It's been too long since my last update.
And by this, I mean "it's been too long since my last writing assignment at Pitt."
I've had high hopes of having this paper written by now. I promised myself at the beginning of the semester, "Sammi - do yourself a favor. Don't get work done on time: get it done early." So far, this promise has been broken at least once a week. In the case of this paper, multiple days in a row.
I received an email from my independent study leader (aka, a teacher for a self-paced class; aka, I should not be taking this). He suggested that, in order to stay on track with the course, it would behoove us to submit paper #1 by the weekend.
That was two weeks ago.
"Behoove," of course, was my word choice just now. Perhaps if he had used that word, I would have attacked the paper immediately, but that's all behind us now.
Last week, I decided to be a good girl and write this paper. Then a friend of mine suggested we go to a bookstore together and both work on our respective assignments and as anyone could guess, that quickly fell by the wayside. Though in my defense, I did try - I got as far as the heading for the paper. I even inserted the page numbers in the footer. According to my own writing process, I'm already a tenth of the way there.
So now I am sitting in the David Lawrence building on a Saturday, having been asked to take my brother to his ACT testing here, and once again I'm faced with the unrelenting temptation - nay, desire, to completely slack off and allow myself to be distracted. I even planned for a way to distract myself: I brought not one, but two novels I have either started or want to start reading. These, however, will be last resorts.
First, I started combing through my hair with my fingers. It's too hot and humid to bother straightening my hair, so it's wavy, tangled mess and certainly needs for this to be done.
Once I can't do that any longer, I decide to at least make a go at the paper. I get out my laptop, my book, my notes. I decide to jot down an outline. I realize I have no pen, no pencil, not even a marker with which to write. But I am in a college lecture building's lobby, so I decide to go on a pen hunt. I've had many classes in this building and have often found abandoned pens on tables, under chairs, or in the middle of the lobby, having fallen from the backpacks or purses of their previous owners.
After about seven minutes of this, I realize I probably look pretty silly crouching about in this way, so I resign myself back to the table with my laptop etc. and decide to just take the notes on my computer in a Word.doc.
And as fate would have it, Facebook calls to me and I waste fifteen minutes checking it and then my email.
And now, we come to this: me updating. I must ask myself the question - why do I do this to myself? I know that I am a good writer, that I could (and do) pull words out of a hat and, with little effort, splatter them on a page like a modern artist. And, like the modern artist's audience, my teachers seem to deem them as masterpieces. Does this make me proud to say this? I'm merely stating a fact. But perhaps even recognizing this fact makes me proud. No - humble writers wouldn't mention this...they wouldn't stall the way I do, either. They'd see this ability as a gift not to be squandered, a weapon only to be used in the most dire of situations, to be held back for only the emergency situations.
I know I'm wasting my potential by doing this. I know I could be putting so much more into my work, so much more depth, so much more detail.
I broke my nail. Great, now I'm a proud, vain writer.
I need to stop this. End of. I need to write my paper.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Monday, November 29, 2010
Movin' on Up!
We've changed the date for the better: we'll now be getting hitched on Friday, October 7th, 2011!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Check out what's been keeping me from posting...
My latest essay for Pitt entitled "Naughty Bones," or "Sinister Ribs."
[[and for some exciting news, see my last post!]]
[[and for some exciting news, see my last post!]]
I decided to take a “from the ground, up" approach to this post, looking not for a question’s answer but rather for a question, and I was surprised at what I found. I tried to think of a word that I knew was used throughout the text, and the word rib came to mind. It turns out that it’s used in many different contexts and is not exclusive to the Adam and Eve story. Rib is first used in Book I’s narration of the establishment of Pandemonium:
…Soon had his crew
Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 690
And digged out ribs of gold.
One definition of rib is “a bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure.” (OED, –8. a.) My original intention, however, was to look at this word in context to Book X during Adam’s angry rant about his disobedience being Eve’s fault:
…But for thee
I had persisted happy, had not thy pride
And wand’ring vanity, when least was safe, 875
Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
Not to be trusted, longing to be seen
Though by the Devil himself, him overweening[…]
And understood not all was but a show
Rather than solid virtue, all but a rib
Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears, 885
More to the part sinister from me drawn,
Well if thrown out, as supernumerary
To my just number found.
Adam then proceeds to blame Eve excessively, wishing God had never created her. Here, rib is used in a very different way – he is referencing it in the anatomical sense (which anybody can tell), but also in a sort of slang, with rib being another word for a person's wife or – more generally put – a woman. (OED, –3.) First, he describes what the anatomical rib looks like: naturally crooked, “bent;” the same way he now sees Eve – “crooked” meaning deceitful. It was at this point that I noticed the word sinister. Today, we usually take this word to mean “given with intent to deceive or mislead, especially so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will.” (OED, I. 1. a.) But while this does fit the description Adam has just assigned to Eve, there is more to sinister than our modern comprehension of the word. It also means “situated on the left side of the body.” (OED, II. 9. a.) This really brings about a separate interpretation when taken into account. The image created by these two interpretations is as follows: Adam saying (1.) that Eve was the evil which was drawn out of him and (2.) that Eve was drawn from his left side. One way this could be read is that God pulled the rib from the left side so that it would be closer to the heart, but another perspective is that God pulled the rib from Adam’s weaker side.* The left side of the body has never been regarded highly throughout Western history. During Milton’s era, many believed that being left-handed, for example, meant that you were demon-possessed; children, therefore, were broken of the habit when they started attending school (this practice – while likely not associated with this superstition any longer – was still in effect even as recent as the 1940s and ‘50s, even in America). In addition to these modern day opinions, Milton has given a more obvious comparison to this scene – in Book II, Satan’s offspring “Sin” is introduced as being
In darkness, while thy [Satan’s] head flames thick and fast
Threw forth, till on the left side op’ning wide, 755
Likest to thee in shape and count’nance bright,
As God created mankind in His own image, Sin was created (spawned) in Satan’s image. When Adam is describing the parallel event to this in Book X, he too remarks that the rib from which Eve was formed came from his left side (even though this isn’t actually ever stated in Genesis). By inserting this memory of Sin’s, Milton plays on the literal and metaphorical meanings of the word sinister, directly linking Eve - and women as a whole - to evil.
~~~~~~~~~~
RIB.
I. The bone, and related senses.
1. a. Each of the series of long, narrow curved bones articulated in pairs to the spine in humans and other vertebrates, enclosing or tending to enclose the thoracic (or body) cavity and protecting the main internal organs within it; usu. in pl. Also (in pl.): the part of the body in which the ribs are contained, the upper torso.
movable, short, skinny-rib, etc.: see the first element.
a1616 SHAKESPEARE MILTON T. HALL 3. With allusion to the biblical account of the creation of Eve from Adam's rib (Gen. 2:21): a person's wife; (occas. more generally) a woman. slang in later use. 1589 KING JAMES VI Let. 19 Feb. in Calderwood's Hist. Kirk of Scotl. (1844) V. 82 Recommending me and my new rib to your daylie prayers. 1732 H. FIELDING 8. a. A bar or rod that strengthens, supports, or reinforces a structure. Also fig. and in figurative contexts. 1600 SHAKESPEARE SINISTER. I. 1. a. Of information: Given with intent to deceive or mislead, esp. so as to create a prejudice against some person; prompted by malice or ill-will. Obs. 1411 Rolls of Parlt. III. 650/2 And of all that by sinistre information, I havyng doute of harme of my body,..dyd assemble thise persones. 1566 Reg. Privy Council Scot. I. 416 Upoun sinister informatioun maid to thair Lordships,..the said Robert wes lattin to libertie; albeit the saidis Lordis perfytelie now undirstandis the contrarie. 2. Of opinions, etc.: Prejudicial, adverse, unfavourable, darkly suspicious. Obs. 1432 Paston Lett. I. 35 That the said Erle may have knowleche therof, to th' entent that he may..not dwelle in hevy or synistre conceit or opinion. a1713 T. ELLWOOD Autobiog. (1765) 67 Some evil Suspicion or sinister Thoughts concerning me. 1795 Sewel's Hist. Quakers I. Pref. p. xv, This is a very sinister and preposterous conceit. II. 9. a. Situated on the left side of the body. c1475 Partenay 3049 The sinistre Arme smote he vppon. SHAKES. Tr. & Cr. IV. v. 128 My Mothers bloud Runs on the dexter cheeke, and this sinister Bounds in my fathers. 1682 DRYDEN Mac-Fl. 120 In his sinister hand..He placed a mighty mug of potent ale. Comb. a1658 LOVELACE Poems (1864) 158 That which still makes her mirth to flow, Is our sinister-handed woe. * I cannot take full credit for this idea: we discussed this in another class I’m currently taking. :-)
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I'm Engaged!
I love to write Steve letters. Letters and cards. As often as I can, I mail them, hide them somewhere for him to find, etc.
