 In Stock
Christmas to Remember Audio CD ~ Amy Grant	The Total Money Makeover Hardcover by Dave Ramsey	Crossing the Chasm Paperback by Geoffrey A. Moore

Sick Cracked Feet

2006-11-29T17:22:00.000-08:00

Meet Heel Balm. Heel Balm, everybody. Grossed out? The sacker at the grocery store was, and he had nooooo qualms at all about expressing himself. Honestly, I've never had someone comment negatively on my groceries. Feminine products, Odor Eaters, wart remover, whatever. They're supposed to just scan them through and bag them, maybe avoiding contact, maybe not, but definitely NOT acknowledging embarrassing purchases. I'm used to this courtesy, so imagine my surprise at Randall's the other day when the sacker scrunched up his face at my Heel Balm and said "eww" while he held it up for closer inspection.

I know. It's gross. Do we have to talk about it? So, I have crusty feet from playing sports. I do. Whatever. Hey everyone, my feet crack and blister! Sick! Sick! I'm a crazy lunatic!

Okay, the real reason for this post is just to say I plan on picking it back up with the blogging. Now I'm used to my job and the flow of things, and I've got a better handle on my time and the management of it. So stay tuned! And thanks for being patient!

A Hunk, A Hunk of Burning Love

2006-11-12T07:08:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble (hey -la, hey-la my boyfriend's back).

I don't care who you are. He's a dream boat. (Well, unless you are sister Yvette...she thinks he could use a serious update on his 'do. But she's wrong...I mean, just look at him.)

Still, there are others who are stuck on their own handsome, more dead heartthrobs, like Elvis...in this case, "others" being my mother. I do believe she's saving up to take my sisters and I to Elvis Week in Memphis in August. Well, I says, I can't wait to celebrate The King in the sweltering August heat. That will be so fun and unusual and confusing all in one. I think that week marks the anniversary of his death. I remember being there in Memphis just days after he died. No, actually, I don't, because I was IN THE WOMB while my mom stood in the miles-long line in front of Graceland. Yes, my mother flew to Memphis while she was with child to see The King lying cold in his coffin. Surprisingly, other members of my family put her to shame in the area of Elvis-worship. My aunt has an Elvis refrigerator magnet complete with several pieces of his wardrobe. And I did catch my grandma swaying back and forth in front of the TV while she watched an Elvis impersonator performing...something. I mean, I can't remember, because I was quite fixated on the image - this middle-aged woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, tugging on the genuine Elvis scarf she had wrapped around her neck. Apparently, he had tossed this to her during a concert. Come to think of it, my mom has her beat in that department. Elvis actually kissed her cheek during a concert. I have to wonder if she felt guilty for accepting his affection after she had, years before, stolen his personal belongings (including a cigar and newspaper) from his limousine.

Anyway, I can't wait for Elvis Week. I wish they had Rick Perry Week. Heck, I'd take a week off for that.

Narnia Halloween

2006-11-01T19:29:00.000-08:00

In case you didn't know...

Little Pants

2006-10-24T21:00:00.000-07:00

"What to get Mandy Pants for her birthday?" I wondered as I slapped on my evening garb and headed out to scavenge a gift. "Well," I says, I says, "I'll get her a gift certificate at Austin's original Waterloo Records. There, she will browse CDs and records to her heart's content while she eats vegan brownies from Whole Foods."

So I juked on down to Waterloo, parked and strolled on in. Now, this. Is. So. Austin. I went in and soaked in the surroundings. Passed the records, the loitering punk rockers, the occupied headsets, and to my surprise, there was a dreadlock rhasta dishing out some beer from a keg. "Oh. Well, of course. Beer in a record store." So I stood in line, paid him a dollar tip, walked up to the counter with my beer, as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do, and inquired about gift certificates. "Yes, we can give you a $25 gift certificate. We can give you a gift certificate for $24.99 if you want it." I did. Actually, I said, I wanted one for $25.99. It seemed like so much more. So there. I had the gift certificate for Mandy. But then I had the beer, too, so I didn't think I should leave just yet. Plus, the Suicide Girls were there, whoever they were, and that's who the party was for. So I wandered the store and stumbled upon said Suicide Girls. Everyone was snapping pictures. I felt they must be famous, and I should photograph now and research later. Once I figure out who they are, oh, how I am going to brag.

Now, here's the crux: do I address the part of my evening when a crazy homeless man laden with matches and whiskey cigarettes struck up a conversation about thievery and church breakfasts, or do I detail the supposed highlight of the evening when I sat amongst yogies at an Indian restaurant? What to do, what to do?

Well, back to where I was. The beer was still sitting in my hand. I didn't want to waste it or chug it like a sorority girl, but I didn't want to pretend to be interested in the store, either. Too many people cooler than I ever thought about being.

So I ventured to the side of the building and sat at one of the picnic tables, where I was flanked by one crazy homeless man and two hipsters. The crazy man proceeded to be crazy, and the hipsters joined me at my table, I think so they could pretend to be too engrossed in other things to converse with this man anymore. No more "You're welcome for the 38 cents. No problem." The crazy guy, long story short, ranted about the theivery committed by the City of Austin concerning the bus system; quoted scripture from John and asked me why I was looking at him that way; and snatched his pile of goodies from our table after we started talking to each other instead of him.

Fast forward. Party at Ararat, where belly dancers dance and accordian players play and African finger pickers pick. And Jada opens a champagne bottle, sending the cork into the tin roof, causing the entire restaurant to duck and cover. But whatever. Here are the pictures.

Mandy got a Dashboard Diva. I mean, I have nice things, too, but I don't have one of these things. She's so lucky. Look how happy she is.

These are her mermaid friends. I mean, well, one of them, she does yoga with. The other one works with her. I'm actually not too sure about the far two, but they're land creatures. So scratch the mermaid thing, really.

"Hi. I'm Little Pants Daugherty. I get baclava for my birthday, FOR FREE. No big deal." Oh, you, just wait til my birthday.

Mandy ate her baclava and didn't share it at all, which was fine. And then they went to Emo's to pay $12. And I didn't want to pay $12, so I went to Marjorie the Artist's house. We looked at art and talked extensively about yoga and how, you know, she doesn't eat meat and wakes up real early and stuff, which was enough to make me swear off cundalini yoga for life. She says it's pretty much the opposite of Catholic school. Cuz in Catholic school you either become a nun or wear glasses. She wears glasses, and so she feels pretty fortunate. But then, in yoga, some people don't shave their legs, or they wear turbans or stop cutting their hair. Just whatever it takes to connect to your inner connection thing. AND she doesn't even have road rage anymore. Just think of that. She wonders what's happening to people around her and hopes they get to the hospital on time whenever they cut her off. So that's a pretty good reason for the yoga. The yoga thing conflicts me. I want to be happy in traffic, but I need to shave my legs. And I don't want to let go of the hope that Catholic school is the greatest thing ever. So I finished my soda water, strapped my boots back on (b/c you're not supposed to wear them at her house), and drove home in a mad and confused rage.

That's where I am now.

Oh, and Mandy liked her present. I even added an extra penny in the envelope to make it an even $26. No big deal.

Soccer Players Wear Shinguards and Stuff

2006-10-22T19:40:00.000-07:00

I wanted to use this image to talk about how unobservant some people can be, and I will, but then I noticed the two girls in the background playing that Apples on a Stick game, and I thought, well, how funny, how everyone thinks her own little story is so important, but when you take a wider view, you see people are really just doing their own thing, playing hand games.

Speaking of soccer games and people doing many different things at once, I totally busted these little boys pinning another boy inside a port-a-potty. It was half-time during a game a couple of weeks ago, and I skipped off to the bathroom. I saw a short little hellion with his arm kind of wrapped around the side of the thing. Once I got around to the front, I saw three boys using all their body weight to hold the door closed. I shouted at them and looked real mean, and as soon as they scattered, another little boy frantically spilled out of the rancid room, sobbing uncontrollably. I put my hand on his shoulder and asked him if he was okay. He put his hand on my hand (ewwww!) and just kept crying. Again, I shouted at the other morons, "Donde esta la, la..." (Someone needs to work on her Spanish.) They pointed to their parents and ran toward them, as they knew was required of them at the moment. Anyway, I wonder how long that little victim will be traumatized by that. Kids are mean.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

See these uniforms? These are called "soccer uniforms." I was wearing one Tuesday night after soccer practice, cleats and all. I had mud caked on my arms and legs as well. I went into Walgreens like this. When I left the store, I saw this guy sitting in the back of a pickup truck, smoking a cigarette, maybe drinking a beer. I don't know. The important thing was that he had on a homemade shirt that read, "Soccer Moms are Hot." So when I passed him, I said "I like your shirt." Get it? He loves soccer moms. I'm a soccer player. Ironic, right?

Here was his witty response: "Oh, do you play soccer?"

Yep.

Could I Just Use Diesel?

2006-10-19T21:43:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine recently told me that I should sit down and think of myself in psychological terms, maybe kind of look at things from a clinical standpoint. Pretty sure this means he thinks I'm not quite "right," but whatever. I respect his opinion, so I contemplated. There I was at a gas station, pondering, when I saw the signs. And now I can accurately understand my feelings.

Sometimes I'm feeling

On those days when maybe I haven't prayed in a couple of days, I feel

Then there are those really unfortunate times when life is spinning all around me that I feel

I think these definitions can pretty much be applied to anyone, so please feel free to use these terms as benchmarks for where you are in life. And when you do, thank your illiterate culture who made this psychological breakthrough possible.

Condom Talk at Work

2006-10-17T08:46:00.000-07:00

This post might be kind of inappropriate, but it is something that happened to me today, so I'm going to suck it up and take whatever criticism that comes my way - like Amy Grant.

So, this week at work, all the board members are in town, meeting with the executives all day. They hole up in our board room eating grapes, drinking sparkling water, and generally, they just talk about important/probably boring stuff.

Anwyay, this morning, I kept having to go back and forth across the parking lot. Obviously, I first had to walk into the building, but then, I kept having to go out and get some information about my tires, because I'm going to buy some new ones. The first three or four times, I kept my mouth shut about something I was observing out there, but it got to the point where I just had to tell someone.

So after my fourth or fifth trip back to the office, I say, to my peer, a 27-year-old woman at the front desk who is my new friend, I say, "Hey, did you notice that condom out in the parking lot?" She says no, but she saw a bunch in 7th grade in the trash can and was traumatized. She asked me where it was in the parking lot. I said it was just now leafblown away by the leaf blowers. She said they must have some funny stories, those leaf blowers. ...Neither of us was speaking too loudly, because the fancy board meeting was transpiring just a few feet away, behind closed doors. Or, at least I thought that's why we weren't speaking loudly.

Just then, one of the board members (male, middle-aged) steps out of the kitchen, which is a nook that is a mere 10 steps from this girl's desk. He says 'hello' to us on his way back to the meeting to try and break the silence. It was the most awkward 15 seconds I've had in a long time.

He walked into the room, shut the door, and the girl said, "Yeah, I didn't really get the chance to tell you he was there before you made that announcement."

So yeah, there's that. And then there's the fact that I had about 16 poppy seeds in my teeth when I met one of the board members. Oh, and he met me while I was sitting on this huge ball.

This is my day so far.

One Small Baby

2006-10-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

So last night, my cousin had this baby. Yeah, it was wild. He arrived three months before his due date, 2 lbs. 4 oz. Cole Gray Daugherty. There were some complications during the pregnancy, but I don't think anyone expected him this soon. Something about the placenta tearing away from the wall was expediting the labor. We're not sure why that happened yet.

What breaks my heart is that nobody can hold him while he's in there. My cousin said she can put her hands in there and touch him, but she can't really caress him or put much pressure on him at all. I know this gets to her already. I can't blame her. But I think all in all, they're all blessed to have each other, and I was blessed to be around for it.

The freaky part was the contractions. I'd never seen anyone having them before. They were 10 minutes apart when I got there. I kind of cringed every time I saw her tense up for one of them. Then they started getting sharper and more frequent. It was quite excruciating to watch. Not to sound so, um, yeah, like righteous, but yeah, I wanted to take some of those contractions from her. It seemed like too much for one person to take.

