Last Friday, I enjoyed a massage and fantastic night out with one of my best friends and former roommate, Andrea. During our outing I noticed a carnival was set up near the mall. More on that later. Andrea and I hadn't spent any time together in a while. Even when we were roommates our schedules were so hectic that we rarely saw each other for more than a few waking hours at a time. But, spending time with her last Friday, I realized just how used to her companionship I had become, and I hadn't thought to miss it until it was reintroduced. Funny.
The following morning, I hopped out of bed and got to cleaning, then went to lunch with Krystal, enjoyed the Art Walk in downtown Kilgore, which I was unexpectedly pleased with, and got a fabulous haircut. Following the new do, Krystal and I headed to Longview to shop and met up with my sister and her boyfriend. We went into Ulta, where Nathan learned about the importance of good conditioners and choosing eye makeup shades that complement one's eye color. Then we ambled through Kohl's, where my blood sugar reached a dangerous low. Not dangerous for me, but profoundly hazardous for those around me. We went to dinner at El Sombrero, also known as heaven on earth. On the way to the restaurant, we passed the carnival again. Krystal insisted that we go after eating ... Mexican food. I agreed. The under 20 crowd we were with (i.e. Nathan and Rebekah) seemed hesitant, and for good reason it turned out.
Let's talk about traveling carnival workers for a minute. I began to feel uneasy when we purchased our tickets. On the booth was a sign that read: "Workers needed for tear down, $7/hour." I wondered if the people that set the rides up were paid $7 an hour, and recruited via yellowed and crumpled fliers. My adult mind began to analyze, scrutinize and visualize. Do these people receive safety training? Are they certified by some kind of carnival authority, if one exists? Where's the quality control? I found myself searching out what might push me to join the ranks of a traveling carnival and none of them were good things, nothing say, driven by ambition. Where's the motivation to tighten that bolt, lubricate that gear, double-check that safety latch?
Mind you, none of this kept me off the rides. Unfortunately most of the above entered my mind while I flew through the air 40 feet above the ground with my precious baby sister out of arm's reach. After "La Arana" and the "Tilt-a-Whirl," Rebekah had endured all the high-speed spinning she could. Krystal and Nathan ran for the "Scrambler" and Rebekah and I went to the "Fun House," which ended up being no fun at all. We approached the ticket-handling professional, and he gave us a look that can only be described as "Really?" After meandering our way through a littered and smudged room of mirrors, we ascended stairs and found ourselves at the top of a precarious twisty slide. We landed safely on the ground. The ticket-handling professional's expression now made sense.
It seemed the carnival's charm was spent, until we were walking to the car and Nathan held up his hand in warning. He abruptly shoved Rebekah away from his side, and was sick. If that was the worst that happened to any of us during our brief visit, I'm happy.
When I was a child, I was fearless. As a teenager and young adult, I was reckless. Now, I dissect everything. Just like with Andrea, I didn't think to ponder my dormant apprehension of carnival rides until I was committed. I think I like it that way. There are definitely some life issues that need to be evaluated, and fears that need to be heeded. But, for the most part, I'd like to shut my analytical side up most of the time. Turns out I can manage that pretty easily when in the company of good friends.
Showing posts with label Chuckle-worthy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chuckle-worthy. Show all posts
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
My Life as a Vagabond
I am a failure on the blogging front. Not that it’s an excuse, but I have been in the process of helping to renovate a house, and moving into said house. The experiences related to the aforementioned have inspired this very post.
I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.
On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.
We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.
Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.
I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.
On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.
We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.
Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sweater Saga
There are times in a woman's life when she just wants stuff. Be it clothing, a piece of decor, a new home, or perhaps a certain food. Yesterday, I wanted a sweater. I didn't have any particular style or color in mind, I just wanted a sweater - something cozy and feminine to wear in the beautiful fall weather currently descending upon us. My only parameter was the amount of money I intended to spend on said sweater. However, the number in my mind was more than adequate. I've bought many sweaters in the past for less.
I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."
In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.
Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.
I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."
In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.
Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The importance of coffee
My blog has been silent for some weeks. I apologize. I've been a little discouraged on the writing front as of late, and decided to take a break and concentrate on some areas that maybe needed more of my attention. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, though. I have missed it, and I'm ready to start again.