Friday night I get my Jeep back from a long month of repairs and decide I want to drive. We were going out that night so I picked him up at 6:30. He came out of the house with a USPS shipping box. When I asked, he told me it was his sister's Christmas gift.
We drive to the mall and park, and he asks me to turn on the interior light. From the box, he pulls out seven envelopes, numbered 1-7 on the front. "I know I've said I'd someday write you some notes too, so I'm catching up." As I take them in my lap, grinning ear to ear and eager to rip into them, he adds, "and since it's close to Thanksgiving, I'm sure you'll notice a trend."
I open the first note and find one line of words to the eff
ect of: "I'm SO THANKFUL that on July 4th, 2009, I met you at the Harrisville volleyball tournament." With it were three cute little girl volleyball player clip art pictures. The letters went on, each one further detailing our relationship with the "thankful trend" - "...thankful you said yes when I asked you out," "...thankful I could take care of you after your surgery," "...thankful you put up with my goofiness and faults." So when I read the last note and looked up at him to give him a hug and say "thank you," there he is with a black velvet ring box in hand, and he says, "And I'd be even MORE thankful if you would marry me."*insert "OMG! OMG! OMG! yes! oooooh my goodness!!! I don't believe it!" [hug, kiss, hug, kiss]*
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Happy Hump Day
How does one find herself going from a nice, cool bed under a soft sheet to a smelly bus stop with a deranged pregnant woman singing along with her iPod and digging at her crotch? Answer: slowly. Painfully, dreadfully, slowly.
This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.
I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.
Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.
These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…
Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.
This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.
The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.
The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.
Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.
Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.
I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.
Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.
Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.
I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.
For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.
Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.
Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.
Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.
Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.
I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.
Happy Hump Day, readers.
This morning started like any other morning: the wind was blowing softly through my open window, my ceiling fan was merrily circulating the air throughout the room, and – of course – my alarm was going off. The only variable today was that instead of riding in with my father I would be driving myself.
I only do this if I must, mind you. Since two of my classes run past the normal four o’clock departure time, I now have to drive my Jeep in to Oakland on said days. Now, back to the alarm clock.
Instead of waking up at 5:30 like I typically do, I decided to live a little and sleep an extra fifteen minutes. But rather than hit the snooze three times, I opted to change the alarm time to 5:45. What I didn’t realize in my sleepy stupor though was that I accidentally changed it not to 5:45, but to 6:45. That’s right, a whole hour’s difference. This would be the mistake that would alter the entire morning for me. As I tomahawked myself out of bed and got dressed, I carefully made sure that I had packed everything I needed for the day. I bolted down the stairs and was about to run out the door when my mom yelled down, “Don’t forget to pack some food!” Throwing on the breaks, I circled back around to the kitchen and chucked a few items into my bag.
These items were: a yogurt tube, a cheese stick, a bag of red grapes, and a foil-wrapped piece of perogie pizza from the night before. I tell you this because it will play a part later in this post. Okay, resume in three, two, one…
Ready to leave a second time, I jog up to my Jeep and hop in. I’m half way down the street when I realize that I’ve left my cell phone. I throw the Jeep into reverse and back up my road to my house. After retrieving my phone, I am now ready to leave yet a third time. As I drive back down the road, my “low fuel” light comes on. Great. Another stop. Fifteen dollars later, I’m back on the trail that is Route 28.
This is where the fun starts, people, so buckle up.
The drive up until the RIDC exit had been the usual stop-and-go traffic one sees every morning on the inbound commute. I’m following a rather large SUV when out of nowhere, a doe leaps from the grassy area on the other side of the highway. I embellish not when I say that this SUV obliterated that deer. I for one was easily cruising at 80 mph, so the vehicle in front of me was probably going the same. The chunks that flew from the front of his car were the size of basketballs. I slammed on my breaks to avoid crashing into his backend then had to veer off the road to avoid getting rear-ended myself by the car behind me. Panting from the adrenaline that was now rushing through me, I came back up onto the road to press on.
The ride only got worse. Once I made it to the Fortieth Street Bridge, traffic slowed to a stop. Once I made it across the Bloomfield Bridge, I found myself trapped behind a street cleaning machine. The traffic opposite me was too steady to cross the line and go around it, so instead I had to move at 15 mph along a 30 mph road. At last I was in Oakland. I made it into the parking garage with no issues, unless you count not being able to find a parking space until the fourth tier an issue. After parking, I opened my door to allow the overhead light to come on so that I could see the mess that slamming on my breaks had caused. My lunch had spilled out of my bag onto the floor of my passenger side feet space. To aggravate me further, the keys in my ignition were making my car ding. DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING. I pulled the keys out slightly to stop this.
Pay attention now, because if you do you’ll catch what I did not. Ah, the advantages of spelling things like this out – you see the mistake before it even happens.
Another two minutes, and everything was back in its place. Closing the doors, I made my way to the elevator, rode it to G1, and started walking down to the nearest bus stop. As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, I saw a bus about to stop at the end of the block. Technically, I’m not yet cleared to run, but I’ve been able to jog lightly…you’ll never learn to fly unless you jump out of the nest, right? So I took off in a sprint towards the bus. Bad idea. My knee twinged, and I staggered into a light jog, and finally into a limping walk as the bus blew by me.
I know you’re thinking it, so let’s just all say it once together: FAIL.
Five minutes later, I was on a bus heading towards my office. I got off at the stop nearest to my building and walked down the hill awkwardly. I knew Caribou was at the end of the block, and I just had to stop. I felt as though I’d earned it this morning. I walked in, set my bag down on a table, and began rooting through the front zipper section for my wallet when it hit me: my keys. Where were my keys? In the ignition of your car a mile away, you blithering idiot. Crestfallen, I stepped to the counter – knowing full well what I was going to have to do after purchasing my size small, four dollar specialty drink – and placed my order.
Fact: perhaps the only thing that had merited a smile the whole morning was that coffee. It’s September 8th and any Caribou addict worth her salt knows that this means the fall line of drinks come out. Therefore, instead of my usual small, skim white chocolate mocha, this morning’s order was a small, skim pumpkin white chocolate mocha. And yes, it was incredible, thank-you-very-much.
I picked my beverage up at the end of the counter, sleeved it, exited the comforting confines of my favorite coffee shop, and walked across the street to the bus stop in order to catch yet another bus that would take me back up to my garage. Those keys and I had some reuniting to do.
For those who do not know me especially well, I think it might be a good time to note that I am not a particularly paranoid person; actually, I consider myself so laid back that I may very well be in the horizontal position at times with my easygoingness. But leaving my keys in a Jeep – even if it IS in an underground garage – is just a little too much for me to let go. Had I headed to my office, I would even now be playing scenes in my head pertaining to some hooligan roaming the lot looking for a car with the keys still in the ignition then hopping in and driving away with my precious volleyball in the backseat. So yes, my Jeep may have been perfectly safe the entire day, but I did go back for the keys. Don’t judge me.
Ironically enough, across the street from the Caribou coffee shop is a Starbucks coffee shop. Don’t ask, it’s Pittsburgh. After maybe two or three minutes of waiting, a colossally pregnant woman waltzes out of the Starbucks, drink in one hand, iPod in the other, singing along with it to beat the band. She’s wearing a shirt that barely covers her bulging, infant-toting stomach along with a pair of jeans even I couldn’t fit in. To make matters worse, these jeans were giving her a serious case of the scratches, because she was quite literally clawing at her crotch to get the itch. To top it all off, she reeked of rotten eggs. I made it another three or four minutes before I decided it just wasn’t worth dying of stench inhalation and started walking to the next block’s bus stop. Suddenly, I was going toe to toe with the street cleaner again. He was hogging up the right lane and spraying the road and sidewalks with blasts of water. An extremely petite oriental girl was walking toward me, looking nowhere but down at her feet, presumably trying to avoid getting her shoes wet. Being sandwiched in on all sides, I tried to push my way past others to avoid a head-on collision with this completely oblivious girl. Instead, we clipped each other, and she managed to spill some of her drink on me. The lightbulb magically appeared above her head as she realized she’d plowed right into me; instead of an apology though, I got a shaky “No worry, it’s white tea,” and she shuffled hastily away. With my back wet with sweat and my torso wet with white tea, I stood waiting for the bus.
Incidentally, thirty seconds after the tea run-in, the last block’s bus came.
Ten minutes later, and I was on one of the campus’s buses getting shuttled over to the Cathedral of Learning. I made it off the bus first and elbowed my way through the impatient crowd of students who were trying to get on while others were still trying to get off. Up the hill I hiked, then down into the parking garage. I circled two levels before I realized I’d parked in section G3. Classic. I jogged to where I figured my car must be, praying that it would still be there or that, at least, that I could get a good look at the car thief as he pealed out of my stellar back-in job. Thankfully, Casper (the friendly Jeep) was still there, as were the keys. I paused for a moment, sighed, then ripped the keys from the ignition and stalked back to the elevator.