He was born at 11:38 last night, and was on a respirator as of this morning. He should be off it soon. He'll have to stay in an incubator, maybe until his original due date, but other than that, he seems fine.

Anyway, that kid is smaller than a loaf of bread. Check out his face in proportion to that man's hand. I think probably his nose is the size of the guy's fingernail. Wild. Little Loafy.

Tar and Feather the Motorists

2006-10-12T22:23:00.000-07:00

Traffic on El Camino Real
Originally uploaded by richardmasoner.

As if there weren't already enough angry people in Austin, now the bicyclists are upset that drivers who kill cyclists are getting off to easy. So now there's a campaign to make sure lawmakers crack the whip on said drivers. I'm not sure about details, because I was getting ready for work when I heard this on the news, but I did hear something about the campaign arising from a fatality that occured on Highway 360, right in the middle of Austin.

I'm not saying I advocate running cyclists over (I really do think it's sad), and cyclists have every right to be on crowded highways, but don't you run a risk when you do certain things, like ride your bicycle on a highway jammed with SUVs, designed without bike lanes?

What I wonder is, who do these cyclists think motorists are, exactly? A bunch of murderers out cruising to Kinkos, hoping to slaughter a cyclist or two on the way?

And I'm not sure what the punishment is now, but I'm thinking, in addition to lifelong guilt and nightmarish memories, the motorists are probably getting more than a slap on the wrist.

To my knowledge, only state and federal lawmakers can change these types of punishments. So, do cyclists think that senators are cool with the fatalities? Like, they roll into, say, San Antonio, for some interim conference and crack jokes about how fun it will be to run cyclists off the road once they get back to Austin? "Oh those ignorant cyclists," they say. "Let's make sure we don't punish whoever hits them so that the bloodbaths will continue. BWAH HA HA HA HA!"

This begs the obvious question: Why don't cyclists ride on country roads (or at least not highways)? Is that too simple? Or does that lack the thrill of not knowing if an Escalade will hurl you head first into your final breath? Just curious.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Popular

2006-10-10T19:30:00.000-07:00

Part of the constant rotation of people following me around everywhere I go.

Last night was nightmare-free, all sweet dreams, as I remember. Well that's one way to keep my prayer life alive! Thanks for the support, guys. It's nice to sleep peacefully after a prayer.

For now, I am holed up inside my apartment. Today was just one of those days where I wanted to stay inside and write (although I didn't), maybe because it rained all day, or maybe I'm not handling all this popularity so well. (Sigh. Dramatic sigh.)

Honest. The thought crossed my mind this morning to post a myspace bulletin explaining to all my friends that I love them, but I need to crawl in a hole for a few days. But I didn't. I still might, though.

My sister Britney and I used to take our chewing gum out of our mouths and moosh it together. We'd start in the middle of the long hallway in our old house. She'd hold one end and I'd hold the other and we'd see how far apart we could get and keep the chewing gum in one piece. 'Twas an adventerous life.

Anyway, I feel like that gum! Only, I feel like there are maybe 10 or 15 people holding onto it, stretching me in every direction. And I wonder how long it's going to be before part of me just breaks off. I don't know what color of gum I am or what kind or anything. I think maybe Dubble Bubble or something.

Ah, the life of a popular girl. It's a hard-knock life. Just, just, come closer. I'll give you a glimpse.

Wednesday friends over to watch"lost" and some other tv show; Thursday going home to do more work and then watch movies and eat dinner with a friend, go by a coffee shop, friday, go to the grocery store, have a friend over, go hiking at 10 p.m., saturday, buy plants, go grocery shopping again, play a soccer game (lost), eat chinese food with a group of people, meet other people at a party, meet other people at another party, visit another friend, sunday, go to church, eat out play mojo kickball, paint plant pots. I was, needless to say, exhausted.

It was funny cuz the sermon at church was, in part, about choosing your time wisely, knowing when to say "no," not spreading yourself so thin that you have weak connections to community. My friends had planned to go eat after church and then play some mojo kickball. I, of course, had to do something else before joining them for kickball. Again, I was squeezing them into my busy schedule. So I said, "Old people. You watch tv today. I'm going to play with my friends." I know, I'm a darling.

Did I squeeze it all in? Nope. I missed a party Saturday and a boat ride Sunday and another party yesterday.

Yada, yada, yada, I'm weary of answering every call, returning every e-mail, saying yes to every invitation. So yeah, if I'm late getting back to you, if I don't go to your event, please don't take it personally. I'm a sociable gal. I'll be back in no time! Probably by this weekend, in fact. I mean, tomorrow is "Lost" night, afterall. Cassie and Nadege will be here. Um, and you can join us if you're a girl.

Rated Real

2006-10-09T21:13:00.000-07:00

Tonight's post is not going to be a show. It is not going to be fun. It will be heavy. So if heavy is not your thing, if talk of spirituality weirds you out, you can skip this one. Sometimes I skip this stuff. It's uncomfortable for me. Uncomfortable that other people think I think this way, which is extra incentive to write about something lighthearted, just to give people what they want. Cuz really, I'm a people pleaser. But I can't do that tonight. I would dishonor my soul and my God if I chose tonight to fish through my head for a humorous, crowd-pleaser and not talk about this weighty issue. You know, people don't mind so much talking about God, but talk about Satan and they think you're crazy. So think I'm crazy, but God/good is just as real as Satan/evil.

And if I don't address it I'll be denying it's existence and empowering it at the same time. So I'll face this problem, give it to God and let Him suffocate it. So here it goes, sans apology, sans cool.

I just interpreted, in one moment, the two nightmares I had this weekend, which weren't provoked by scary movies or books, fear or guilt. In both nightmares, someone broke into my apartment as I slept.

In the first, a black shadow burst through my bedroom door, approached me swiftly, violently. Seconds before he entered, I intuitively grabbed a gun and aimed it toward the door. When the figure arrived, I fired point blank, and though I hit him several times, I did not hurt him. The figure attacked me vigorously, in what way I do not know. Over and over, even after waking and falling back asleep, the nightmare repeated, beginning with the grabbing of the gun, then the opening of the door, then the gunfire, then the relentless attacks.

The second nightmare was one slow, long scene, a paralytic nightmare. (If you've never had one, it's like this: you think you're awake and your eyes are open, but you can't move; or you know you're dreaming, but you can't wake up. It may fluctuate, as this one did - I thought it was real and I could see, but I hoped it was a dream.) In this dream, my bedroom door was closed, and though I couldn't hear anything but a soft meow from Blitzcat, I knew someone was in the apartment. I struggled to open my eyes. I used all my will to open them halfway. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing jeans and a white t-shirt and white baseball cap. He stood there for awhile and watched me, like he knew I was struggling to move. I softly whimpered (I believe this was actually audible), a feeble attempt to cry out for help. He moved toward me, almost as if he were floating, slowly, methodically, always watching me, looking into my eyes. He slid on the bed, silently, like a snake, maneuvering toward my body. He took his left hand (the hand between him and the mattress) and brushed my cheek with his fingers. ....The touch startled me and jolted me awake.

Now, I'm usually one to either believe my nightmares are products of an underlying worries or something I saw or heard, usually on the media. I've thought that maybe they could've been spiritual attacks, but in the morning, that always seems like kind of a ridiculous idea. However, in this, looking around at some of my heavier, more confusing, circumstances in my life right now, and letting my mind accept certain possibilities, I believe that I saw in these nightmares a spiritual attack that I block in consciousness. I think demons are preying on me in my vulnerability. And as crazy as that sounds to some of you, whatever. I feel it in my gut.

So what to do? Well as soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to get on my knees and fight back. I'm going to pray that angels will stand guard over me while I sleep and empower me. I'm going to pray for clarity to see the attacks. I'm going to ask God to surround me with protection and guide me in consciousness and unconsciousness. With God, I will win this fight. With God there is boldness. And peace. All I have to do is cry out. So I will. I'll do this all week, through next weekend. And watch: I'll not have one nightmare. Because God honors those who call on His name.

In closing, I will jump down a rabbit hole: If you don't believe in demons or evil spirits or whatever, consider this: murder, rape, genocide, etc. are undeniably evil, we can all agree. So there is evil. If you think it comes from something outside the human body, then there must be an unseen force creating it. If you think it's produced by the human body, then you must agree that some of us are inhererently evil, making necessary some kind of salvation. I'm just sayin'.

Rapping to a Homosexual

2006-10-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

Well, I definitely was dealt a confusing hand today.

Sitting at a red light, I noticed a ruckus coming from the car in front of me. There were three black dudes in a pimped-out ride. The one in the back was shaking his finger, yelling at the person in the truck next to him. He was all kinds of animated. He looked enraged enough to bust out of the car and start a fight.

I took a closer look at the truck. There was a rainbow sticker and then another one about not being straight or something...I couldn't really read that one. Hmm. Maybe this rapper guy was upset about this person's sexuality. I couldn't be sure.

So I turned my music down to try and eavesdrop. But all it was, see, was that the guys were blaring some rap music. The backseat guy was just yellin' the lyrics, evidently so into it that for that moment he BECAME the angry young rapper. Poor person in the truck! They must be so uncomfortable having rap music directed at them. ...Honestly, I was a little angry with the rap guy for being so rude to the other driver.

When the light turned green, I sped up to see who was in the truck. And then I felt even worse for her, because it was this tiny, ancient old lady who could barely see over the steering wheel - we're talking, like, 80 years old or older.

Oooh, if I caught up to those rappers, I was going to give them one very dirty look. You just don't mess with old folks.

As my mind arranged the facts, my anger and pity turned into bewilderment. Forgetting the bullies, I mused that this old, old lady had gay bumper stickers on her truck.

Think about it. It's weird.

Call Me a Politician, But I Like Rainbow Best.

2006-10-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

Why do we all get asked "What's your favorite color?" What a stupid question. Maybe it's because I'm so uncomfortable with the concept of deeming perfectly fine colors inadequate to my fluctuating preferences. Really, I feel sorry for the other colors that I don't like on any given day.

When I was little, I said my favorite color was red. Deep down, I don't think I meant it, because I instead of getting cherry or cinnamon snow cones, I always chose rainbow. But now I've come to terms with the fact that I care for the feelings of all colors, and now it's to the point where I'm too paralyzed to pick. I guess I have this irrational sympathy for all colors.

If I liked, say, green or blue, I would be labeled peaceful or loyal. Red-likers are rather fiery and passionate, aren't they? Crazies, to be precise. So I can't keep saying that's my favorite or people will back away.

So I still pick rainbow, because, colors, I love all of you, and I don't want to be boxed in by my affection for any one color. Call it fear of commitment, but I don't want to hurt any of your feelings. Please accept my noncommital answer of rainbow, and deal with this prismic polygamist that I am. Viva la rainbow. And down with the facists who think I should have to choose.

I'm a Fancy Art Girl

2006-10-03T21:19:00.000-07:00

It was all very romantic: a concrete stairway flanked by pillars and evergreen trees, a serene pool of water lapping at the shore.

See how pretty?

My sidekick, Nadege, and me.

My friends who might not want to be named.

They're engaged, though. You oughta see the rock on her finger! I should steal her man so I can have that rock.

Anyway, romantic, as I was saying. We strolled up the steps toward a villa that was very reminiscent of Italian style. There we would mingle, eat free food and, ahem, most importantly, view art.

Boy, those art openings are snooty! I mean, yeah, there was a guy wearing a bowtie and a middle-aged woman shouting drunken obscenties at the people downstairs, but mostly it was just fancy people floating around with their chardonneys and "hors d'oeuvers, compliments of blah, blah, blah," all packed neatly in these barbie-sized Chinese food boxes. We even got chopsticks. And fondue. And then I led the way to do the staring-at-the-painting thing. We cocked our heads. "Hmm. Wonder what medium they used? Looks like they did some sort of screen layering here." As if I had a clue what I meant. Oh sure, there were words coming out of my mouth, but did I understand them? No. But I needed to fit in with that lady who had the black dress and sparkle necklace, so I said some stuff. I think I even stuck my nose up a little.