What's a writer without coffee? It's a necessary accessory, if you ask me. I've been a "hardcore coffee drinker" for close to seven years. When I say "hardcore", I mean coffee is first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning (after thanking God for waking me up at all, that is). When I go to bed at night, I am excited about drinking coffee the next morning. I giggle with glee when I smell coffee. I plan whole days and trips around coffee. I will book a more expensive hotel based on its proximity to Starbucks, or another worthy and proven conveyor of my most favored elixir. I LOVE coffee.
I have a brief anecdote to illustrate this. I normally grind and brew my special, snobby coffee at home, but last week, my roommate was out of town, and I'm a big baby that doesn't like being by herself, so I stayed at my parent's house, where there is only instant coffee. . .GASP!!! On the morning in question, I had a doctor's appointment, so I simply left early with the plan of picking up a latte from the "we proudly brew Starbucks" place in the hospital food court. By the time I reached Longview city limits, I had the headache. I skipped getting gas just to get my coffee quicker. I arrived at the hospital, parked and went to the market. In my mind, I smelled the coffee, but when I rounded the corner, I was greeted with only darkness. Darkness and a steel gate. There was no coffee in this place. Derision must have been present on my face, because a kind nurse took pity on me and asked: "Are you looking for the coffee shop?"
"Yes," I answered. "Yes, I am. What happened?"
"This one closed down, but there's one in the main hospital building."
"How do I get there? Can I take the skybridge, or do I have to drive?" (My head was pounding, and my senses, unaided by caffeine, were not functioning properly.)
She answered yes and I set out to the neighboring building, where I would find the elevator, take it to the second floor, cross Highway 80 on the skybridge and sniff my way to my coffee. Keep in mind that, my doctor's office was exactly one elevator ride and five short floors away at this point, and my quest for coffee was going to take me approximately four blocks, round trip, out of my way - on foot and in heels. Didn't matter. Needed the coffee.
I boarded the elevator only to read a sign telling me it does not stop on the second floor. No problem, I think, I'll go to the third floor and take the stairs down to the second and get on the skybridge. So, when the elevator stopped on the third floor, I went directly to the stairwell and entered, paying no heed to the sign reading "No Re-entry."
In retrospect, this was not my finest moment. My instincts were operating at a deficiency, but that was little comfort when I replayed the words in my head just in time to hear the door click behind me. Before panicking, I tried the handle. Definitely locked. Remain calm, Rachel. Go downstairs and try that one. I amble down the concrete steps, in my three-inch heels, still legitimately more concerned about getting coffee than over the possibility of being locked in a stairwell for some undetermined amount of time. However, when door number two was found to be penetrable only by a four-digit code unknown to me, my need for the legal stimulant faded slightly and was replaced with earnest unease.
Movie scenes began to fill my head, and every creak above and below me was a deranged individual crouching in the corner waiting for just such and opportunity, and just such an idiot as I. I immediately thought of my cell phone, but remembered that I was entombed in concrete. I then walked down to the first floor and beheld what appeared to be an unsecured door. I tried the handle. Salvation!
Crisis averted. Back to the coffee quest. As I emerge from the stairwell, the same concerned nurse appears before me. "Did you find it?" she asks.
I shake my head and she points to my left where there is a broad staircase leading to the bright, light-filled second floor. I feel my face illuminate as I turn to it. Soon I am walking above Highway 80 and the enticing aroma of coffee fills my nose. Soon I have placed my order and have a non-fat caramel latte in my hand. All is right with the world!
What's a writer without coffee? It's a necessary accessory, if you ask me. I've been a "hardcore coffee drinker" for close to seven years. When I say "hardcore", I mean coffee is first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning (after thanking God for waking me up at all, that is). When I go to bed at night, I am excited about drinking coffee the next morning. I giggle with glee when I smell coffee. I plan whole days and trips around coffee. I will book a more expensive hotel based on its proximity to Starbucks, or another worthy and proven conveyor of my most favored elixir. I LOVE coffee.