Walk down the hill, catch a bus, get off, walk to the office. Rinse and repeat.
I made it to my building without injury and took the elevator to my floor. When I came in and sat down, I decided to open my bag and take out my lunch. Keep in mind, I’ve been roaming all over Creation and the bag has been on my back the whole time, along for the ride. I loosen the drawstrings of my pack and am immediately punched in the nose by the most eye-watering odor of onions. My perogie pizza. In addition, my cheese stick is smashed into a mashed cheese strip and my grapes look like some Italian grandma has been squashing them in a wooden basin with her bare feet. But hey, even though my bag smells like onions and sweat, I can at least say that I smell of a quite fragrant blend of white tea and, by God, I’m really going to enjoy my yogurt tube.
Happy Hump Day, readers.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Personality
There is a really cool site I just found from another blog - it's called the Typealyzer, and it analyzes blogs to determine the "personality" of them. Mine took about a second to yield a result, and this is what it said:
For those who know me, this is spot on. Pretty cool! : )
For those who know me, this is spot on. Pretty cool! : )
Friday, July 16, 2010
Nostalgia Fail
I recently had ACL surgery on my right knee, so for the last several weeks I’ve been regularly going to physical therapy a few miles from my house. Since I couldn’t drive myself, my mom or boyfriend Steve had been taking me. Just caddy-corner from the PT office is a Ponderosa.
For those of you unfamiliar with this franchise, it’s a steakhouse/all-you-can-eat buffet. I have the fondest childhood memories of this restaurant: when I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me there for any occasion he could think up. Birthday? Let’s go to Ponderosa! A long day of fishing? Ponderosa! I loved it there. It was a very family-friendly place – no alcoholic beverages, lots of different kinds of food that all kids enjoyed (like tacos, chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese…you get the idea);
they even had a “Kids Korner” where children could sit and play after eating, complete with a chalkboard, coloring books, and Etch-a-Sketches. Heck, you even got a free Mr. Swirly cup if you were 12 or younger PLUS pick from the Swirly hat to win fun stuff like stick-on tattoos or crazy straws. Let me reiterate: I LOVED that place. And yes, the food was probably cheap, the potatoes were probably instant, but even as a 12 year-old I still thought it tasted pretty darn good. The best part? The ice cream machines. Picture what you see behind a Dairy Queen counter, only it’s right before your child’s eager, pudgy little fingers. They had chocolate, vanilla, or twist, and you could top it with a variety of toppings like syrup, sprinkles, or nuts. Ponderosa was the bomb.
So a couple weeks ago, my mom and I are pulling out of my physical therapy’s parking lot discussing what we’re going to fix for dinner. And – as we so often do – we both suggest at the same time, “We should totally go to Ponderosa.” Then a warning I heard not too long ago broke through to the front of my mind, and I answered us with, “…actually, I heard they kinda suck now.” So there we sat at the stop sign that separated us from the legendary restaurant of our past. Finally, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go – I mean, how bad could it really be?
We pull into the parking lot – Rule #1, kids: if the parking lot looks like they poured some cement over a mountain top then painted some lines on it, then they obviously care little about what you think of their restaurant externally; and if they don’t give a crap about what you think before you go in for a meal, they really don’t care about what you think once you're inside about to eat their food – finding a legit place to park was almost as hard as the ridiculous leg lifts I had to do in PT.
As we’re entering through the first set of double doors, there’s an old man in suspenders sitting on a bench just outside the building who eerily resembles Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, and he’s glaring at us. We walk through the second door and up to the counter. The girl at the register rings us up for two buffet meals, a water, and a tea. It’s just over $20. I look at my mom and mouth “What the???” Buffets used to be like, five bucks for crying out loud. At this point we’re feeling pretty bummed, but at least we get as much food as we want – we can make it worth nearly ten dollars a pop, right? Wrong. We round the corner and walk into the large seating area which also includes the buffet. My stomach drops as a waitress walking by wafts a wretched smell towards my nose – whether it was her lack of hygiene or the grease-logged food, I can’t be sure. We sit down and are brought our drinks. As I pray for the meal, I close it with, “…and Lord, please don’t let this be as much of a letdown as it has been thus far.” We walk to the buffet, grab a plate, and begin inspecting. Peeking into the covered soup caldron to check out the chicken soup, I pulled the spoon out and let it run over…it was like pouring yellow mud – consider it dodged. Instead, I started with a simple tossed salad with ranch dressing – the salad was limp and borderline SOGGY and the ranch tasted sour. So after two bites of that, I decided it would be best to move on. So I grabbed a new plate and walked back up. Now remember what I said about all that great food Ponderosa had when I was a wee one? None of it was there. And I’m not saying they were out: I’m saying they had all of about 10 dishes on their “buffet.” So I ended up standing at the buffet for a good three minutes waiting for these two cowboy hat-donning old farts to pick out a slice of this Mexican-looking casserole, followed by a scoop of corn. One bite of the casserole disaster and I was done with that dish. The corn, while still hard, was at least edible. Although I so desperately wanted to, I decided I wouldn’t give up just yet – I had noticed that they had soft taco shells up there. So I limped back up to the smorgasbord of epic failure and grabbed myself a soft taco. I cautiously added something that looked a little like ground beef to it and some cheese, but that was it – there was no lettuce or salsa or sour cream to be found. I dragged myself back to the table and tried it. I choked back a gag. I was so beside myself. Ponderosa was a complete and absolute letdown. My mom looked like someone had just shot Max. I suggested we call it quits on the buffet and just get some dessert. So we walked up to the dessert bar and poked around a bit, hoping to have at least one success story we could bring home. My mom took a bite of one of the cookies up there and immediately began looking for somewhere to spit it out. I continued my search until I found the familiar ice cream machine around a corner. I felt the smile creep across my face. Surely they couldn’t mess up ice cream. I got a bowl, pulled down the chocolate lever, and made it swirl at the top as it circled the bowl the third time. I hobbled back to the table, grinning. And just as quickly as that smile had come, it disappeared. Fact: ice cream CAN get freezer burn. We sat silently in utter disbelief for several minutes, Mom sipping her water and I my watered down, incorrectly-refilled as lemonade “tea.” I watched with horror as a family with young children hollered at their rude little boys and how no one in the restaurant seemed to think this was out of the ordinary for the place. The two old John Wayne wannabees were as covered in sloppy food as the floor was. As a pregnant woman walked to the buffet, I leaned across the table to my mother and asked her if I should warn the lady that eating this crap may harm the development of her unborn child.
We finished our drinks and were heading for the door – the door that no one held for us, the door that no one stood at just to tell us “thank you for coming” – and I noticed a “Comments and Suggestions Welcome” box. My eyes lit up. I quickly yanked a scrap of paper from my purse and dug for a pen. Quickly I scrolled my “comments” and “suggestion” – “If you have even a shred of integrity left, you’ll step up this menu and the condition of your restaurant. The food was awful. YOUR STEAKS CAN’T REDEEM YOU.” With glee, I popped that thing into the box, making a point to make eye contact with the young female employee leaning against the wall nearby who looked bored out of her mind. That was the best part of the whole experience. We walked out together, a tad queasy, vowing never to tell the rest of the family of this encounter but to warn anyone who we can ever catch darkening the doorstep of this hell hole.
The good news? If you have a worst enemy, suggest they eat there. Or, better – go get some of their food to go: I’m betting it would work well for pest control since it nearly turned an adult’s stomach inside-out.
For those of you unfamiliar with this franchise, it’s a steakhouse/all-you-can-eat buffet. I have the fondest childhood memories of this restaurant: when I was a little girl, my grandfather would take me there for any occasion he could think up. Birthday? Let’s go to Ponderosa! A long day of fishing? Ponderosa! I loved it there. It was a very family-friendly place – no alcoholic beverages, lots of different kinds of food that all kids enjoyed (like tacos, chicken tenders, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese…you get the idea);
they even had a “Kids Korner” where children could sit and play after eating, complete with a chalkboard, coloring books, and Etch-a-Sketches. Heck, you even got a free Mr. Swirly cup if you were 12 or younger PLUS pick from the Swirly hat to win fun stuff like stick-on tattoos or crazy straws. Let me reiterate: I LOVED that place. And yes, the food was probably cheap, the potatoes were probably instant, but even as a 12 year-old I still thought it tasted pretty darn good. The best part? The ice cream machines. Picture what you see behind a Dairy Queen counter, only it’s right before your child’s eager, pudgy little fingers. They had chocolate, vanilla, or twist, and you could top it with a variety of toppings like syrup, sprinkles, or nuts. Ponderosa was the bomb.So a couple weeks ago, my mom and I are pulling out of my physical therapy’s parking lot discussing what we’re going to fix for dinner. And – as we so often do – we both suggest at the same time, “We should totally go to Ponderosa.” Then a warning I heard not too long ago broke through to the front of my mind, and I answered us with, “…actually, I heard they kinda suck now.” So there we sat at the stop sign that separated us from the legendary restaurant of our past. Finally, we decided to throw caution to the wind and go – I mean, how bad could it really be?