But then I tripped and blew my cover. Glad I'm not sensitive about my clumsiness, cuz the two ladies standing near me guffawed in a not-so-discreet manner. We shared a laugh. Who gives a care?

Moral of the story? If you're a big ole' hick like me, don't go to those things unless you're starving.

The Sister Who Can't Be Trusted

2006-10-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

This is my sister, the head that's under mine. She looks sweet enough, someone you'd wanna sip tea with, maybe play badmitton with. DON'T LET HER DECEIVE YOU. SHE WILL TAKE ALL THAT IS HOLY AND IMPORTANT TO YOU AND WIPE IT AWAY! Take this weekend for example. Ahhhh, we had fun, like frolicking-in-the-daisies, click-your-heels kind of fun. Saturday was spent playing croquet and grilling steaks (courtesy of my dad, aka "Big D," "Deet," "Daddy," etc.). My mother actually engaged in a game of badmitton. My mom engages in competitive sports about as often as W makes an eloquent speech. So it was just a fascinating moment for all of us. Entertaining, to boot. Equally as entertaining was my mother playing Catch Phrase, jerking back the thingy with the words on it so she could see it though her granny glasses and spitting out a panicked "OKAY!" before engaging her team.
Fortunately, the beauty of the weekend was captured on the camera I have struggled so hard to get, the camera I vowed to never leave home, the camera I kiss every single morning.

Sunday afternoon at the family's favorite eatery (yes, I said "eatery"), I let them pry the precious camera from my clutched fist. How could I keep the digital goodness all to myself? This particular round of pictures was too rich not to share. So share, I did.

And regret, I did. For my sister discovered the "Erase" menu, (said she didn't know...hmph) and deleted all those precious snapshots of my wonderful life.

Dramatic? Maybe. I'm just sayin', if you see my sister, hide your belongings - especially your camera. You won't have a thing to blog about.

Not a Naked Statue!

2006-10-01T07:19:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting in a meeting with several bosses and co-workers and a marketing team we hired to create ads and promotional material for us. They were showing us a slideshow, pitching slogans, photos, ideas for text, etc., when they came to this one campaign idea which I probably shouldn't talk about for business reasons. But up pops this slide of a naked man covered by a single leaf. And then they move on to other slides. At the end, they asked for feedback. When it was my turn to talk, I said, "I liked everything but the naked guy." I mean, really, you think the average American consumer is going to be A OK with a nudie photograph in an ad? Hmph.

I was reviewing the slides on my PC, when I saw the slide in clarity: It was a statue. With no arms. A marble statue.

I can just imagine them all after the meeting: "She must be Amish."

After a few days, I explained what happened to a couple of coworkers. They had a good chuckle. And now, anytime the marketing company shows us something slightly risque, someone I work with shoots a smirky little glance at me, whereafter we snicker a little bit. When, oh when am I going to live this down?

I dunno, but it's pretty priceless.

Anything embarrassing happen to any of you guys lately?

Nose Picking: Is It A Sin?

2006-09-26T07:25:00.002-07:00

Sara broke the news to me the other day that picking your nose can make you sick - not because you get germs on your fingers, but because you get germs in your nose, the ultimate make-out spot for them. Now, I was really resistant to believe her, so I posed this proposterous proposition to another friend of mine who confirmed what she had said. So it has to be true.

First of all, I have to wonder if the benefit outweighs the consequence here (could you endure two colds a year for countless hours of picking your nose).

Second of all, if picking your nose ultimately harms "your temple," is it a sin? It's snot listed as one in the Bible, but I'd think anything that potentially damages your body is sinful. If it is a sin to pick your nose, is it still even if you wash your hands before and after doing the deed? I'm not sure I'd go on picking my nose (if that were indeed a habit of mine) if I had to wash up before and after. And what if you do it in moderation? And is shaking hands a sin? That can cause illness. Maybe that's why we're supposed to greet each other with a holy kiss. Did Jesus pick His nose?

GAH! Can I not even pick my nose without feeling guilty? What are your thoughts on this?

At any rate, here are some facts and illustrations you may or may not know about colds and cold viruses, along with some commentary:

Cold viruses grow mainly in the nose where they multiply in nasal cells and are present in large quantities in the nasal fluid of people with colds.

The highest concentration of cold virus in nasal secretions occurs during the first three days of infection. This is when infected persons are most contagious.

Cold viruses may at times be present in the droplets that are expelled in coughs and sneezes.

Nasal secretions containing cold viruses contaminate the hands of people with colds as a result of nose blowing, covering sneezes, and touching the nose.Also, cold viruses may contaminate objects and surfaces in the environment of a cold sufferer.

Young children are the major reservoir of cold viruses and a particularly good source of virus containing nasal secretions. (This is why you should NOT have children. Very dangerous.)

Experiments have demonstrated that a cold virus readily transfers from the skin and hands of a cold sufferer to the hands and fingers of another person during periods of brief contact. Also, cold viruses readily transfer to the hands as a result of touching contaminated objects and surfaces.

(This is the sad part:)
Virus on the fingers is transferred into the nose and eye by finger-to-nose and finger-to-eye contact. Virus deposited in the eye promptly goes down the tear duct into the nose. Once in the nose, a cold virus is transported by mucociliary action to the adenoid area where it starts a cold. In some instances, cold virus, which is expelled into the air in coughs and sneezes, may land in the nose or eye and cause infection.

The end.

Pretty Much the Best Soccer Player Ever

2006-09-24T21:18:00.000-07:00

No big deal, I just scoredthis Saturday. The diagram should explain it all. This whole other player (the one with a number 1 beside him) on my team shot at the goal. The defense (number 2) blocked the ball and it came rolling back to me(number 3). So I gave a little kickaroo and it went the only place in front of my foot that it could possibly go - into the goal. But I accepted all the high fives that came around to me and even did a little jump/cheer. Might as well enjoy it, right? Could be my only goal ever. And that is why I blog about it. So yeah, we lost the game 2-1, but for me, personal victory. MVP. ...Oh and don't be jealous of my mad illustration skills.

Paranoid Android

2006-09-22T15:17:00.000-07:00

I finally got around to watching "A Beautiful Mind." For those of you who are five years behind like me, the premise is this: A brilliant, socially awkward mathemetician who teaches at a university, falls in love and becomes a victim in a high-stakes government-ordered mission, loses his grip on reality as paranoid schitzophrenia progressively invades his mind. The guy totally mixes fantasy and reality, okay? I'm talking, he makes up people and plots. The whole movie left me wondering if I was really experiencing reality. Was Nadege really sitting on the couch? Was she real? Is her boyfriend real? Are my parents still alive or am I just having these phone conversations with myself? Maybe I'm making up my entire reality. Maybe everyone is. Maybe everyone lives in his/her own world alone and it makes us so crazy we just start making people up!

Free as a Cat

2006-09-19T16:49:00.000-07:00

When I think about work, I feel like Blitzcat. Two years ago, I picked him up from the pound. I wanted kittens, but he won me over when he stretched out in my lap on his enormous back. Just this big black fluffy ragdoll in my lap. So I took him home, changed his name from Elvis and got his new name engraved on his gold pendant.

Everything was fine til he bit me. Frequently and aggressively. He bit all my friends, too. Fortunately, he only drew blood when he bit the men. So I was thinking he must've been abused, and probably by a man. I got him the kitten you will see below (who is now a cat) to make him happy, but he hated her, so I gave her to my neighbor.

I guess the turning point came this past Christmas, when I hauled him and this other cat, Lana, to my parents' house in Fort Worth for a week. My guess is that he started trusting that I wasn't going to hurt or abandon him.

Since then, he's been himself, and wow, what a sweet animal. I mean yeah, he still throws litter out of the box and shreds the catfood bag and crawls around in the kitchen drawers and runs from me when I try to bring him back inside, but he snuggles (a little too much if you ask me), nuzzles and purrs and generally seems more...free. And he stopped biting, except those sweet love bites.

I see this as my Fort Worth visit, like I'm about to relax and trust that it's all gonna be okay.

Cuz when you work for the state, you're under tight watch. You have set hours for arrival, lunch and departure. Business casual, clock your hours. So setting my own boundaries is totally unnatural for me. For example, I arrived to work an hour later than usual this morning, but instead of just showing up like everyone else and working my own hours, I felt led to send my boss an e-mail about it last night. And leaving lunch without announcing it or being in a hurry? Forget it! I'm used to accounting for my time and scarfing down my food. Now, during lunchtime, I just stay in my office and eat at my desk because I don't know how not to be on a schedule.

Why am I afraid of this freedom? Am I afraid I'll streak through the office or sit at home all day if left to my own devices? It seems somehow similar to the way that people often stick to the legalities of religion rather than accepting the freedom Christ gives them. Some people just need boundaries...until, like Blitzcat, they just trust it.

Basically, this is a new perspective I'm seeing. I like it, and I know I'll get used to it eventually. I know I'll stop biting people and throwing up hairballs. And knowing, as they say, is half the battle.

See how Blitzcat peacefully eats next to the same little kitty cat he used to hide from?

And look! He even likes dogs!

The Shins: Changing Lives

2006-09-19T16:20:00.000-07:00

"They'll change your life, I swear." Natalie Portman's character on the movie "Garden State," concerning the band The Shins, who I saw with Nadege Friday night. No big deal. But contrary to Natalie's belief, I must say they didn't end up changing my life unless you think change means jogging happy down the streets or jumping around at a concert.

See how happy we are? Note to...anyone who is concerned about my questionable hand gesture: I do not worship Satan, nor do I promote the worship of Satan. The goat head has become a staple hand position in Austin, home of the Longhorns. I fall to it naturally. Oh man, I've got to get out of this evil city.

I digress. As usual.

The following picture needs no introduction, but I'll give it one anyhow. It is of the stage.

I couldn't see very well because, well, I'm not that tall, but when I finally saw the lead singer of The Shins, I was surprised. I don't know why so many people assume that a good musician is going to look like someone out of a boy band, but we do, so I did, and he doesn't.

It was a good show. Realll good show.

You Choose ACL. I Choose Life.

2006-09-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

Top ten things I won't miss about Austin City Limits Music Festival:
10. My makeup running down to my chin.
9. Standing behind 50 people in the water line so I can fill up my two allowed water bottles.
8. Paying $10 for a turkey leg.
7. The emotional roller coaster of deciding which band to watch (because the really good bands play at the same time at different stages).
6. Port-a-potties
5. Eating, breathing, snorting, being bathed in, dust from the stampede of fans.
4. Tasting the hair of the person in front of me.
3. Long hikes back and forth across Zilker.
2. Waiting in line to be sprayed for five seconds by a fine mist.
1. Lying spread eagle on my back in the one remaining inch of shade from the only tree at the park.

Austinites who live in the central part of the city are pretty much stacked up and smooshed together like, I don't know, bales of hay in a barn. But we've got this careful, tight, working little system of transportation and facility use.

The ACL Festival is quite an upset to the system, arriving much like a rock thrown in the middle of an ant bed. There's nothing we can do about it but diligently work around it until it goes away. It's here this weekend, so for the past week, nobody has been able to jog around the lake. No one has been able to practice on the practice fields at Zilker Park. And traffic is crawling even more slowly than usual.

And can I say that even though there are some really rad artists playing, like Tom Petty, Massive Attack, The Shins (shall I go on?), I'm staying home. (Actually, I saw The Shins last night, so I'm not really suffering, am I?) I've been to ACL three times. Last year I decided I'd had enough. Because "You don't have to live like a refugee."

If you brave the transporation storm alone, you will likely park two miles from the festival and walk in the 100-degree weather. That's not so bad until you have to walk back in the 100-degree weather after having the day I am about to describe. If you decide to take a bus, you will wait in line with hundreds of other festi-attendees, cram into seats and get your sweat on before arriving at the park.

When you arrive and find the stage where you want to be for the next two hours, you either worm your way in to the front part of the sticky crowd or you hang back and watch the band on screens (and hear both their music and the music coming from another stage). The actual concert is pretty fun, but afterwards, you join this huge stampede to the next headliner show. Or you can just wait at the same stage for the next band to come on. Let me illustrate why this isn't a good decision.