I have a brief anecdote to illustrate this. I normally grind and brew my special, snobby coffee at home, but last week, my roommate was out of town, and I'm a big baby that doesn't like being by herself, so I stayed at my parent's house, where there is only instant coffee. . .GASP!!! On the morning in question, I had a doctor's appointment, so I simply left early with the plan of picking up a latte from the "we proudly brew Starbucks" place in the hospital food court. By the time I reached Longview city limits, I had the headache. I skipped getting gas just to get my coffee quicker. I arrived at the hospital, parked and went to the market. In my mind, I smelled the coffee, but when I rounded the corner, I was greeted with only darkness. Darkness and a steel gate. There was no coffee in this place. Derision must have been present on my face, because a kind nurse took pity on me and asked: "Are you looking for the coffee shop?"
"Yes," I answered. "Yes, I am. What happened?"
"This one closed down, but there's one in the main hospital building."
"How do I get there? Can I take the skybridge, or do I have to drive?" (My head was pounding, and my senses, unaided by caffeine, were not functioning properly.)
She answered yes and I set out to the neighboring building, where I would find the elevator, take it to the second floor, cross Highway 80 on the skybridge and sniff my way to my coffee. Keep in mind that, my doctor's office was exactly one elevator ride and five short floors away at this point, and my quest for coffee was going to take me approximately four blocks, round trip, out of my way - on foot and in heels. Didn't matter. Needed the coffee.
I boarded the elevator only to read a sign telling me it does not stop on the second floor. No problem, I think, I'll go to the third floor and take the stairs down to the second and get on the skybridge. So, when the elevator stopped on the third floor, I went directly to the stairwell and entered, paying no heed to the sign reading "No Re-entry."
In retrospect, this was not my finest moment. My instincts were operating at a deficiency, but that was little comfort when I replayed the words in my head just in time to hear the door click behind me. Before panicking, I tried the handle. Definitely locked. Remain calm, Rachel. Go downstairs and try that one. I amble down the concrete steps, in my three-inch heels, still legitimately more concerned about getting coffee than over the possibility of being locked in a stairwell for some undetermined amount of time. However, when door number two was found to be penetrable only by a four-digit code unknown to me, my need for the legal stimulant faded slightly and was replaced with earnest unease.
Movie scenes began to fill my head, and every creak above and below me was a deranged individual crouching in the corner waiting for just such and opportunity, and just such an idiot as I. I immediately thought of my cell phone, but remembered that I was entombed in concrete. I then walked down to the first floor and beheld what appeared to be an unsecured door. I tried the handle. Salvation!
Crisis averted. Back to the coffee quest. As I emerge from the stairwell, the same concerned nurse appears before me. "Did you find it?" she asks.
I shake my head and she points to my left where there is a broad staircase leading to the bright, light-filled second floor. I feel my face illuminate as I turn to it. Soon I am walking above Highway 80 and the enticing aroma of coffee fills my nose. Soon I have placed my order and have a non-fat caramel latte in my hand. All is right with the world!
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Adventures in movie going
Friday night I went out with my parents and sister to celebrate my mom's birthday. Mom wanted to see The Time Traveler's Wife, so my sister and I went with her, and my dad opted to see Inglorious Basterds on his own. Our movie let out about 50 minutes earlier than his, so we waited for him in the lobby of the theater. Oh wow. It wasn't really late, 9:10 or so, but already nocturnal phenomena was occurring.
If you've seen Men in Black, you know that Tommy Lee Jones explains that a certain number of "humans" on earth are actually aliens in disguise. What he failed to mention is that they congregate at the Carmike Theater in Longview, Texas. That sounds severe, I know, so let's soften it and be more specific. What I witnessed was mostly the confusion and insecurity of junior high exemplified in dress and behavior.
This was the last weekend ahead of the start of public school, so I'm sure the kiddos were out in full force solidifying their alliances for the school year. When I was in junior high (shudder) I always had a list of people to call at the end of the summer to set myself up socially for the school year. You have to compare schedules and find out where lockers are so you can easily find one another at break and lunch and avoid the awkward "loner" moments and panic that comes with not having anyone to sit with. I was a poster child for insecurity in junior high. I didn't want to appear alone for even the shortest amount of time. Nevertheless, these poor kids. . .I can see things have not changed.