We pull into the parking lot – Rule #1, kids: if the parking lot looks like they poured some cement over a mountain top then painted some lines on it, then they obviously care little about what you think of their restaurant externally; and if they don’t give a crap about what you think before you go in for a meal, they really don’t care about what you think once you're inside about to eat their food – finding a legit place to park was almost as hard as the ridiculous leg lifts I had to do in PT.
As we’re entering through the first set of double doors, there’s an old man in suspenders sitting on a bench just outside the building who eerily resembles Uncle Joe from Petticoat Junction, and he’s glaring at us. We walk through the second door and up to the counter. The girl at the register rings us up for two buffet meals, a water, and a tea. It’s just over $20. I look at my mom and mouth “What the???” Buffets used to be like, five bucks for crying out loud. At this point we’re feeling pretty bummed, but at least we get as much food as we want – we can make it worth nearly ten dollars a pop, right? Wrong. We round the corner and walk into the large seating area which also includes the buffet. My stomach drops as a waitress walking by wafts a wretched smell towards my nose – whether it was her lack of hygiene or the grease-logged food, I can’t be sure. We sit down and are brought our drinks. As I pray for the meal, I close it with, “…and Lord, please don’t let this be as much of a letdown as it has been thus far.” We walk to the buffet, grab a plate, and begin inspecting. Peeking into the covered soup caldron to check out the chicken soup, I pulled the spoon out and let it run over…it was like pouring yellow mud – consider it dodged. Instead, I started with a simple tossed salad with ranch dressing – the salad was limp and borderline SOGGY and the ranch tasted sour. So after two bites of that, I decided it would be best to move on. So I grabbed a new plate and walked back up. Now remember what I said about all that great food Ponderosa had when I was a wee one? None of it was there. And I’m not saying they were out: I’m saying they had all of about 10 dishes on their “buffet.” So I ended up standing at the buffet for a good three minutes waiting for these two cowboy hat-donning old farts to pick out a slice of this Mexican-looking casserole, followed by a scoop of corn. One bite of the casserole disaster and I was done with that dish. The corn, while still hard, was at least edible. Although I so desperately wanted to, I decided I wouldn’t give up just yet – I had noticed that they had soft taco shells up there. So I limped back up to the smorgasbord of epic failure and grabbed myself a soft taco. I cautiously added something that looked a little like ground beef to it and some cheese, but that was it – there was no lettuce or salsa or sour cream to be found. I dragged myself back to the table and tried it. I choked back a gag. I was so beside myself. Ponderosa was a complete and absolute letdown. My mom looked like someone had just shot Max. I suggested we call it quits on the buffet and just get some dessert. So we walked up to the dessert bar and poked around a bit, hoping to have at least one success story we could bring home. My mom took a bite of one of the cookies up there and immediately began looking for somewhere to spit it out. I continued my search until I found the familiar ice cream machine around a corner. I felt the smile creep across my face. Surely they couldn’t mess up ice cream. I got a bowl, pulled down the chocolate lever, and made it swirl at the top as it circled the bowl the third time. I hobbled back to the table, grinning. And just as quickly as that smile had come, it disappeared. Fact: ice cream CAN get freezer burn. We sat silently in utter disbelief for several minutes, Mom sipping her water and I my watered down, incorrectly-refilled as lemonade “tea.” I watched with horror as a family with young children hollered at their rude little boys and how no one in the restaurant seemed to think this was out of the ordinary for the place. The two old John Wayne wannabees were as covered in sloppy food as the floor was. As a pregnant woman walked to the buffet, I leaned across the table to my mother and asked her if I should warn the lady that eating this crap may harm the development of her unborn child.
We finished our drinks and were heading for the door – the door that no one held for us, the door that no one stood at just to tell us “thank you for coming” – and I noticed a “Comments and Suggestions Welcome” box. My eyes lit up. I quickly yanked a scrap of paper from my purse and dug for a pen. Quickly I scrolled my “comments” and “suggestion” – “If you have even a shred of integrity left, you’ll step up this menu and the condition of your restaurant. The food was awful. YOUR STEAKS CAN’T REDEEM YOU.” With glee, I popped that thing into the box, making a point to make eye contact with the young female employee leaning against the wall nearby who looked bored out of her mind. That was the best part of the whole experience. We walked out together, a tad queasy, vowing never to tell the rest of the family of this encounter but to warn anyone who we can ever catch darkening the doorstep of this hell hole.
The good news? If you have a worst enemy, suggest they eat there. Or, better – go get some of their food to go: I’m betting it would work well for pest control since it nearly turned an adult’s stomach inside-out.
Monday, November 23, 2009
DUH.
Just realized I had a post still listed as "edit" in my "Edit Posts" tab. Lo and behold, a pretty much complete update that I never posted.
Ah well. Here is a link to it in case you're interested. :-)
Ah well. Here is a link to it in case you're interested. :-)
Friday, November 20, 2009
Bold Only the Truth:
I am a cuddler.
I am a morning person.
I am a perfectionist.
I am a night person.
I am an only child.
I am Catholic.
I am currently in my pajamas.
I am currently suffering from a broken heart.
I am okay at styling other people’s hair.
I am left handed.
I am addicted to my myspace.
I am very shy around the opposite gender.
I bite my nails.
I can be paranoid at times.
I currently regret something that I have said.
When I get mad I curse frequently.
I like someone a lot.
I enjoy jazz music.
I enjoy smoothies.
I enjoy talking on the phone.
I have a pet.
I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.
I have a tendency to fall for the wrong person.
I have all my grandparents.
I have at least one sibling.
I have been told that I am smart.
I have broken a bone.
I have Caller I.D. on my phone.
I have bathed/showered with someone.
I have changed a diaper.
I have changed a lot over the past year.
I have done something illegal.
I have friends who have never seen my natural hair.
I have had surgery.
I have killed another person.
I have had my hair cut within the last week.
I have had the cops called on me.
I have kissed someone I knew I shouldn’t.
I am a morning person.
I am a perfectionist.
I am a night person.
I am an only child.
I am Catholic.
I am currently in my pajamas.
I am currently suffering from a broken heart.
I am okay at styling other people’s hair.
I am left handed.
I am addicted to my myspace.
I am very shy around the opposite gender.
I bite my nails.
I can be paranoid at times.
I currently regret something that I have said.
When I get mad I curse frequently.
I like someone a lot.
I enjoy jazz music.
I enjoy smoothies.
I enjoy talking on the phone.
I have a pet.
I have a secret that I am ashamed to reveal.
I have a tendency to fall for the wrong person.
I have all my grandparents.
I have at least one sibling.
I have been told that I am smart.
I have broken a bone.
I have Caller I.D. on my phone.
I have bathed/showered with someone.
I have changed a diaper.
I have changed a lot over the past year.
I have done something illegal.
I have friends who have never seen my natural hair.
I have had surgery.
I have killed another person.
I have had my hair cut within the last week.
I have had the cops called on me.
I have kissed someone I knew I shouldn’t.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Whoever Invented Tug-of-War Must Have Been the Fat Kid in School Who Always Got out First in Dodgeball
This Sunday through Wednesday will be our church’s 14th annual Missions Conference. This event is one of the biggest and best of Harvest; but, of course, it could never be made possible without the behind the scenes work done by the wonderful members of our church and its staff. We have families who, out of the goodness of their hearts, open their homes to allow the missionaries and their families to stay with them, eat home-cooked meals, and fellowship; ladies who spend all day in the kitchen cooking and baking for the conferences’ luncheon; a special music team that picks and practices the most amazing and inspiring music to minister; a group of decorators who every year come and hang the flags and trim the auditorium with the most tasteful and lovely accents; and staff and faculty who spend hours upon hours assembling programs, guides, bulletins, and schedules to ensure that all goes smoothly.
It is to be expected, I suppose, that with an undertaking of this magnitude, there will be chaos within the two days prior to the “kick off,” so to speak. So this year and last, I’ve taken the Friday before the Conference off so that I could come into the office with my mom. She is our pastor’s/ church’s secretary and is responsible for MUCH of the organization for these events. Sure, she doesn’t stand behind the pulpit or speak for the groups, but she composes, prints, and assembles the booklets/bulletins/announcements/etc. for those that do. Often she’ll stay until midnight the two nights before the event just to get everything finished. I come in to help with what I can – running places, folding things – whatever I can do to make her life easier.