Two years ago, my friends Eric and Amanda wanted to see Dashboard Confessional (mostly Amanda because she's pretty much a punk kid). So we fought our way to the front-ish. We got pelted on our heads with empty water bottles, but we stuck it out because Modest Mouse was playing next and we wanted our spots. After the concert, we decided to sit down amidst the crowd. In the dirt. For an hour. I've never felt so disgusting in my entire life. We had dirt on our faces, in our hair, on our clothes...we were thirsty, sweaty, extremely hot...I had short hair at the time, and it blew up like cotton candy. It was nothing Modest Mouse could repair.

Last year, I wore cut-off shorts, a tank top and tennis shoes (for all the walking and being stepped on). Because I couldn't sit down due to my sticky shorts, and because my shoes were making me about 10 degrees hotter than I would've otherwise been, I had to go to one of the vendor booths and buy a sarong and flip flops just so some air would circulate around my body.

I'm getting hot, sticky and tired just thinking about it. Neighbor Nadege is already there. Cassie's getting ready. I'm probably going to go swimming in an ice cold pool for free. Oh, and did I mention the tickets range from $50 a day to $130 for three days? Yeah.

Seeking Fans

2006-09-14T08:57:00.000-07:00

Looks like Sara and I aren't the famous bloggers we once thought we were.

When I started my blog, I was checking out my site meter, which tells the location of people who view your page. I had several hits from someone using a state of Texas server. Legislative council, I think it was. So I thought someone who worked in the capitol was religiously reading my blog - perhaps to the point of obsession. It was kind of exciting, kind of unnerving, that "being stalked" feeling. And kind of a let-down when I realized it was me.

But no worries, because Sara had picked up a stalker of her own who, by association, was stalking me. Someone had made a couple of creepy comments about Sara's feet and how beautiful they were. The same person, I'm assuming, asked me to photograph my feet (which I did not because my feet are GROSS and DISPROPORTIONATE). Sara and I were discussing our blog visitors. "I have this person from Iowa who always reads my blog. I think it's the foot fetish guy," she'd say. "Oh, he reads mine too! All the time, and he stays on there forever," I'd reply. I mean, this guy would hop from Sara's site to mine and back to hers...did he not have a life?

Then I got this e-mail the other day from Sara: "Guess who 'North Liberty, Iowa' is? Me. and Tim. And whoever looks at your site from [said place of employment]. Our computers are routed through Iowa I'm the foot fetish stalker...I'm going to go look at my feet now."

I feel lonely now. I wish someone would stalk me.

Flip Flops and Lava Lamps

2006-09-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

My new job is sweet. Right now I'm sitting on an exercise ball watching the lava in my lava lamp warm up. It looks like sort of a brain that has just been broken at the stem. Lava lamps are weird. Anyway, I have all my lunchboxes lined up on top of my desk. I'm wearing a skirt, tank top and flip flops - and I'm not the most casual one at the office. I arrived to work first - at 8:30. Always the hard worker!

Oh, and I interviewed a potential boss yesterday afternoon:
"Do you have any supervisory experience?"
"How would you delegate responsibility if we had a pending project?"
"How would you describe your personality at work?"
"How would you handle me if I needed to learn a new software program? Would you be patient?"

Then she asked me some questions and I had to reveal it was my second day at work. Suddenly I wasn't so cool anymore. But hey, I conducted my first ever interview, so that's something.

Yesterday someone brought cupcakes to work. The day before, there was some kind of cake and then everyone ordered pizza for lunch. And the refrigerator's always stocked with Coke, Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, bottled water, etc.

I've taken some pictures of my office, which I'm sharing with one other person, but I left my camera at home so I'll post 'em later.

The best part is that once I get the hang of things I'm going to be able to work from home sometimes.

Gotta go think some brilliant thoughts now.

But first I gotta give props to God for following through on yet another promise. It's only because of Him that I am where I am today - free of heartache, free of financial worry, surrounded by friends and with an exciting job.

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. Isaiah 40:31

Keep Austin Out of the Insane Asylum

2006-09-11T15:09:00.000-07:00

Weirdos.

Okay, remind me again exactly WHY Austinites are so concerned with staying weird? Are we on the edge of conformity? Not from where I'm sitting, which is inside a coffeeshop, facing a window where, just outside, tables and chairs are situated. Should there be anyone sitting at the tables right now? Logically, no. It's raining hard. But there's a crazy girl out there who doesn't appear to be aware of the rain.

I wish I had my camera so I could take a photograph of her on the sly, but I don't, so I'll paint a picture of the scene. There is one large puddle and many small puddles on the table. One huge puddle on the empty chair beside her. A drenched, heavyset girl sporting a 'fro, some glasses, a black shirt, listening to music on her headphones (I hope). Even before it was raining, she was flailing around wildly, singing out loud, scratching her 'fro in a very furious manner. She had journals, books, notebooks, spread out on the table, just scribbling away. So she was scribbling, singing, stopping the scribbling, scratching her 'fro, dancing, going back to the scribbling. I thought she was an eccentric art student or something, but now I think she's crazy. ...She was somewhere else when it started raining. I looked at her table and saw her books getting very wet. I had almost decided to run out and get them and bring them inside when she reappeared, strolling nonchalantly to her table, sitting down, not moving her books. Not moving her books. She just left her books there for a few minutes. (Can you tell this bothered me?) Letting the ink spread into blur on the page. After she finished one of her solos, she finally put her books away and got up to dance in the rain. She's still sitting there, just singin' and shaking out that hair of hers.

Before this, a girl at another table was working on a drawing. The title of it was "Physcology and Art." The title was pretty much the focal point, too. I wondered whether I should go out there and tell her she had misspelled "psychology" (or whatever she meant to spell) before she invested all that time into it. I decided not to. She seemed really into her work. She was sharing a cigarette with her little long-haired friends, so I felt image was probably pretty important to her. I hope that was not a school assignment.

Oh, the girl is gone. Maybe she melted. Man, I don't understand people. I only thought I was strange. Nope. I'm not.

My point is that Austin is weird, and I think it's always going to be that way, and I really think if anything, we should be more concerned with preserving just a smidge of the sanity that's holding over from preceding generations.

* BTW, I have this irrational fear that my new job will prevent me from ever doing anything on my own time ever again, so I'm cramming in as many blogs and e-mails as I can beforehand.

Alien Attack

2006-09-10T18:36:00.000-07:00

The night began strangely enough. We all should've known better and called it a night, maybe watched one of Jason's 4,000,962 movies, but we had ants in our pants and, you guessed it, they were making us want to dance. We had itches that only a little dancin' could scratch.

Heck, Cassie even ironed a shirt for Jason just so we could all go out. Those cursed ants wielding their power over her. How dare they make her iron! (Side note: Nothing in this whole world could make me iron. I have principles.)

So we made a mad dash for my car, thinking we were going to kick up our heels, so to speak, when we were suddenly transported into an alternate universe with a huge force field surrounding it. Sensing our fear, the universe aliens tried to destroy our life force. It was fierce.

First, they programmed Cassie with the knowledge and power to use this brain-sucker-outer on me, an attempt to render me a useless and slobbering driver who would kill us all in a car accident.

Fortunately, Cassie's face started peeling off, so she only got part of my brain out. She rifled though the first aid kit she found on the planet and struggled to figure out how to keep her evil face on. Ha, ha, Cassie. That's what you get for being so programmable and secretly evil. Cassie is missing part of her face now.

Seated quietly in the back seat, poor Jason kind of slipped through the cracks and became infused with a tennis racket.

But I don't feel sorry for him because really, he taunted us for using "science fiction humor." "Science fiction girls," I think is what he labeled us. Now who has the last laugh? Don't mess with angry science fiction women. We will telekinetically scramble your face.

Capitol Days Are Gone

2006-09-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

My now ex-coworkers showered me with attention on my last day at work the other day. (By "showered," I mean "gave." By "attention," I mean "breakfast, a pie and a card"...but whatever. I can be dramatic if I feel like it. It's my blog.) To thank them, I'd like to make a tribute blog to them...please imagine some inspirational music in the background here.

"It smells good in here," I exclaimed that morning. And then I turned the corner. Orange juice! Hashbrowns! Sausage/bacon and cheese sandwiched together by little pancakes! Straws! Could this day get any better?

Why yes, and it did.

They passed a card around (in plain view - it was really funny) and they all put little notes in there for me. So I'm writing little notes back to them. We're passing notes. I'm going to leave out the names and let them fight for who gets what note.

..., thank you for being a good deskmate and not chatting my ear off all day. We talked at appropriate times, I think. Don't you? I'm going to miss your wit, your insights and your coffee.

..., I'm going to be lost now, not knowing what's up with TomKat. And how am I going to know what the dems are thinking? And whose CDs am I going to burn? You're a smart woman, btw, and a better proofreader than me, but that's okay.

..., I never told you these two things, but a) thank you for always getting ice, and b) I thought it was a good idea that you brought peanut butter and crackers. I wanted to do the same, but I didn't want to be a copycat. Plus I'd have eaten all the peanut butter in one day.

..., my walkin' and prayin' buddy. We had some good times, did we not? You always picked up my spirits. Your joy for life gives me something to aspire to. I hope you always keep that spirit. You're a gentle soul and I'll miss you lots.

..., with the strong backbone, a woman I both admire and fear (no, really, I'm just now in my closet writing this), firm but understanding, honest but sweet. I guess you're sort of the yin and the yang of the bunch. You always understood me - or were you just pretending? Either way, I'd be friends with you on the "outside," too. That's how much I think of you.

..., I wish we'd have gotten to be around each other more. I did enjoy the "good mornings," and the few conversations we had. I think you've got a great personality, and I know God's going to bless you. We didn't get to say good-bye in person, but I'll come back and see you. Cuz I really like you.

..., thank you for my hippie gifts. One of them is on my kitchen bar, one of them is on a desk and one of them is holding up my remote controls. Thanks for always keeping the office full of laughter. Oh, and it's totally cool that you teach tai chi to old people. Hats off to that!

..., always a source of entertainment. I'm going to miss your little stories and your crazy antics with our boss. You need to keep on that project, girl. You've got somethin' special! Ah, I'll miss you!

Goodbye, my little corner of the capitol. See ya in the funny papers!

Because I Have No Self-Control

2006-09-07T11:36:00.000-07:00

Like the day I said goodbye to my two best pretend friends Vegetable Beach and Sisserling Cubling, my mind numbly searches for a new focus to fill the void I knowingly and willfully created.

At 12:03 a.m. on this Thursday, September 7, 2006, I, Jada, permanently erased my cell phone game, Canal Control. Why? Simply because it was consuming my life, destroying relationships, and eroding my brain. My sole purpose in life became beating Jose's high score of 18,000, of which I never even neared (CURSES to Jose!). I stopped eating and drinking and brushing my hair. Turn away. I'm hideous. Turn away, oh cruel world.

I made the decision in haste last night after spending 10 minutes reading and 50 minutes playing the wretched game. I had to sacrifice either my love for the game or my sanity. I chose wisely. ...Here's to you, Canal Control. It's gonna be tough living without you.

I'm gonna miss you, you cute little water droplet with huge pupils.

Who's going to build the little canals for you to run through now? Oh, I must go. I can't stop crying.

Stroke a Pose

2006-09-05T08:19:00.000-07:00

Not every photo shoot is a success. Especially with my mom involved. She's a beautiful woman, but she totally strokes out in front of the camera. Seriously. I've never seen anyone morph so quickly from a sweet, classy looking lady into someone who looks, well, a little bit drunk. And in the case of the following photo shoot, we were cursed by exceptionally harsh lighting, so neither one of us are looking our best anyway. ...But I had the brilliant idea that if only my mom said "cheese," she might master that whole "natural smile" look. Mmm-mmm. It didn't work. Look:

"Okay, now don't say anything."

"Okay, okay, we're on a roll! Let's take some together. Say 'cheese.'"

"Let's try again. And this time, don't say 'chiz.' 'Cheese.'"

"Hey! Not bad! But we flashed our faces out. Let's try again. 'Cheese!'"

"Um....all right....but only this time, look at the camera. Say 'cheese!'"