In my 50 minute adventure Friday night, I saw many things. I observed a faction of the pre-teen Mexican mafia act and react to stimuli in their natural habitat: the arcade game corner. There were young ladies that seemed to be skinny jean/punkish types on the bottom halves of their bodies, but something entirely different and preppier on the top. One group entered the lobby only to buy movie theater nachos, and then apparently left. I know I go out of my way constantly for stale chips topped with thick, congealed, re-warmed, processed cheese product. (??!) The plastic container is the cherry on top. Oh, and the fact that they cost $6.75!!!
I also saw adults that piqued my curiosity. Although, people that attend ten o'clock movies intrigue me in general. I admire them, as it's something I cannot accomplish. I haven't gone to a movie past nine o'clock since high school, and the chances are I didn't go then. I just said I was to stay out past curfew. Nowadays, I'm tucked in by ten watching The Nanny and it's lights out by 10:30. Anyways, back to these adults. One gentleman wore loafers, white linen pants, and a pale pink button down untucked. His wire-rimmed glasses were brushed on the top by his slightly shaggy, sandy blonde hair, and he walked in relaxation with grace and ease. I anlayzed this person and created an entire existence for him while he was buying his popcorn and soda, which took a really long time, by the way. . .Carmike. I decided he was a writer, go figure, who has been published before (so jealous. . .why can't I get my break?), and is staying in Longview to research his book on, well I didn't get that far, but I decided he had written several chapters that day and was going out for a movie to relax his mind before hitting the writing hard again the next day.
What fun people-watching is! If you haven't tried it, you should. It can be inspiring and just plain interesting. My experience was so interesting, I took notes. To write this blog. See, inspiring.
If you've seen Men in Black, you know that Tommy Lee Jones explains that a certain number of "humans" on earth are actually aliens in disguise. What he failed to mention is that they congregate at the Carmike Theater in Longview, Texas. That sounds severe, I know, so let's soften it and be more specific. What I witnessed was mostly the confusion and insecurity of junior high exemplified in dress and behavior.
This was the last weekend ahead of the start of public school, so I'm sure the kiddos were out in full force solidifying their alliances for the school year. When I was in junior high (shudder) I always had a list of people to call at the end of the summer to set myself up socially for the school year. You have to compare schedules and find out where lockers are so you can easily find one another at break and lunch and avoid the awkward "loner" moments and panic that comes with not having anyone to sit with. I was a poster child for insecurity in junior high. I didn't want to appear alone for even the shortest amount of time. Nevertheless, these poor kids. . .I can see things have not changed.
In my 50 minute adventure Friday night, I saw many things. I observed a faction of the pre-teen Mexican mafia act and react to stimuli in their natural habitat: the arcade game corner. There were young ladies that seemed to be skinny jean/punkish types on the bottom halves of their bodies, but something entirely different and preppier on the top. One group entered the lobby only to buy movie theater nachos, and then apparently left. I know I go out of my way constantly for stale chips topped with thick, congealed, re-warmed, processed cheese product. (??!) The plastic container is the cherry on top. Oh, and the fact that they cost $6.75!!!
I also saw adults that piqued my curiosity. Although, people that attend ten o'clock movies intrigue me in general. I admire them, as it's something I cannot accomplish. I haven't gone to a movie past nine o'clock since high school, and the chances are I didn't go then. I just said I was to stay out past curfew. Nowadays, I'm tucked in by ten watching The Nanny and it's lights out by 10:30. Anyways, back to these adults. One gentleman wore loafers, white linen pants, and a pale pink button down untucked. His wire-rimmed glasses were brushed on the top by his slightly shaggy, sandy blonde hair, and he walked in relaxation with grace and ease. I anlayzed this person and created an entire existence for him while he was buying his popcorn and soda, which took a really long time, by the way. . .Carmike. I decided he was a writer, go figure, who has been published before (so jealous. . .why can't I get my break?), and is staying in Longview to research his book on, well I didn't get that far, but I decided he had written several chapters that day and was going out for a movie to relax his mind before hitting the writing hard again the next day.