This morning, I was able to sleep two hours longer than usual, which was a blessing. I got up, grabbed my towel and fresh clothing, and went to take a shower. I closed the door and locked it, then went on with my routine. When I finished, I unlocked the door and tried to exit. This is where the significance of my title comes into play. The lock, which got bent slightly when one of my family members, in a fit of anger, slammed the door while the bolt was sticking out. So when I “unlocked” the door this morning, the bolt didn’t come out of the wall the entire way. Our bathroom door opens inward too, so I couldn’t even through my body against it. So I tugged a couple more times with just my hand, then had to plant my feet and (with two hands) hold the knob and pull as hard as I could. This is how it must feel to play tug-of-war. In my opinion, there can’t be much skill involved: it seems to me that the team with the most weight behind them wins. The Biggest Losers would be the guaranteed winners. It took me four hard pulls before I was able to free myself from the bathroom. Hopefully this is no indication of how the rest of my day will go…
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sunday, Packed-out Sunday
Sunday, September 20th was our new church building's official first service and doubled as our church's annual Friend Day. I don't have time to post all of the background info needed to understand what an amazing day this was for Harvest, but suffice it to say that last March we took a special offering - just an offering - where people gave whatever the Lord led them to give: that night, we had brought in over $1.1 million dollars, plus an additional ~$2 million in "promise money," money pledged to be given in the future by church members. This was completely voluntary and this was the outcome. It's simply unheard of - unless God's on your side.
It's a year and a half later, and now we're occupying not only the school and office portion of the building, but we are able to transform the gym into an 800+ seated auditorium on Sundays and Wednesday nights.
It turns out we drew some attention our opening day: someone from the Valley News Dispatch wrote an article on the first service. The article can be read on their webpage by clicking here, but who knows whether it will be eventually deleted....so I'll post it on here as well.
It's a year and a half later, and now we're occupying not only the school and office portion of the building, but we are able to transform the gym into an 800+ seated auditorium on Sundays and Wednesday nights.
It turns out we drew some attention our opening day: someone from the Valley News Dispatch wrote an article on the first service. The article can be read on their webpage by clicking here, but who knows whether it will be eventually deleted....so I'll post it on here as well.
Worshippers pack Harvest Baptist Church for first service in
Fawn
By Michael Aubele, VALLEY NEWS DISPATCH
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday's service at Harvest Baptist Church broke a common rule about moving a congregation.Conventional wisdom holds that a congregation should not be moved across a natural barrier such as a river or "people will never show up," Senior Pastor Kurt Skelly told more than 1,200 worshippers who attended the first service at the church's new $5.5 million facility off Route 908.
During his 14 years with Harvest Baptist, he and other church leaders
have been forced by growth to move the congregation several times. This latest
move, however, is the first to break what Skelly described as a hard-and-fast
Bible college rule.
"Thank you for the unexpected," Skelly told the congregation.
Many members got their first look yesterday at the 40,000-square-foot
church, which sits on 28 acres.
Harvest Baptist formally started as a church ministry in 1983 with a
handful of people attending in a storefront along Constitution Boulevard in New
Kensington. When attendance grew, the church moved to Arnold. After several
years, it moved back to New Kensington.
The last place Harvest Baptist called home was along Kenneth Avenue in
New Kensington. Skelly said the congregation moved into the building in 2001 and
"outgrew that facility almost immediately."
Leaders decided to build a church in Allegheny County, across the
Allegheny River. In 2006, the church broke ground on land off the Route 28
expressway. Part of the property sits in Harrison, church officials said.
Members of the congregation said they were in awe of the expansive
building, which also is home to a church-run school with more than 120 pupils in
kindergarten through 12th grade.
Worship services are in what Skelly described as a "transitional room"
that doubles as a gymnasium. A standing-room-only crowd packed the facility
yesterday.
Church officials said Harvest Baptist typically draws 550 to 600
worshippers for a Sunday service.
"This is one of the greatest days of my life," said Bill Holland of
Saxonburg, who has attended the church for more than 14 years. "It's just
amazing to see what God has done with our pastor and the people in the
church."
Holland and other church members said they enjoy Harvest Baptist
because "it preaches the Gospel."
"The new building is exciting," said Gary Waddell of Freeport, a member
for nine years. "But I don't expect much to change. We come to hear the word of
God. We could meet under a tent, and I'd still be excited about the ministry
here."
Bruce and Sharon Ehrler of Cranberry planned to join the church
officially after yesterday's service. The Ehrlers said they had been attending
for about five months.
"We were awestruck the first time we came here," Bruce Ehrler said. "We
really felt God's spirit at work."
"It's a church that totally obeys the Lord," Sharon Ehrler said. "They
have a passion for sharing Christ here. Their faith is so evident."
Most worshippers appeared to be younger adults with new families.
Skelly said he believes that young families are turning to the church
because "they want answers" about things such as how to raise children or make a
marriage work.
Monday, August 24, 2009
More Than a Feeling
Okay, enough with the Boston jokes, because this is kind of serious to me...
There's a time when a thought becomes more than just a thought. A thought is defined as "a single act or product of thinking; idea or notion." Sure, you can use your imagination when thinking and have images play out in motion, but you don't feel thinking. Your body doesn't get warm, or get cold, and your eyes don't get goo in them. And as far as I know, real life events don't speed through your mind's eyes as if they're really happening, and then several hours later, truly happen.
Same with dreaming, right? Dreams may seem real to you when you're dreaming them; sometimes you even have lucid dreams (dreaming but knowing you are during the process). But I don't think it's normal to feel pain or texture when dreaming, or to dream things and have them happen later that day or month.
Or is it?
Yesterday morning, I woke up and hopped in the shower to get ready for church. I brought my Venus razor in with me to shave my legs. Afterwards, I decided it was high-time to change the razor head. I pushed the cute little eject button and the head popped off and into our open-ended waste bin. I clarify this because we have two waste bins in the bathroom: one for general things, like empty shampoo bottles or tooth paste tubes, nail clippings, etc. Then there is a second bin for things like Q-tips, tissues, personal items that need to be tossed - basically anything that our beloved dog Max could (and would love to) chew. That bin has a lid on it so that he can't stick his little hose nose in and pull anything out. We realized all too fast that he enjoys chewing things like that and would stick his head into the trash at night and pull things out, leaving a trail of trash for us to pick up in the morning. So, back to the razor: when I popped it off into the open trash bin, I seriously had what I'm guessing to be some kind of day-mare: Max sticking sniffing around for food, smelling something tasty, grabbing it with his mouth, but catching the razor up with it...chewing it, cutting himself, bleeding everywhere on our black and white tiled floor...
I blinked and it was over, but I was sweating. I grabbed the razor out of the bin and threw it in the other one.
Fast-forward to 6:30 that night. I had gone upstairs to get a flosser out of the upstairs bathroom's medicine cabinet - my dad had treated me to dinner for helping him on a job a couple weeks ago, and I'd had chicken (which ALWAYS gets stuck in my back teeth). When I got the the doorway, I saw a combination of paper and (what the heck?) a Subway paper wrap (you know - how they wrap the sub in that waxy paper with their logo on it?). Max had been sniffing around in the waste bin again. It was actually half-way tipped over, leaning precariously against the side of the sink, and the wrapper was torn to shreds. The sandwich must have been my brother's since there were remnants of sauce stained into our bathmat that the dog must have trampled into the threads. And then it hit me - that day-mare - Max eating out of the trash. He totally would have grabbed the razor.
Fast-forward to last night/this morning.
A woman gets into her car after loading the trunk with groceries. She pulls away slowly, she and her three children - a boy and two girls. Within seconds, there's a man - lanky, African-American, short braids sticking up like thick strands of hair - grabbing at the passenger door, trying to open it. She screams, setting off an echoing wave of terror in the back seat of her small compact vehicle. The man succeeds in opening the door, but the woman picks up speed, swerving through the parking lot in an attempt to throw him from her car door. He does, and she slams on the brakes, lurching to a stop. "HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP!" she screams, and two men - one tall African-American and one shorter Caucasian man - come jogging over to see what is the matter. The assaulter is limp on the ground. The shaken woman leans toward her still-opened passenger door to see if her attacker is injured or dead while the men get out their cell phones to call 911. She pulls her door shut, hits the "all lock" button on her door, and starts to cry. While trying to calm down her kids, the man is suddenly back at her door and trying to open it. She throws the car into drive to make her second effort to escape the man as he begins to run around the front of the car, probably trying to get to her door or window. She rams him, he falls to the ground, and the police cars arrive. She buries her face in her hands, rests her head against the wheel, and sobs uncontrollably while her kids do the same in the back seat.
Then I wake up, sweating, breathing fast, sitting bolt upright. I don't know what made me dream that...but I did. And it's not like every dream I have comes true, but I've been keeping a journal of the weird ones like this; and it turns out that a heck of a lot of them do. So now, something's making me want to watch the news late tonight...
There's a time when a thought becomes more than just a thought. A thought is defined as "a single act or product of thinking; idea or notion." Sure, you can use your imagination when thinking and have images play out in motion, but you don't feel thinking. Your body doesn't get warm, or get cold, and your eyes don't get goo in them. And as far as I know, real life events don't speed through your mind's eyes as if they're really happening, and then several hours later, truly happen.