"You look a tiny bit Alzheimery in this one. One more time." (Note: by this time we are both laughing too hard to take any decent pictures...I don't know why I kept trying. But I did.)

Ah yes, the picture I'd been hoping to get...let's call it a day.

Jesus in Blue Suede Shoes

2006-09-05T07:50:00.000-07:00

Last week I:

Played Parcheesi.

Got a new job. ...Okay, I was going to brush over this, like, no big deal, but I'm really excited about it. I'm starting next week. They call me a marketing specialist over there. The company is going to launch a new website next year, and I get to help promote it. Eeeee! I'm so excited! Hey! This gives "Labor Day" a new name. Get it? Cuz I got a job on Labor Day weekend? Get it?

Went to small group.

Met my mom (not for the first time) at my grandma's house in Kingsland, near Marble Falls, where my aunt and uncle live.

Learned interesting facts about Elvis from my family: for instance, did you know that Elvis and Jesus are similar, in that there has been only one like them on the earth? Yes, my grandma compared Elvis to Jesus. No, I do not think this is "normal." God bless 'er, though, she has a unique perspective. Like Jesus.

That's her, in the middle. My aunt is on the left. That's my mama on the right.

Rode jetski and boat with Cassie. We rode the boat while Grandad and Neighbor worked on getting a good battery into the jetski. They never did. Charged up the bad one and instructed us not to turn the jetski off out on the water. Glad we didn't, because it never did start back up.

Last night I played soccer and got a blister on the very tip of my second toe. That's a first. Another first is our upcoming soccer game on Saturday. I can't wait!

And that was my week/weekend.

Odessa Finale: The Wedding Party

2006-09-01T06:15:00.000-07:00

This is Eric and Ali. Most people think they're brother and sister, but they're really husband and wife.

We celebrated their shameful elope to Vegas on the last day of our trip. They were our whole raison d'etre. Right? Wait. I don't know. They were the reason we were there. Let's just say that.

The reception was at First Baptist in Odessa, so I think that's ginger ale and ice cream in the bowl. But I'm not sure.

There were four types of people at the party: teachers, old ladies, family members and friends. Everyone but the friends wore suits of some sort and enough hairspray to fill up a couple of underground swimming pools. Eric and Ali's (and my) friend Adam was even wearing a suit. We were talking about the guests and how we felt like we were sticking out, and Adam remarked that old ladies make him nervous because he just has no idea what to say to them. So when Nadege and I saw this next little scene, we had to capture the moment.

Oh how we laughed and laughed and laughed at the irony of the situation. Poor Adam thought we were laughing at him. He started having horrid flashbacks to high school.

Eric: "We'll really like this grill, because...we like to grill."
Ali: "I love you, Captain Obvious."

(Eric actually said that about the grill. The rest is just colorful commentary by me.)

Eric: Look, honey, we'll like this bar set, because...we're raging alcoholics.

Me: Hmm. Pickles... Where did I put my purse...oh yeah...yeah...gas is kinda cheap here...yeah...mmm hmm...what are they talking about? Why won't someone come take this stuff off my lap?

Other lady: I just love my new flower wig.

West Texas Weekend Part I

2006-08-31T12:13:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy evening. The clouds stood in rows, armed ominously with arsenals of water.And then it rained.
But we finally arrived in San Angelo, to the home of my great aunt, who loves her some pillows. My brave friend and neighbor Nadege, who took all of the fabulous photographs that will be featured in the Odessa trilogy, was joining me on the journey to Odessa. Our great American road trip. (See, the great thing about being a single girl is you get to bring your friends along on trips. You're not just confined to traveling with that one annoying person.)

Anyway, my aunt was having home church when we rolled in. Her friends were super nice and friendly. And they couldn't remember "Nadege," so they called her "Susie." But whatever, because my aunt fed us brisket that night and took us to her friend's house the next morning for bacon and eggs. They laugh a lot. Not the bacon and eggs, but the friends and my aunt. I would have posted a family picture, but I did not get permission from my aunt and uncle to post their pictures online. Not that I normally get such permission, but they're really nice and they don't get online much, so they might be freaked. Instead, here is a picture of some pillows.

Big Fun in Big O

2006-08-31T11:04:00.000-07:00

Here's Midland. And Nadege. And a picture of a sign about our prez. What more can you ask for?

It sure was green there. Must have been from the rain. That's all I can figure. Anyway, our first destination was St. Cloud, aka Mike's house. As always, it was very cool and funky.

He gave us both gifts. This was the gift Nadege got. (This is not something most of you will understand. He's an artist.

But Nadege is also an artist, so she understood.)

You still don't get it, do you? Okay, well moving on.

As people tend to do, we got the itch to drive around and see the Odessa scene. Our first stop? Espresso drinks at the coffeeshop designed, built and run by Mike himself. Ah man, it's fashionable. Fashionable enough for a photo shoot.

We couldn't believe we weren't famous.

And neither could Mike.

And even though none of us could believe it, and we all just sat there not believing it, we hopped on over to the bunny trail to see the world's tallest jackrabbit. Don't think we didn't climb on it, cuz we did. ...Why does my hair look gray? Is it gray and I just never see the top of my head? Spooky....so that's a tall jackrabbit, huh?

And then we drove to the house where I grew up so I could climb the tree. And that's just what I did. I got scratches all over my legs and arms, but it was worth it. I wanted to knock on the front door and go inside, but my dos compadres wouldn't allow it. Squares. My dad says he's surprised I didn't get shot. Frankly, I was too.

We also went to a Stonehenge replica, but this blog is getting picture heavy, so just picture me climbing between the stones that are being henged.

As night fell, I began to experience hunger - a hunger that could only be satisfied by Rosa's tortillas and queso. I don't regret it! I don't regret a single minute of it!

And then Amanda's birthday party, hosted by, you guessed it, Mike.

Here's Mary and I. I was probably just as excited to see her as I was to see Amy Grant nine years ago. And THAT'S big. (Man, she makes me look tall.) To the right, we have Mike wearing a creepy bunny head, like the one in the movie "Donnie Darko."

Lastly, but not leastly, birthday girl Amanda, who is very beautiful but doesn't like being photographed. Perhaps because she looks like Charlotte Johansson.

The end. Stay tuned.

updates soon...

2006-08-31T07:12:00.000-07:00

I'm GOING to update this afternoon. I just have to remember to get my disc from the car after lunch.

Shout-Outs

2006-08-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

I promise I have some cool pictures and updates, but today I have some important, super secret work to do. I'll update as soon as is humanly possible. For now, shout-outs to the Big Odessa and:

Town&Country
Aunt Jeanne
Target
Exxon
Mike
The City of Odessa, for making the jackrabbit a landmark
Ector County Coliseum
Dos Amigos for having a gate for outsiders to look through
The people who own the Santa Rosa house
The tree in front of the house
UT Permian Basin
Odessa College
Espresso
Eric and Ali, for getting married and just bein' cool
First Baptist
St. Cloud
Amanda, for having a birthday
Dumplin's
Mary
Jill
Midland, for making a huge sign for us to pose in front of: "Home of George W. Bush"
Last, but NOT least, Nadege. What a pal. What a bewildered pal, I should say.

www.globalhumiliation.com

2006-08-25T09:46:00.001-07:00

I don't wear mom jeans or have big bleachy hair, so getting my comment posted on Amy Grant's myspace page was no small feat. The first time, I wrote a short, sweet comment about, "I'm so happy we're friends now. I love you Amy Grant!" The second one involved more effort, something like: "Amy Grant, can we be best friends? We can bake cookies and sing songs." Still, the tasteful Amy Grant myspace comment moderator ignored me, posting comments from old has-beens who wrote things like "Thanks for the add!" (Insert sparkle horse, fairy or animated angel.)

I was fed up. I thought, "This is it. I'm putting it all out there." So I went into embarrassing detail about my former obsession/current appreciation of her. And guess what? It worked! Being a stalker really pays. Here's what I wrote:

"Hi Amy Grant. It's Jada. We met outside your tour bus 9 years ago. Remember? I've been writing you letters since I was 6 years old. I mean, I stopped for about 12 years what with high school and college, but I'm back! You're like a siren or something, I don't know. Hey, remember when you told that funny joke on the 700 Club about a little girl telling you you were a "sleave?" That was funny. I recorded that interview on VHS. A bunch of other interviews, too. And I subscribed to your newsletter, cut out all your magazine articles, hung the pictures on my wall and even did my hair like you. I learned to write like you and play the guitar and sing and I wore t-shirts with your picture on them. I saved $69 to go to one of your concerts in Albequerque, but you canceled it because not enough people were going to go. I was crushed, but I waited and waited, and when I turned 19, you came to San Antonio. I saw you outside of a Christian bookstore performing and then inside some place the next day. I wanted to tell you all this outside the bus that night, but I was tongue tied. So here I'm telling you on a myspace comment."

Psycho!

Home of the Friday Night Lights

2006-08-25T06:39:00.000-07:00

I'm going to my hometown of Odessa, TX. (Isn't it pretty in the dark?) I haven't been there in two years, and I'm kinda giddy about it.

I shall identify my vacation goals:

1. Climb the tree in front of my childhood home

2. Walk around in a drainage ditch

3. Eat queso and tortillas at Rosa's

4. Give the world's biggest jackrabbit a hug

5. Eat at Taco Villa

6. Show my French neighbor The Music City Mall in all its carpeted glory

7. If anyone else who's ever been there can think of anything else I should do, leave me a comment.

Yep, Nadege is coming with me. Nope, she's not going to be able to understand a word anyone is saying. She's never seen a real Texas cowboy, so she's planning on making a mini documentary. I suspect there are going to be many more novelties other than cowboys that will draw her to the record button.

I found this photo on flickr. It's my friend Bobby next to the jackrabbit!

This is mostly what Odessa looks like (also a flickr photo).

I Saw The Terminator!!!!!!

2006-08-24T14:21:00.000-07:00

OHMYGOSH I SAW HIM! EEEEEEEH! ZEE TERMINATOR!

Okay, I'm really excited. Sure I waited for 45 minutes, and sure, I was ordered to stand at the back of the stairs rather than toward the front. But by golly, I persevered and I saw Arnold Schwarzenegger!

This picture below isn't him. This is the governor of Texas, Rick Perry. He walked past first.

I got excited when I saw Gov. Perry. (Cuz he's so dreamy!) Dang it! I should've held my trigger finger and saved the good picture for The Terminator! Cuz look what happened when he walked by.
Not cool, man. Not cool. But it's obvious which one he is, right? Thought so.

Mira! Real Mexican Governors!

2006-08-24T13:27:00.000-07:00

I'm at the state capitol today looking for Arnold Schwarzenneger. He is nowhere to be found. I'm going to try back in a few minutes, when I finish this post. But since I know everyone's grinding fingernails into palms waiting for real live action shots of this momentous occasion, I'm going to post something equally as exciting - I saw ALL the Mexican border governors. Of course, I realized once down there that my camera was out of batteries, so I had to use my camera phone, but it's proof!

Ta da!
(Not sure what the gentlemen with his back to us is doing with his hands.)

Pump You Up!

2006-08-23T14:31:00.000-07:00

This is me after soccer practice.

Arnold Schwarzenneger is coming to my work tomorrow. We as common folk aren't actually "allowed to see him," but I'm going to bring my camera to work just in case. And because someone from the White House is coming, the place is going to be crawling with secret service men. Maybe I'll at least get one shot of them. Wonder who's coming...the Prez? This could be the peak of my career - heck, the peak of my whole life.

When Front Row Tickets Go Awry

2006-08-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

I'm mad at the movie theater industry, if that is, in fact, an actual industry. I mean, really, how much money would it cost to lengthen the theater and put those first few rows in the back? Honestly. I was forced to sit in the front row the other night, and let me just say, if I didn't have such a stellar sense of humor, I would've been grumpy about it. We paid 8 bucks for tickets. Nobody bothered telling us how crowded the theater was. No one said, "Hey, it's so crowded in there you may have to sit in the very, very front in seats that actually push your head forward. Your neck will be stiff in five minutes and you'll have to watch the entire movie like a tennis match." Nobody told us, but that's exactly what happened. It was ironic, too, because I had just gotten my neck professionally massaged by the same friend who watched that movie with me. She probably left just as tense as me. The movie was VERY funny, though. "Little Miss Sunshine." The moral of the story? People are greedy. I felt like Job.