Same with dreaming, right? Dreams may seem real to you when you're dreaming them; sometimes you even have lucid dreams (dreaming but knowing you are during the process). But I don't think it's normal to feel pain or texture when dreaming, or to dream things and have them happen later that day or month.
Or is it?
Yesterday morning, I woke up and hopped in the shower to get ready for church. I brought my Venus razor in with me to shave my legs. Afterwards, I decided it was high-time to change the razor head. I pushed the cute little eject button and the head popped off and into our open-ended waste bin. I clarify this because we have two waste bins in the bathroom: one for general things, like empty shampoo bottles or tooth paste tubes, nail clippings, etc. Then there is a second bin for things like Q-tips, tissues, personal items that need to be tossed - basically anything that our beloved dog Max could (and would love to) chew. That bin has a lid on it so that he can't stick his little hose nose in and pull anything out. We realized all too fast that he enjoys chewing things like that and would stick his head into the trash at night and pull things out, leaving a trail of trash for us to pick up in the morning. So, back to the razor: when I popped it off into the open trash bin, I seriously had what I'm guessing to be some kind of day-mare: Max sticking sniffing around for food, smelling something tasty, grabbing it with his mouth, but catching the razor up with it...chewing it, cutting himself, bleeding everywhere on our black and white tiled floor...
I blinked and it was over, but I was sweating. I grabbed the razor out of the bin and threw it in the other one.
Fast-forward to 6:30 that night. I had gone upstairs to get a flosser out of the upstairs bathroom's medicine cabinet - my dad had treated me to dinner for helping him on a job a couple weeks ago, and I'd had chicken (which ALWAYS gets stuck in my back teeth). When I got the the doorway, I saw a combination of paper and (what the heck?) a Subway paper wrap (you know - how they wrap the sub in that waxy paper with their logo on it?). Max had been sniffing around in the waste bin again. It was actually half-way tipped over, leaning precariously against the side of the sink, and the wrapper was torn to shreds. The sandwich must have been my brother's since there were remnants of sauce stained into our bathmat that the dog must have trampled into the threads. And then it hit me - that day-mare - Max eating out of the trash. He totally would have grabbed the razor.
Fast-forward to last night/this morning.
A woman gets into her car after loading the trunk with groceries. She pulls away slowly, she and her three children - a boy and two girls. Within seconds, there's a man - lanky, African-American, short braids sticking up like thick strands of hair - grabbing at the passenger door, trying to open it. She screams, setting off an echoing wave of terror in the back seat of her small compact vehicle. The man succeeds in opening the door, but the woman picks up speed, swerving through the parking lot in an attempt to throw him from her car door. He does, and she slams on the brakes, lurching to a stop. "HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP!" she screams, and two men - one tall African-American and one shorter Caucasian man - come jogging over to see what is the matter. The assaulter is limp on the ground. The shaken woman leans toward her still-opened passenger door to see if her attacker is injured or dead while the men get out their cell phones to call 911. She pulls her door shut, hits the "all lock" button on her door, and starts to cry. While trying to calm down her kids, the man is suddenly back at her door and trying to open it. She throws the car into drive to make her second effort to escape the man as he begins to run around the front of the car, probably trying to get to her door or window. She rams him, he falls to the ground, and the police cars arrive. She buries her face in her hands, rests her head against the wheel, and sobs uncontrollably while her kids do the same in the back seat.
Then I wake up, sweating, breathing fast, sitting bolt upright. I don't know what made me dream that...but I did. And it's not like every dream I have comes true, but I've been keeping a journal of the weird ones like this; and it turns out that a heck of a lot of them do. So now, something's making me want to watch the news late tonight...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Deep Conversations
Before starting this post, let me just say that I've honestly had a drafted post in my "Edit" file for weeks now on the making over of our upstairs bathroom. However, I've held off posting it since I still don't have the pictures to upload (for the extra flavoring).
Now, on to the post.
This is (nearly word for word) a conversation had by my mother and I in front of our local Family Video tonight, arguing over who would take back the movie:
The time - 10:30 p.m.
We're on our way to pick up my brother and need to return a rental by midnight. We're sitting in front of the movie shack - I in the driver's seat, my mom in the passenger's seat, closest to the building. There are no other cars in the parking lot, save for one silver pick-up truck. My mom is in her "pj's," a pair of pastel capris coupled with a robin's egg blue t-shirt. I'm wearing a pair of Nike shorts and a Pitt Zoo t-shirt. These are important facts, so pay attention. Now, on to the dialogue.
me: "You've got the DVD?"
Mom: "Yeah. Here."
"Well no, you go - just stick it in the return slot."
"No?!"
"Yes?!"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Look at me! I'm in my pj's!"
"So? I go INTO the store in my pj's all the time."
(look of horror) "Well I'm not getting out the car looking like this."
"C'mon, I'm in the driver's seat."
"So?"
"So?...I don't want to put the car in park."
"Uuuuugh..."
(two seconds of silence)
(unison) "You gonna go? NO!"
me: "Why'd you wanna come?"
Mom: "To keep you company?"
"Wha?...okay, come on. Just go stick it in the slot. You don't even have to go inside."
"But there's a guy in there!"
"Since when do you care?? You're married!"
"I'm in my pj's!"
"Those're barely pj's. I'm in shorts and a t-shirt, and I'll probably wear those to bed, so I'm in my pj's too!"
"I'm not going!"
"C'mon, please? I'll give you a quarter?"
(cocks head) "Uh, no."
"No really, a quarter. (silence) Okay, two quarters, both my own, too."
"What?! No!"
"Okay, three quarters....a dollar."
(silence) "No! Just do it yourself, you dork."
(gasp) "Are you serious? You wouldn't take a dollar to walk, oh, thirty steps to drop a movie in a slot? Are you crazy? You can pick the type of money, change or paper..."
"No."
(long pause)
"...would you pay ME a dollar?" (grins)
I ended up doing it. *sigh*
Now, on to the post.
This is (nearly word for word) a conversation had by my mother and I in front of our local Family Video tonight, arguing over who would take back the movie:
The time - 10:30 p.m.
We're on our way to pick up my brother and need to return a rental by midnight. We're sitting in front of the movie shack - I in the driver's seat, my mom in the passenger's seat, closest to the building. There are no other cars in the parking lot, save for one silver pick-up truck. My mom is in her "pj's," a pair of pastel capris coupled with a robin's egg blue t-shirt. I'm wearing a pair of Nike shorts and a Pitt Zoo t-shirt. These are important facts, so pay attention. Now, on to the dialogue.
me: "You've got the DVD?"
Mom: "Yeah. Here."
"Well no, you go - just stick it in the return slot."
"No?!"
"Yes?!"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Look at me! I'm in my pj's!"
"So? I go INTO the store in my pj's all the time."
(look of horror) "Well I'm not getting out the car looking like this."
"C'mon, I'm in the driver's seat."
"So?"
"So?...I don't want to put the car in park."
"Uuuuugh..."
(two seconds of silence)
(unison) "You gonna go? NO!"
me: "Why'd you wanna come?"
Mom: "To keep you company?"
"Wha?...okay, come on. Just go stick it in the slot. You don't even have to go inside."
"But there's a guy in there!"
"Since when do you care?? You're married!"
"I'm in my pj's!"
"Those're barely pj's. I'm in shorts and a t-shirt, and I'll probably wear those to bed, so I'm in my pj's too!"
"I'm not going!"
"C'mon, please? I'll give you a quarter?"
(cocks head) "Uh, no."
"No really, a quarter. (silence) Okay, two quarters, both my own, too."
"What?! No!"
"Okay, three quarters....a dollar."
(silence) "No! Just do it yourself, you dork."
(gasp) "Are you serious? You wouldn't take a dollar to walk, oh, thirty steps to drop a movie in a slot? Are you crazy? You can pick the type of money, change or paper..."
"No."
(long pause)
"...would you pay ME a dollar?" (grins)
I ended up doing it. *sigh*
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
These Sleepless Nights
Last night and early this morning, I couldn't sleep. What little sleep I did get involved dreams such as hunting down a Grigori and saving a small child from a marsh-dwelling crocodile. Red flags should have been shooting into the sky when I (a.) couldn't sleep and (b.) kept dreaming about topics involving water since around 3:30 a.m. the whole family was sounded for by my dad into the upstairs hallway. I jumped off the bed and ran to the door. As soon as I opened it, it sounded like someone was taking a shower with the bathroom door open...no, like someone was taking a shower in the hallway. When I ran to the bathroom, I saw the problem: the cold water hose under the sink had burst and water was literally shooting straight out, hitting the back wall and toilet tank. My dad tried to tighten the valve to shut off the water running through the hose, but the knob had rusted itself open. So we all took shifts I stood there in the waterlogged bathroom keeping watch over a bucket I had rigged beneath the sink, careful to empty it when it got too full, while Dad worked his way through each room in the basement searching for the big-mama shut-off for the cold water. About 30 minutes later, the water slowed to a stop. He'd found the lever that shut off not just the cold water, but all the water. I emptied the bucket and made quick use of the mop that was propped in the hallway. After mopping up the bathroom, and went downstairs to investigate.