Speaking of Job, I was perusing the Bible the other day, and it said this: "As you know, we consider blessed those who have persevered. You have heard of Job's perseverance and have seen what the Lord finally brought about. The Lord is full of compassion and mercy."

What? What did the Lord finally bring about? When I think of Job, I think of some serious misery - like, stuff even worse than having to sit in the front row. So I looked up the story of Job and flipped right to the end, and hey! It said God not only gave him back what he had lost, but doubled it. And it's because Job persevered? Hmm. So, basically, this whole front row torture treatment is going to get me some really good seats in the future at a movie that's even better than "Little Miss Sunshine."

Seriously, though, the things I've lost that I considered blessings are nothing in comparison to what I will receive if only I persevere. Sweet. My new favorite part of the story of Job.

In conclusion, randomly, I'd like to note that whoever said "That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger" never had a massive stroke.

Mr. Blister

2006-08-21T06:42:00.000-07:00

Um. Neighbor Jason gives the worst blister advice ever. If you ever bump into him, DO NOT ask him blister questions. I repeat, DO NOT cut your blister skin away, especially if your blister is on the bottom of your foot. It's a terrible idea. When the raw skin finally dries up and stops throbbing, it delicately begins to split, and the deep cracking of the layers underneath begins. I had to hobble to the grocery store Saturday morning and buy blister Band-Aids. I just hope I can play soccer tonight.

Updates later...

Strike a Pose

2006-08-18T06:59:00.000-07:00

Last night I accompanied Cassie, Ben and Jason (not their real names) to a snooty party so I could get free appetizers before softball. I wonder if everyone feels like the weirdo at those things or if normal people feel comfortable. Like Jason said, those appetizers should've cost us $3,000, with all the fancy cheeses and the shrimp and the calamari.

I showed Jason the art of rolling-up-your-sleeves-to-feel-like-less-of-a-tool, and, as usual at these types of digs, I really only socialized with the people I knew...except the girl who was forced to sit at our table because the restaurant was too crowded. However, we got to hear all about Jason's gig as an "actor," which was really just a photo shoot. He showed us how he pretended to be a businessman as people shot his picture for a marketing campaign. I could see how he got the gig. I was convinced.

After Jason's secret acting life was revealed, we all started pretending to be actors...so I guess we were acting. Yeah. We pretended, for example, to be devastated that we didn't win tickets to the upcoming fashion show.

Or maybe that was just me. Cassie doesn't look very devastated. (Dang I'm good.)

Then we pretended that Jason was saying something interesting.

This required a few tries.

But we got it.

Then we played softball. Cassie and I played with Hyde Park Baptist Church and Jason played with Gateway whatever kind of church it is. Our game was extremely boring because we were so bad. We'd bat for about five minutes and field for about 30.

Bowling was next. Cassie's mom, sister and boyfriend of sister joined us. I like the Cassie family.

This is me. I bowl like the wind.

As you can see, I finally got to buy Sara and Jose's camera. The batteries were winding down in the bowling lane, so I didn't get any pictures of Cassie's family. But let me tell ya, they're cute.

Cat on Ice

2006-08-17T14:27:00.000-07:00

I'm just going to come out and say it. Blitzcat is in the Persian Mafia, a family of streetwise Persian or Persian-mix cats whose mission is to put stray dogs on ice.

Blitzcat is the Big Earner in the Family, the CEO of a corporation that manufactures and distributes weapons designed to burn, break an egg, clip, do a piece of work, hit, ice, pop, put out a contract on, whack, dogs.

A few years back, Blitzcat bought ACME from Looney Tunes (which is why you never see Wile E. Coyote trying to whack the roadrunner anymore). He changed the acronym to "Anialating Carousing Muts Everywhere" and tweeked many of the designs. He sells these pieces to other feline mafias and keeps his own Family well-stocked with supplies.

You should see Blitzcat when he's in his office. When he's at home he looks like a regular cat. At work, he wears bow ties, spectacles and walks on his back legs. He's got one of those really long desks surrounded by fancy chairs. He sits menacingly at the far end.

Anyway, I'm getting off track. He came home from lunch today at the same time as me and told me this crazy story. He was NOT happy. Apparently, an associate who was tortured by a pack of dogs spilled some information about the wherabouts of the ACME warehouse. Now the whole Family is in a frenzy, hiding the supplies, guarding the place, prowling for dogs who might know something. ...Frankly, I don't think the associate is going to make it, if you know what I mean. You can't afford to make these mistakes when you're in the mafia. I mean, this cat hasn't even been sworn into the mafia yet. He's a gonner. Blitzcat's not happy to be in this situation, but he's gonna have to take care of the perpetrator. I'm not too pleased with the cat in question either. I took this picture after he told me. We were so mad, man.

Peroxide n' Alcohol Scammin' in a Tree

2006-08-15T14:11:00.000-07:00

See that thing on my foot shaped like a little Volkswagon? It's a patch of raw skin that was hidden just minutes before by a water blister the size of a lima bean. Today, I walk on that raw skin for the sake of toughening up my feet for soccer. My neighbor advised me to pop the blister and cut all the skin away. "The pain tomorrow will be worth it in the long run," he said. He'd better be right, by golly.

After I cut the skin away, I accidentally rubbed my foot with the wrong cotton ball: the one dipped in rubbing alcohol. After I stopped writhing in agony, I took the peroxide to it to try and give it a longer washing. "Use peroxide," everyone in my head said like a Jewish mother. "It doesn't hurt like alcohol." Well, if you ask me, peroxide and alcohol are in cahoots. They've got this marketing ploy going on, like, the best ploy ever, because nobody knows why they think peroxide is gentle, but they do. Until they use it. It's some sick good cop/bad cop strategy they've got. Peroxide's like, "Let me be the gentle one. (Through this secret marketing ploy) people will keep using us both to treat one wound, never able to decide which is better, always forgetting about soap and water. This confusion about who's better will keep them coming back to us both every time they get hurt." I uncovered the scam last night, and lo and behold, when I looked at the bottles, they were made by the exact same company. The kicker? Even though I know I'm being scammed, I'm always going to have them in my medicine cabinet side by side. And so are you.

By the way, soccer was way fun, but I had to keep subbing out because of this lake formed on my foot. And I don't care if you think it's gross.

It's Kickball Y'all

2006-08-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

I'm glad I don't know how to format pictures. Ahem, top left: me kicking.

Left: a chaser leading me home.

Below: chasers have my back during a run

Way below: the girls - Mandy, Sara, me, Cassie. Hangin' tough.

Mojo Whatball?

2006-08-14T11:58:00.001-07:00

Aren't old people funny? I've started going to this nursing home in town to play and sing some hymns. I went Saturday and performed for about an hour (too long - poor residents couldn't escape). I met a few of the residents afterward, and as I was leaving, I met one lady outside the room. This was the conversation:

Lady: Is that a banjo or a guitar?
Me: It's a guitar. I guess you weren't in there watching?
Lady: I wasn't invited...it's probably because we were in Florida.
Me: Yeah, probably.
Lady: Even if we weren't in Florida, we probably still wouldn't have been invited. We probably wouldn't have come anyway.
Me: Well, I'll be here next week if you change your mind.

In other news, last night was my first mojo kickball experience. Mojo kickball is a lot like kickball, with a little mojo. Basically, there can be up to six balls on the field. And if you're a runner/kicker who gets out, you become a "chaser" whose main goals are to render the balls out in the field useless by touching the fielders who are holding them and to guard the runners while they run bases so that nobody can tag them. Those are the basic rules, but it's a little more complicated. Here are a few snippets from the game, from my perspective, which should illustrate my delicate grasp of the concepts:

1. Upon catching a grounder out in the field: I'm running around, shouting, "I have the ball! What do I do?"

2. Upon hearing the announcement "mayhem" and seeing players from both teams break into kamikaze sprints: I cut through the field and back around to my spot where shortstops normally are (there are no positions in this game) wondering aloud, "Why are we running around so much?"

3. Getting elbowed in the cheek while running bases - by my own teammate.

4. Trying to tag my own team member.

5. Getting tagged from behind by an opponent, turning around to see who it is, and shouting, "YOU! (we don't know each other's names)" This outburst did not go unnoticed by the resting team, and so more than once, some stranger shouted "YOU!" at me.

Sara's camera is full of pictures. I hope I can cut a deal with her and snag a couple of them. I'll post one (that she doesn't use, of course).

Tonight is the first soccer practice. I'm only a little bit scared. I canceled my gym membership. I'm going solid sports, baby.

On Passion and Purity

2006-08-14T06:49:00.001-07:00

On "Passion and Purity," a book Sara bought me recently...it was agonizing at times, but the meaning left me with fresh insights. The book is written by a missionary, Elisabeth Elliot. By means of narration, journal entries and love letters, she tells the story of the meeting, courting, engagement and marrying of her first husband, Jim, who died while in the mission field.

Did I say "courting?" Yep. Courting. It took this couple about five years, maybe more, to become engaged. At least half of that time was spent praying about whether they should have these feelings toward each other. I'll have to admit that I was annoyed by all the trepidation, and at times I just had to extract the concept and ignore the story in order to keep my mind open to the message.

Instead of letting their feelings and infatuations guide their actions, even when their actions were sinless and natural, they prayed about EVERYTHING and waited on God before making any move toward each other. They guarded their hearts like crazy. Equally, they guarded their bodies. Jim wrote Elisabeth a letter explaining his guilt over the physical conduct they had - she had locked arms with him and walked with her body next to his. At one point, he put his head in her lap. Yeah, so he asked her to help him stay within his physical boundaries. And she did. They shared their first kiss when he proposed to her, about five years after they met.

How probable is this type of courtship in today's world? I suppose it's very possible, but it doesn't seem probable. However, I do see the importance now of guarding my heart, taking my feelings to God and proceeding with relationships only after praying and working through my instincts. The Elliots both had missions from God and were not willing to let anything, even one another, stand in the way of that. If we could all aspire to this way of life, I can imagine the divorce rate would greatly diminish. ...So if you tend to let your feelings guide your life like I do, this is a good read. It's also good for people who haven't started dating or are just starting.

And that is my book report.

Scrabble Story II: "Dead Ant"

2006-08-10T11:36:00.000-07:00

While I was sitting at the Oiling Hole, this ant gave me a little tug. "Wanna skate in the limbo competition?"

I just had to jot down my name and age and I could participate in the next heat. So I did.

We put our skates on and lined up behind the stick. Since I am really bendy and the ant was really small, we out-limboed everyone. It was down to the two of us.

How could I get rid of the ant? There was no way I could beat him, not even if I were made of rubber and wire, which I am not. So I leaned down and drowned him in spit.

I won.

The end.

Nog Stab in the Gill

2006-08-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

When I played Speed Scrabble with Sara and Jose the other night, Sara encouraged me to write my words down and formulate some sort of story/poem something with them. So here is a lil' story I threw together, with the Scrabble words in italics:

My wife rushes into the house looking crazy as a loon. "Gertrude!" I say and zip my sweater, angry that she has stayed out until 2 a.m. without even a phone call. I always zip my sweater when I am angry. "Do you know what time it is? It is late!"

Gertrude flashes her cheek toward me. Oh! She has a fish gill on her face!

I cry up to the heavens and fall to my knees. "Oh God, how can you do this to us? Has my wife such a tarnished soul that you must inflict her with a face so gory even her own husband can't look at her?"

God throws a nog (wooden peg or pin) down into the fireplace and instructs me, "Stab your wife's gill with this nog and release the ion that has morphed your wife into this foul creature."

I do it. I stab my wife in the gill with a nog, and instantly, she loses her gill. All in all, I am thankful, for my wife calls when she is late and comes home at an appropriate hour. She is no longer a fishy person. God works in mysterious ways.