Now, that part about us all rushing to Dad's aid when he hollered for us? Yeah, let me back up and clarify that a bit: when I got downstairs, I looked over the railing into the livingroom to find my brother, Rob, snoozing away. He'd been sawing logs through this entire ordeal. I saw a bucket in the middle of the floor and (knowing the answer already) yelled, "ROB! IS THIS BUCKET BEING USED?!" His whole body shot up straight and his eyes flew open. He looked around, looking slightly frightened. His eyes lazily met mine and he answered with a: "Uuggghhh, uh." And with that, he keeled right back over onto the couch. Incredible.
So while Rob slept away, I continued to assess the damage. Here, the water had flooded the upstairs bathroom, forcing it to flow through the upstairs hallway, down the stairs, and into the entryway, causing the now river of water to fork off towards both the livingroom and the kitchen, and from the kitchen down the hidden stairs and into the basement. It was a royal mess. Mom swept the water near the front door out onto the porch while all the mayhem of Dad in the basement and me upstairs with the bucket was going on. Finally, around 4:30, we all fell back into bed.
And yet I still couldn't sleep.
Now, that part about us all rushing to Dad's aid when he hollered for us? Yeah, let me back up and clarify that a bit: when I got downstairs, I looked over the railing into the livingroom to find my brother, Rob, snoozing away. He'd been sawing logs through this entire ordeal. I saw a bucket in the middle of the floor and (knowing the answer already) yelled, "ROB! IS THIS BUCKET BEING USED?!" His whole body shot up straight and his eyes flew open. He looked around, looking slightly frightened. His eyes lazily met mine and he answered with a: "Uuggghhh, uh." And with that, he keeled right back over onto the couch. Incredible.
So while Rob slept away, I continued to assess the damage. Here, the water had flooded the upstairs bathroom, forcing it to flow through the upstairs hallway, down the stairs, and into the entryway, causing the now river of water to fork off towards both the livingroom and the kitchen, and from the kitchen down the hidden stairs and into the basement. It was a royal mess. Mom swept the water near the front door out onto the porch while all the mayhem of Dad in the basement and me upstairs with the bucket was going on. Finally, around 4:30, we all fell back into bed.
And yet I still couldn't sleep.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Useful Forwards (Yes, There Is Such a Thing)
I hate getting forwards. In fact, I generally move them to my trash folder without ever opening them if I see the "FWD:" in the subject line. But this morning I was sent this one* about WD-40 and was intrigued since the drummer from my dad's band just recently told me that the product would remove tar stains from our car. So if you have a problem, read on. WD-40 can probably fix it.
(*This is not the exact forward. Some grammar and spelling has been modified and corrected, and some extraneous content has been omitted.)
WD-40, or "Water Displacement #40." This product came about in an attempt to create a rust preventative solvent and degreaser to protect missile parts. It was created in 1953 by three technicians at the San Diego Rocket Chemical Company. Its name comes from the project that had been started to find a "water displacement" compound.. They were successful with the fortieth formulation, thus WD-40. The Convair Company bought it in bulk to protect their atlas missile parts.
NOTE: Ken East (one of the original founders) says that there is nothing in WD-40 that would harm you (so fret not as you read any uses that involve topical use).
Here are some common (and uncommon) uses:
1. Protects silver from tarnishing.
2. Removes road tar and grime from cars.
3. Cleans and lubricates guitar strings.
4. Gives floors that "just-waxed" sheen without making them slippery.
5. Keeps flies off cows.
6. Restores and cleans chalkboards.
7. Removes lipstick stains.
8. Loosens stubborn zippers.
9. Untangles jewelry chains.
10. Removes stains from stainless steel sinks.
11. Removes dirt and grime from barbecue grills.
12. Keeps ceramic/terra cotta garden pots from oxidizing.
13. Removes tomato stains from clothing.
14. Keeps glass and plastic shower doors free of water spots.
15. Camouflages scratches in ceramic and marble floors.
16. Keeps scissors working smoothly.
17. Lubricates noisy door hinges on vehicles (and doors in homes).
18. Removes black scuff marks from floors.
19. Displaces the moisture on your car's distributor cap and allows the car to start.
20. Gives a children's playground gym slide a shine for a super fast slide.
21. Lubricates gear shifts and mower deck levers for ease of handling on riding mowers.
22. Rids rocking chairs and swings of squeaky noises.
23. Lubricates tracks in sticking windows and makes them easier to open.
24. Lubricates the stem of an umbrella, making it easier to open and close.
25. Restores and cleans padded leather dashboards in vehicles, as well as vinyl bumpers.
26. Restores and cleans roof racks on vehicles.
27. Lubricates and stops squeaks in electric fans.
28. Lubricates wheel sprockets on tricycles, wagons, and bicycles for easy handling.
29. Lubricates fan belts on washers and dryers to keep them running smoothly.
30. Keeps rust from forming on saws, saw blades, and other tools.
31. Removes splattered grease on stove tops.
32. Keeps bathroom mirrors from fogging.
33. Lubricates prosthetic limbs.
34. Keeps pigeons off the balcony (they hate the smell).
35. Removes all traces of duct tape.
36. Relieves arthritis pain when sprayed on arms, hands, and knees .
37. Removes crayon marks from walls. Spray on the mark and wipe with a clean rag.
38. Takes the sting away immediately and stops the itch for fire ant (and other bug) bites.
39. Attracts fish. Spray a little on live bait or lures. Also, it's a lot cheaper than the chemical attractants that are made for just that purpose. (Keep in mind though, using some chemical laced baits or lures for fishing are not allowed in some locations.)
FUN FACT: New York's favorite use? WD-40 protects the Statue of Liberty from the elements.
So yeah, I think I'm going to go out and buy a can to keep in my purse.
P.S. The basic ingredient of WD-40 is FISH OIL.
(*This is not the exact forward. Some grammar and spelling has been modified and corrected, and some extraneous content has been omitted.)
WD-40, or "Water Displacement #40." This product came about in an attempt to create a rust preventative solvent and degreaser to protect missile parts. It was created in 1953 by three technicians at the San Diego Rocket Chemical Company. Its name comes from the project that had been started to find a "water displacement" compound.. They were successful with the fortieth formulation, thus WD-40. The Convair Company bought it in bulk to protect their atlas missile parts.
NOTE: Ken East (one of the original founders) says that there is nothing in WD-40 that would harm you (so fret not as you read any uses that involve topical use).
Here are some common (and uncommon) uses:
1. Protects silver from tarnishing.
2. Removes road tar and grime from cars.
3. Cleans and lubricates guitar strings.
4. Gives floors that "just-waxed" sheen without making them slippery.
5. Keeps flies off cows.
6. Restores and cleans chalkboards.
7. Removes lipstick stains.
8. Loosens stubborn zippers.
9. Untangles jewelry chains.
10. Removes stains from stainless steel sinks.
11. Removes dirt and grime from barbecue grills.
12. Keeps ceramic/terra cotta garden pots from oxidizing.
13. Removes tomato stains from clothing.
14. Keeps glass and plastic shower doors free of water spots.
15. Camouflages scratches in ceramic and marble floors.
16. Keeps scissors working smoothly.
17. Lubricates noisy door hinges on vehicles (and doors in homes).
18. Removes black scuff marks from floors.
19. Displaces the moisture on your car's distributor cap and allows the car to start.
20. Gives a children's playground gym slide a shine for a super fast slide.
21. Lubricates gear shifts and mower deck levers for ease of handling on riding mowers.
22. Rids rocking chairs and swings of squeaky noises.
23. Lubricates tracks in sticking windows and makes them easier to open.
24. Lubricates the stem of an umbrella, making it easier to open and close.
25. Restores and cleans padded leather dashboards in vehicles, as well as vinyl bumpers.
26. Restores and cleans roof racks on vehicles.
27. Lubricates and stops squeaks in electric fans.
28. Lubricates wheel sprockets on tricycles, wagons, and bicycles for easy handling.
29. Lubricates fan belts on washers and dryers to keep them running smoothly.
30. Keeps rust from forming on saws, saw blades, and other tools.
31. Removes splattered grease on stove tops.
32. Keeps bathroom mirrors from fogging.
33. Lubricates prosthetic limbs.
34. Keeps pigeons off the balcony (they hate the smell).
35. Removes all traces of duct tape.
36. Relieves arthritis pain when sprayed on arms, hands, and knees .
37. Removes crayon marks from walls. Spray on the mark and wipe with a clean rag.
38. Takes the sting away immediately and stops the itch for fire ant (and other bug) bites.
39. Attracts fish. Spray a little on live bait or lures. Also, it's a lot cheaper than the chemical attractants that are made for just that purpose. (Keep in mind though, using some chemical laced baits or lures for fishing are not allowed in some locations.)