The Mystery Machine

2006-08-09T12:34:00.000-07:00

I think the reason I wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up was because I never rode the bus to school, though my mother's van was sometimes compared to one. I always found it very intriguing, the bus. There I'd be in the ole' van with Mama, and a bus full of kids would pull up beside us. We'd wave at each other and I'd think to myself that it would be jolly fun to be in there with all those kids. And someday after I graduated college, I could be.

Well today was the very first day in 28 years that I've ever had to "catch the bus." So I brought my journal along. I wrote in it until I got nauseated, at which point I was glad I didn't decide to choose a career in bus driving. Here's my journal entry:

"My first bus ride ever! I'm so excited. Will it really show up? Will it take me where it promises?

Who will I sit next to? I've already met one lady. She said she was 65, but she looked like an 80-year-old. I hope my mom doesn't look that old when she's 65. When I found out this lady's age, I thought to myself, 'Self, I need to get to Fort Worth immediately before my mom turns 65.' I mean, this lady had no teeth and was riding a motorized wheelchair. She was taking the bus to the doctor. I hope my mom doesn't have to take buses to doctors when she turns 65.

I don't believe this bus is coming...Just as I thought. I was at the wrong stop. Oh, it was the other 11th and Congress bustop. Who knew? At least Carlos stopped talking to me...but this could be a good way to minister to people. I mean, we're all stuck here."

At this point, I felt sick, so I put my journal away and started taking pictures of myself, sneakily, with my camera phone, to document the event.

I walked about .3 miles to the body shop, realizing along the way that I was on Hooker street. Though in a skirt, it was a long one, so I don't think anyone would mistake me for a hooker, but you never know. I was contemplating what I'd do if someone pulled over when I saw the body shop. And my CAR, which looks stunning. I got in and realized they had put a few miles on it and it was completely out of gas, but then I noticed they also got it washed. My dad's pretty sure they got the better deal, what, with gas prices and all, and they probably did, but at least my car is really shiny and lookin' new as ever.

Maybe I'll Invent a Cure for Cancer

2006-08-09T08:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I hosted a ladies' prayer group as I've been doing each Tuesday for the past few weeks. But last night as we were praying, as they were praying for me (we took turns praying for one another), I was praying that God would give me direction. At that moment, two thoughts entered my mind: "Turn off the T.V. Turn off the computer." I agreed with the thoughts in my head. In fact, I'd been considering that those two distractions were keeping my spiritual and other growth at bay. Well, the girls left and I turned the television on. Hey, it's fun and keeps me numb. But I don't need to be numb, so I'm going on a tv/Internet diet for two weeks (other than when I'm at work, other than when there is a movie to be watched). Maybe I'll clean more often. Maybe I'll eat less. Or more. Maybe I'll read more. Maybe I'll spend more time praying. Maybe I'll improve my classical guitar skills. Maybe I'll straighten my hair or hang out at coffee shops more often so I can check my e-mail without going off my diet. Maybe I'll write a best-selling book. Maybe I'll become fluent in Spanish. But hopefully, I'll have ears to listen to God as He gives me guidance. I will definitely document the thing.

Tonight I will be playing tennis. Tomorrow, softball. Sunday, mojo kickball. I'm probably going to join a co-ed soccer team. The captain of a Division 3 team contacted me. I hope Sara, Jose and Cassie don't get mad if I can't get them on the team. Before I join, I'm waiting on a friend who has played indoor soccer to send me the information on that organization. He says there's a facility somewhere central. We'll see. But I hafta move fast, because those soccer teams fill up fast.

So goodbye, mind pollution. Goodbye Raymond, Deb, Doug, Will, Grace, Karen, Jack and Meredith Vieira...and all those news anchors whose names I don't know but should. Hellloo, other things!

Toilet Paper Tail

2006-08-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

While visiting my family this weekend, one family member, I won't say who, but one of them was trying to amuse me by telling me funny stories and, in the process, revealed an embarrassing incident that I would like to share on the Internet: she left the mall bathroom with a "toilet paper tail," meaning somehow, a piece of tp got stuck in the back of her pants. She did not discover the 3-foot tail while she was in the bathroom. (I mean, don't you think you'd tell someone, politely, if they had an unraveled wad of tp hanging there in the back?) She left the bathroom and was in the hall when she discovered the thing on her own. ...I think it was nice of her to embarrass herself in attempt to make my life a little better.

I also saw my friend Jim this weekend, which was nice, but nothing embarrassing happened to him.

Oh! And I found my passport in the first box I pulled out of the closet. Note* those little prayers you say really do work sometimes: "Please let me hurry up and find this," is all I said while carrying the box to the bed, and voila!

Creo voy a Ecuador esta Navidad. But as you can see, my Spanish is broken. I'm going to have to do something about that. Buy some CDs and listen to them all the time. I dunno. I was trying to speak Spanish to Sara and Jose last night, but Jose needs to work on his English, and frankly, that's more important than me learning Spanish because he lives here. So I kept reverting back to English.

Anyway, we played speed Scrabble and I won. For once, Sara didn't beat me. My parents played the game for the first time this weekend. They wouldn't say it, but I think they were starting to feel the addiction, even though they kept losing to me. I'm definitely the champ of this game.

Lastly, it looks like the whole "fixing Jada up" thing is starting to happen, first by a friend of Cassie's. Victim #1 would've been the drummer from Fastball. Yep, that's right. But I spared him and declined the offer. I'm really trying to do things God's way, and I feel that if God wanted me to fix me up with a famous rockstar, it'd be someone more like Jack Johnson or Ben Harper. I'm just sayin'.

SSEWBA

2006-08-07T07:14:00.000-07:00

gmab! idkiukb this gnr8ns CrZy. hstry. irme.

Don't understand? You must be old and/or uncool. Go to this website to decode. My friend (we'll call him Mac til I get permission otherwise) sent me the link after discovering I was text message illiterate. He had sent me a text message that read "ty 4 talking." I was like, "Who's Ty? Why is he for talking? Does he mean "Five for Fighting?" I didn't get it.

I started reading the translations and decided that text message (sms, msg, txtin) language is stupid and will turn a person's mind to mush. I will not be learning this language because I think it's incorrect and lazy, and besides, I don't already know it.

Speaking of crabby traditionalists, I wonder if our forefathers felt the same when contractions started happening. "Excuse me?" they must've said in their British accents. "Did not you just say, 'I won't be there?' Whatever happened to using an entire word? Is it really so hard to say, simply, 'I will not be there?'" Oh, I'll bet contractions really dug at them, and I'll also bet contractions were invented by teenagers too lazy to speak properly.

I mean, call me regressive, but I think you should just stick to the English language. Why is it so hard to hold down the shift key and type a capital letter? Would it cause a hand cramp? It's not as if we're having to handwrite and mail letters to one another. There's really no need for this time-saving measure. If you're IMing or myspacing someone, you've got time to type caps. Are we not fat enough that we can't expend the energy to type a cap or spell an entire word?

And for the love of all things holy, I realize that some people's minds aren't wired for spelling, but there aren't THIS many people who naturally can't spell. Could it be that misspelling things is a freakin' trend? That's what I think. "hey everyone, let's see who can be the worst speller in the world," someone shouted to the world, who, in response, shouted back, "ohkaey!"

BTW, "ty 4 talking" means "thank you for talking." fccl. kwim?

The Walk of Death

2006-08-07T06:31:00.000-07:00

This morning I had to force another conversation with the guy who parks near me at work. I think he and I are always both realllll sorry when we pull up to our spaces at the same time. So, yeah, for about 10 thrilling minutes during our walk to work this morning, we jumped from one brilliant discussion to the next: how confusing it can be to navigate downtown Fort Worth because some of the streets cross others at a 20-degree angle! (mmm-hmmm, yeah, no clue); how he didn't do anything all weekend; how the Rolling Stones are coming and they're old. Here's what it is. Middle-aged political activists and me just can't relate. We will always hit a ceiling called "small talk."

I can relate to young liberal activists because we can talk about young things like our weekend fun, our sordid myspace lives and upcoming festivals (AKA "festies") and concerts we pretend we might go to for conversation's sake.

And I can relate to middle-aged liberals who aren't activists because, while our political beliefs vary, these folks don't really give a care about the current political scene. Neither of us wants to talk about politics, and I have plenty of middle-aged topics stashed in my conversational repetoire, like Wheel of Fortune, aches and pains and how crazy young people are these days. So that goes pretty well.

Middle-aged conservative activists and I can exchange decent conversation, because while we don't generally "run around together," I know all about the pro-life cause, gun rights and how funny Laura Ingraham is.

Now, I know there is this common thread running through all humans called the soul, but this isn't the easiest subject to approach on a crosswalk, and I'm not going to unless said person goes, "So what do you think about eternity?" So if anyone can throw me a bone, just so we wouldn't have to talk about how he does the same thing at work every day and how I'm looking for another job, I'd appreciate it. Thanks.

Napoleon Cake

2006-08-04T08:28:00.000-07:00

Going out on a limb here, I'm going to guess that if we lived in an honest world, people would admit that they like other people's birthdays because of what's in it for them. I'll stand up and admit it right now. You can't see me, but I'm standing.

Take Laura's birthday party last night. We haven't hung out a lot, but I like Laura. Except that she's in better shape than me, which really gets on my nerves. But I'm glad she lived all the way through her 27th year and that she's all healthy and happy and prepared for this upcoming year. Honestly, though, I was more happy about the birthday party at San Jose's, which is visually undocumented because none of my friends brought their digital cameras to a PARTY. Ahem, anyway, I enjoyed the lime trees, the tiny swimming pool and the company more than the concept of Laura going from being 27 to 28.

Same thing at work. Sally had a birthday today and I signed her card "Happy birthday, pal. Love, Jada" when what I really meant was "I don't give a care you're getting older. Give me my cake." That's all work birthdays mean to me. Free cake. Usually chocolate, but today, strawberry. I want a Neapolitan cake, or as I used to call it, a Napoleon cake. Do they make Napoleon cakes? Napoleon cake and Napoleon ice cream would be quite the duo. I'm just sayin'.

One of the guests at the party last night, we'll call him Napoleon because he was short and mean, needed a good beating. I thought he was Australian, but really he was South African. From what I could tell, he was straight up from "H" (term coined by my mother). He told me to open my mouth when I said the word "phone." I tried to ignore him, but then I went back, in my mind, of course, to high school when choir teacher Ms. Medlin used to bust my chops for not opening them up to speak, and all I ever did was try to comply. But really, it doesn't feel good when someone tells you that you talk funny. Especially when THEY are in America using South African accents. So anyway, he got the brunt of some of the pent-up rage I had going on for Ms. Medlin. I asked him three times if he just ordered me to open my mouth when I spoke, and three times he said he hadn't. A little awkward and almost catching some attention, so I let it go. THEN he had the nerve to intrude on a conversation I was having with someone who was obviously not him, so I snapped again. This time, it was tense, and afterward he stopped making eye contact with me. I did feel bad, so when we all got up to leave, I offered a little hug and realized that he was shorter than me. Sure, I was wearing heels, but I'm 5'4". Suddenly, I understood. "Son, you should be a cop," I said to him. Not really. That part's a lie.

Despite Napoleon, a good time was had and I got to experience First Thursday for the first time. So here's to parties, free cake and birthdays (I guess...GAH).

Driven to Succeed

2006-08-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

I cannot top that last post. So I guess I'll just talk about my car. I'm renting one for the weekend, courtesy of lady-who-hit-me. My car, with repairs guaranteed for LIFE, will be ready Monday.

Last night I watched a movie called "Coach Carter," about hard work and personal growth. I mean, these loser basketball players were doing push-ups and "suicides" (running back and forth, back and forth til they reach the length of the court) every time they stepped out of line, sometimes 1,000 push-ups at a time. They got so buff and really very motivated to succeed. I was so inspired I set my alarm for 5:45. I was going to run to the park and do suicides and push-ups for an hour and declare personal victory. But when the alarm went off, I was sleepy, so I just turned over and did about 8 push-ups in bed and went back to sleep. I feel really good about myself now. I'm off to a good start. I just hope I can keep this up. Right now I'm eating an apricot kolache, so things seem to be coming right along.

Every Heartbeat

2006-08-02T11:02:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon this little gem this morning. PLEASE turn on the sound.

I was going to talk about how happy I was to have a dream about Amy Grant last night, because I love, love, love her, and when we get to heaven, I'm moving in next door. And how I would be so happy if I bumped into her on the street and gave her a hug and showed her around the city.

But I don't know now. I mean, the guy who made this video makes my devotion to Amy Grant look pathetic. He might be willing to pay more for the property. Stalker. Crazy, crazy, stalker man.

I got SMASHED!

2006-08-01T12:07:00.000-07:00

This lady backed into my parked car this weekend with her ginormous Escalade. It is at the body shop right now. I hope they can fix it.

In other news, Sara gave me this book, "Passion and Purity," written by a missionary lady who is far more disciplined than I am, and at first, I thought, well, I hope God doesn't expect me to be as careful and spiritual as her, because if He does, I won't find a man for another 2,423,888 years. So when I'm in heaven, basically. But I started thinking about it, and I think I'll be able to pull some really groovy concepts out of it. Like maybe I won't start seeing my unborn children in the eyes of, oh, strangers I pass on the street. I'll reveal any revelations I may have. Maybe someone else could benefit from them, too. You just never can tell.

You know, no one ever thinks about what stick people go through - you know, the stick figure warning guys. If you even give a care, have you a heart AT ALL, go to this link. And forward it to 10 people or you will have bad luck.

Know Thyself, Nerd

2006-07-31T07:52:00.000-07:00

I used to think I was cool. Through high school and especially during and just after college. However, a couple of years ago, my mom very politely told me that I was, in fact, a nerd.

"I am?" I asked in disbelief, cocking my head, scrunching up my nose. I mean, my mom isn't Joan Rivers or anything, so it's not like she's got the edge on hip. She told me to take a look at my friends. Good idea. I mean, you can tell a lot about a person by the company she keeps. She started naming each of my friends. "He's a nerd?" "They're nerds?" "He's a nerd, too?"

Well, I couldn't tell, but then nerds usually don't know they're nerds, so they probably can't identify other nerds. I can imagine that from my facial expression it appeared as though I were watching two cockroaches mating on the floor. I was realizing that I wasn't smooth. I wasn't sassy. I wasn't fooling anybody, either, except maybe my friends.

I've learned to accept the fact - heck, I even embrace it, because nerds are just people who don't wear masks, if you ask me.

Now, I have heard that Star Trek might be nerdy. But I thought, hey, why not give it a try. It could be fun like "Fraggle Rock" or "Labyrinth." But it wasn't. It was just straight up nerdy. And as I lay on the couch while Sara and Jose glued themselves to the very last episode of the Deep Space 9 series, I giggled a few times. Not only because Star Trek is possibly the nerdiest production ever created, but because it's endearing to have friends who aren't afraid to admit to the world, in their blogs, even, that they love something so uncool, and because,well, it's just swell being a nerd.

Knothead

2006-07-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

I whacked myself in the forehead with a 40-lb. barbell this weekend. How does that happen? Let me recap... I'm doing this "boot camp" thing at the gym, where I'm sprinting hard for a mile on the treadmill and going straight over to the weights to do some lunges and other painful stuff. Friday, all the pre-date, testosterony guys were crowded in the weight room. I was pretty much the only female in eyeshot, so I felt like I was being looked at. I suppose I was looking down, you know, to try and avoid eye contact, so I grabbed the heavy barbell off the weight rack, and, using momentum to hoist it over my head and onto my shoulders, bonked myself a good one on the forehead. I tried to pretend nothing happened, so I'm not sure if anyone saw. But the physical effects of my self-consciousness and pride have lasted three days now. That's what I get for making fun of foreigners.

Enema of the State

2006-07-29T07:32:00.000-07:00

I would be remiss if I did not say that I absolutely love hanging out with foreigners. It's better even than hanging out with small children.

Last night, for example, my French neighbor Nadege thought she knew what an enema was. "Like the movie," she said. "'Enema of the State.'" No, her boyfriend said. That was most certainly not the name of that movie. ...But we have decided to always, always replace the word "enemy" with "enema." "Enema at the Gates." "Behind Enema Lines." Ohh.

What's almost as funny is her interpretation of "crap shoot," which was "crap sh*t." She just thought it meant something was so bad it was beyond just being regular crappy. We discovered this misinterpretation while watching a Sprint commercial, where the guy is walking around in the boonies, talking about how his service is always a crap shoot out there. Guess she thought he just had super bad service.

So to my two favorite foreigners, Nadege and Jose, thank you. You're both priceless.

Nadege: By far, not my worst enema.
(Pictured right, Nadege's boyfriend Jason, not a foreigner.)

The Reading Club Sans Reading

2006-07-26T06:35:00.000-07:00

Sara, the girl with the best blog in the world, graced me with her presence last night. We went to Flightpath for a reading party! Yay! We are some wild chicks. We sat on a couch next to a battered old sandwich and a leaky pen. Rob came and sat down near us.

Hi Rob!

Rob just moved here from Boston. He works at UT and rides his bike everywhere he goes. Anyway, I started off with a few card tricks...okay, one card trick that I did wrong. Sara did a trick right. Next, Rob joined us in a game called "Idiot." It was fun, but Sara won, as usual. She's such a cheater. Then we started talking about books and God. We read for about 1.5 minutes.

I tend to look really smart when I go to coffeeshops.

Adventures in Shoe Polish

2006-07-25T08:36:00.000-07:00

I had a job interview at 9 a.m. I scored some shoe polish from a friend yesterday, who instructed me to apply it that day and let it dry overnight.

Well, I got caught up "Everybody Loves Raymond" and forgot. That silly Raymond and his hijinks. So this morning as I was applying far more makeup than usual, it donned on me that I needed to polish them. Argh! Now I was running behind!

I couldn't get the dang polish to come out of the squeegie thing and Blitzcat was trying his level best to get inbetween the polish and the shoe. So I stood up, and in confusion/frustration, I mashed down hard on the shoe and squeezed the bottle, sending a good pint of shiny black shoe polish streaming down my bare leg. I jumped in the bath and tried washing it off. Nevermind, no one's going to see my leg. I also got it on the carpet. During the interview, I noticed I got some under my nails as well.

But I put lipstick on, so I'm pretty sure I dazzled her anyway. I've got another interview at 12:30. If things go well, I'll either be a marketing director or a PR rep by the end of the week. Wish me luck, and if you know how to get shoe polish off of skin and carpet, do tell. I'll add some pictures later, maybe, so it can be noted how fly I look today.

Father Bear Signs Books

2006-07-24T06:57:00.000-07:00

Like the wise Sara says (in cliche, of course), all's well that ends well. Last night ended with a game of Skip-Bo where I reigned victorious. So I guess that's well. I wish I had a digital camera so I wouldn't have to ask the reader to use so much imagination. Skip-Bo really isn't that hard to imagine, though, I suppose.

I went to Book People yesterday and met the author/illustrator of the Berenstain Bears books, Mike Berenstain. He signed a book for me. His parents, Stan and Jan, were the original creators, but they died, so my new friend Mike took over.

I also talked to Rigel. It's not like that. We weren't tryin' to hook back up. We just went for a lil' walk and talked about what we'd been doing. He told me about some volunteer stuff, some cool happenings in his life, that he was relieved after we broke up (just go ahead - throw a little salt and lime on my broken heart - ahh, that's better). I told him about some epiphanices that I've had that are going to be played out over the next year or so, like community living (what? I know.), mission stuff, original thought, stuff like that. It's gonna be cool. In the end, Rigel and me decided to try to remain friends. Yeah. I know.

Blue Like Jazz

2006-07-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

It is 8:39 on a Saturday night. I am sitting in a coffee shop drinking lukewarm coffee. Why would a coffee shop sell lukewarm coffee? And what brought me here? I never came here before I dated Rigel. This is where he comes to work, when he comes to a coffee shop. Sometimes he goes to the one closer to my apartment, but mostly he comes here. I told myself I chose this coffee shop because of the couches. Quacks doesn't have couches - only hard chairs and a few stools, and it's usually crowded and loud. So I came here. I'm reading a book. I'm trying desperately to keep my mind off the only thing it wants to be on. The book helps. It's a good book. I recommend it - "Blue Like Jazz."

That sums up my emotional state right now, I suppose. I'm blue like jazz. Every day I'm doing a better job of sucking it up, coming to terms with singlehood. This is the fourth day of it, I think. Or at least, the fourth night. This is the first day I haven't cried. Maybe I'll fall asleep without crying. Probably. The problem is that I don't know what to do with myself - I feel like a recovering alcoholic at a bar with nothing to do with my hands. Kind of folding up the corner of a napkin, making awkward eye contact with people I'd rather not be around. Hmm. Dunno.

I'm so super glad Sara and Jose are here for me right now. And they don't even know me that well. What rockstars, man. I suppose a lot of my friends would be willing recipients of my depressive panderings, but for some reason I'm subjecting only a select few to my life right now. I've been clinging to Sara and Jose since Thursday. They finally scared me off with Star Trek.

So here I am thinking about my connections to my community. Today I went to this nursing home and volunteered to sing a little, play some guitar every Saturday, Phoebe style. Heck, I may even do a rendition of "Smelly Cat." Honestly, I'm not excited about it. The prospect of going alone with my meager renderings of hymns and praise songs, alone to a dismal place where people go to die, is not appealing. How can I shine light into these old geezers' lives when mine is snuffed out right now? Man, this is the most depressing blog entry EVER. Please forget you ever read it, if there's anyone out there reading it.

Anyway, Rigel's sister Chloe called and left me a message earlier. I wanted to talk to her, but she didn't answer when I called back. I wanted to tell her how sad I am, how Rigel and I both have some learning to do, how I'm happy that my relationship with God is going to grow and I'm optimistic that as it does He will pour blessings into my life. But mostly I wanted to tell her how sad I am so she'd tell Rigel and he'd know I was thinking about him. And she, being his sister, is an extension of him, a grand substitution, the closest I can get to him without talking to him. But she wasn't there. I guess it's for the best, because looking at myself from a wide lens, I can see how pathetic and ineffective it would all be. Maybe she'll call back, though.

I'm going back to my book because it's about somebody else's life. If anyone knows of any other books I can escape into, bring it. I'm all about escape right now.

The Happy Couple

2006-07-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Can I just say during this (hopefully large) window of time I'm giving God the chance to do His thing, that I LOVE Him? I hope so. I mean, that's not illegal or anything, is it? Because I do.

Yes so I have been all broken up about being broken up, but God swooped down and made good use of me. Man, I didn't even say my "Please live through me today," prayer today. It was more like, "Please let me live through today."

Anyway, the good part: so I'm telling someone, we'll call her "Sally," about my problem, and she ends up telling me that she's not speaking to her husband of 10 years. So we start praying, and wow, does God work with those who come in humility and sincerity. Yada, yada, yada, she walked over to his office and made up with him. They just had lunch together and are happy as little larks. They just seemed so renewed.

Also, she told me she knows the reason I'm working here is because of her - because she needed me. Finally I know why I'm here! I've needed her, too, truth be told.

But yeah, I'm all smiles seeing them happy together. Gotta give it up for God! He can turn anything around!

Gipped by a hippie

2006-07-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

Ironically, my hippie ex-boyfriend broke up with me last night so he could live in a commune someday. Shoulda seen that one coming! Bye, Rigel! I love you.

My Color is Rainbow

2006-07-19T09:43:00.000-07:00

My new job-hunter's bible, "What Color is Your Parachute," tells me that what my parachute needs is a dye job. Apparently, my job-hunting tactics have caused all this disheartening hype, rejection shock and (gasp) low self-esteem. And I thought it was just a slight personality disorder. Phew! But really, I still don't know what color my dang parachute is after all this time. So I'm picking rainbow for now because rainbows are pretty and indecisive.

Basically, my workdays are open wide until January (unless I find the aforementioned other job), meaning I'm at work, but not actually doing any work - also meaning the topic of my blogs will be either the unusual ramblings of my mind or recaps of the preceding evening/weekend. Or nasty bits of gossip. Or maybe stories about spaceships. I don't know yet.