FUN FACT: New York's favorite use? WD-40 protects the Statue of Liberty from the elements.
So yeah, I think I'm going to go out and buy a can to keep in my purse.
P.S. The basic ingredient of WD-40 is FISH OIL.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Surf Girl Meets Turf Gril
Friday night was special for me, not only because my siblings were out of the house for the night (teen group version of "Survivor Man" = memories of what it was like to be an only child), but also because I had my first ever steak.
My mom found out about this while making a list of meals for the next week before sending me grocery shopping. "You mean you've never had a steak before? In your entire life?"
"Nope. Well, wait. There was that one time when [my Family Life Skills teacher] brought back a small piece of filet mignon from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse and let me try a bite....does that count?"
"Uh, no."
"Oh..."
"And you've never even ordered it when you've gone out to eat?"
"Well, no. I almost always order something spicy and/or seafood...I don't get that often, so I always like to get something with shrimp. I never thought to get steak."
"That's it. We're going to get you some steak Friday."
And so we did.
We were running errands that evening, so we headed out to Applebee's for their 2 for $20 deal. We both got the 7 oz. House Sirloin. I ordered mine medium rare, hoping they'd undercook it to a perfect rare; instead, I got it the other way around and ended up being delivered something that looked more like medium - there was very little pink. But I couldn't complain: I sunk my teeth into that piece of juicy, savory meat and let it linger there, clamped by my jaw, allowing the juiciness to flow freely into my mouth. It tasted amazing; better than I had imagined.
I opened my eyes - I hadn't even noticed I had closed them - and looked directly at my mom, grinning with satisfaction. "How could you keep this from me for so long?" I asked, with a frustrated but playful tone.
I couldn't finish it all, having eaten my fair share of our boneless buffalo wings appetizer plus the smashed potato side that came with my hunk of meat. But after two hours I attacked it again with just as much excitement. Maybe it's just because I'm new, but it tasted just as good cold.
It sucks having a picky dad and (so-called) vegetarian sisters (interpret "vegetarian" loosely...it's more like "vegetarian...except for bacon and pepperoni"). We have very little options when it
comes to planning "carnivorous" meals. So now I'm definitely going to have to add steak to my eating-out menu.
YAY FOR STEAK!
My mom found out about this while making a list of meals for the next week before sending me grocery shopping. "You mean you've never had a steak before? In your entire life?"
"Nope. Well, wait. There was that one time when [my Family Life Skills teacher] brought back a small piece of filet mignon from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse and let me try a bite....does that count?"
"Uh, no."
"Oh..."
"And you've never even ordered it when you've gone out to eat?"
"Well, no. I almost always order something spicy and/or seafood...I don't get that often, so I always like to get something with shrimp. I never thought to get steak."
"That's it. We're going to get you some steak Friday."
And so we did.
We were running errands that evening, so we headed out to Applebee's for their 2 for $20 deal. We both got the 7 oz. House Sirloin. I ordered mine medium rare, hoping they'd undercook it to a perfect rare; instead, I got it the other way around and ended up being delivered something that looked more like medium - there was very little pink. But I couldn't complain: I sunk my teeth into that piece of juicy, savory meat and let it linger there, clamped by my jaw, allowing the juiciness to flow freely into my mouth. It tasted amazing; better than I had imagined.
I opened my eyes - I hadn't even noticed I had closed them - and looked directly at my mom, grinning with satisfaction. "How could you keep this from me for so long?" I asked, with a frustrated but playful tone.
I couldn't finish it all, having eaten my fair share of our boneless buffalo wings appetizer plus the smashed potato side that came with my hunk of meat. But after two hours I attacked it again with just as much excitement. Maybe it's just because I'm new, but it tasted just as good cold.
It sucks having a picky dad and (so-called) vegetarian sisters (interpret "vegetarian" loosely...it's more like "vegetarian...except for bacon and pepperoni"). We have very little options when it
comes to planning "carnivorous" meals. So now I'm definitely going to have to add steak to my eating-out menu.YAY FOR STEAK!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
New Favorite T-shirt Site!
it's called vigtees.com and their t-shirts are awesome.
My personal favorite can be found here.
They're a little more expensive than the other t-shirt sites I've found, but this shirt is totally worth it.
My personal favorite can be found here.
They're a little more expensive than the other t-shirt sites I've found, but this shirt is totally worth it.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Introduction
It was late Saturday night - or, as some would say, early Sunday morning - as she climbed the stairs. She stepped softly, careful to keep her right wrist as steady as she could to keep her gigantic tea cup of hot water from tipping. She had boiled and poured it several minutes prior and was hoping that it had cooled sufficiently so that, once she reached her room at the top of the last platform, she could rip open her new teabag, place it in the cup to steep, and then sip from it soon after without burning her tongue. As she crab-walked her way up, she could not help but think that this was what it was like to feel "old," should one be able to properly define such a word. Her knees ached, but (in her mind) for all the right and most honorable reasons. She smiled inside as she realized she was wearing the prize she had earned at the same time she had earned the sore knees: the ten-hour volleyball tournament in Harrisville. She was still recovering from the severe sunburn she had received from that affair, but despite the pain she suffered that week (and the peeling she was still trying to get past), it was all worth it to her - even if all first place won was a t-shirt.
She reached her room and made a right through the open door. Her wrist quivered a bit as she gently set the flower pot-sized mug down on the round, metallic coaster at the edge of her large, black wooden desk. She felt relieved to have made it successfully to her final destination of the day without spilling any scalding hot water on herself - she was, after all, carrying it with her opposite hand. Roaming about her desktop, her eyes finally fell on the sky blue packet of tea. She picked it up and read it to herself: "Harney & Sons. ORANGE PEKOE." What is "Pekoe"? she thought aloud. She turned over the now opened packet to read the description: "A classic Assam laced with Ceylon." A load of good that did me...I don't know what Assam is either. She shrugged and slowly tugged the teabag out by its string. Then, as if it were someone easing into a jacuzzi after a long day's work, she slid the teabag into the steaming cup of water, guiding it down the side until it finally rested flat along the bottom of the mug. Without lifting the cup, she leaned in and allowed her nose to linger just above her mammoth mug and the aromatic waves of heat that were now drifting upwards into her room to serenade her senses, both with the sweet smell and the warm yet intangible touch as it wafted against her face. She then sat down in front of her laptop (situated in the very center of her desk) and began to type a new and quite overdue blog entry.
She reached her room and made a right through the open door. Her wrist quivered a bit as she gently set the flower pot-sized mug down on the round, metallic coaster at the edge of her large, black wooden desk. She felt relieved to have made it successfully to her final destination of the day without spilling any scalding hot water on herself - she was, after all, carrying it with her opposite hand. Roaming about her desktop, her eyes finally fell on the sky blue packet of tea. She picked it up and read it to herself: "Harney & Sons. ORANGE PEKOE." What is "Pekoe"? she thought aloud. She turned over the now opened packet to read the description: "A classic Assam laced with Ceylon." A load of good that did me...I don't know what Assam is either. She shrugged and slowly tugged the teabag out by its string. Then, as if it were someone easing into a jacuzzi after a long day's work, she slid the teabag into the steaming cup of water, guiding it down the side until it finally rested flat along the bottom of the mug. Without lifting the cup, she leaned in and allowed her nose to linger just above her mammoth mug and the aromatic waves of heat that were now drifting upwards into her room to serenade her senses, both with the sweet smell and the warm yet intangible touch as it wafted against her face. She then sat down in front of her laptop (situated in the very center of her desk) and began to type a new and quite overdue blog entry.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Relient K!
I cannot even begin express how excited I am about this. I haven't seen RK in concert since my 17th birthday(!!!).
By the looks of the tickets site, it seems to be Toby Mac's tour (technically speaking) - the "Winter Wonder Slam" - but either way, it's still an opportunity to see Matty T and the guys live.
If you have no clue who I'm talking about, check out their website or YouTube them. Some excellent songs to search would include: "Pressing On," "For the Moments I Feel Faint," "Mood Rings," "Getting into You," "Be My Escape," "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been," "Must Have Done Something Right," "Deathbed," and "The Lining Is Silver."
This clip is their song "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been."
By the looks of the tickets site, it seems to be Toby Mac's tour (technically speaking) - the "Winter Wonder Slam" - but either way, it's still an opportunity to see Matty T and the guys live.
If you have no clue who I'm talking about, check out their website or YouTube them. Some excellent songs to search would include: "Pressing On," "For the Moments I Feel Faint," "Mood Rings," "Getting into You," "Be My Escape," "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been," "Must Have Done Something Right," "Deathbed," and "The Lining Is Silver."
This clip is their song "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been."
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