What fun people-watching is! If you haven't tried it, you should. It can be inspiring and just plain interesting. My experience was so interesting, I took notes. To write this blog. See, inspiring.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Socks Revisited
Check the archives for a post titled "Let's talk about Socks, baby." It's a story about my formerly not feline friendly grandparents and their cat, Socks. There have been many experiences with Socks since that blog was posted. . .let's see. . .a little more than two years ago, but today was just one of those special moments I feel deserves extra attention, plus my Uncle Nolan will get a laugh out of it.
I worked my brain out this week and by about three o'clock today I was ready for a break. I stay in town on Wednesdays for church in the evening, so I took an hour or so off and went to my grandparent's house. Now, if you read the aforementioned post, you know that some time ago family was redirected to the front door of the house when our traditional side entrance was overhauled to become Socks' fully heated and air-conditioned bachelor pad. We've mostly grown used to this, but every now and then, we are thrown a curve ball.
For starters, it was 600 degrees today and I drive a black car with black leather interior. I was hot. I park on the street at their house, so by the time I reached the front yard, debated whether or not to take the beloved, but terrifying ramp (which has been repaired and appears much safer, as long as it's not raining), and arrived at the front door, I was just shy of heat stroke. (I'm exaggerating of course, but my point is, I was ready to get inside.) I turn the knob of the door, which for most of my life has been unlocked during daylight hours, only to find it locked. I crane my neck around the corner of the house to see if the car is in place. It is. I wait. I ponder. Socks.
Soon I hear rustling about on the other side of the door and the blinds are pulled up. The stern and suspicious face of my grandfather stares out at me. I'm certain he has no idea who I am for a full 30 seconds, but finally yells through the window: "Come in through the side door!"
Confusion.
Mixed signals.
I retreat from the front door, walk down the ramp, trek through the yard, and endure the 600 degree heat a little longer. I ascend the steps to the side door, which used to be a screen door, but is now a solid, dead-bolted security door marking the entrance to Socks' crib. I attempt to enter, but again find it locked. I just want to visit my grandparents!!! Why won't they let me in!!! I went to the front door, because I'm not supposed to go to the side door ANY MORE!! Then I was told to go to the side door, but it is LOCKED!!! What am I supposed to do?!!!
Desperation. Heat taking its toll. Need water. . .
I hear the patter of my grandfather's feet and a moment later he opens the door for me and offers a hug. He then closes the outer door before I can open the interior door leading into the house, where Socks is lazing about. It's a very sophisticated, complex security system my grandparents have concocted to completely and totally ensure there is no chance of escape.
I finally made it into the inner-sanctum and enjoyed a nice visit with my grandparents, during which Socks went out to his apartment. After a while I got ready to leave. I said my goodbyes and approached the side door that I entered through. As my hand reaches for the knob, I am quickly redirected to the front door. . .???. . .!!! You mean the door I originally tried to use?
You know when you get in trouble as a child and your parents tell you to "shut your mouth" but then you get in trouble for not answering their next question? This was a similar experience. I no longer know what door to use. I have a college degree, am a nationally published writer, and am responsible for educating people's children, but I do not know what door to enter and exit through at a house I have been in and out of my entire life.
I suppose next time I'll try the back door, or perhaps a cracked window. There used to be a weak spot in the floor between the living room and dining room. Maybe, with the right tools and one of those hard hats with a light attached, I could burrow into the house from underneath.
P.S. I love and respect my grandparents and consider them wise and faithful people. I also know their love for me is unconditional, and I have drawn on that knowledge many times when I felt the rest of the world had turned against me. Despite my jokes, Socks is their companion during the day. My life does not allow me to be with my grandparents every day, but Socks provides entertainment and makes them feel needed, and for that I am grateful to him.
I worked my brain out this week and by about three o'clock today I was ready for a break. I stay in town on Wednesdays for church in the evening, so I took an hour or so off and went to my grandparent's house. Now, if you read the aforementioned post, you know that some time ago family was redirected to the front door of the house when our traditional side entrance was overhauled to become Socks' fully heated and air-conditioned bachelor pad. We've mostly grown used to this, but every now and then, we are thrown a curve ball.
For starters, it was 600 degrees today and I drive a black car with black leather interior. I was hot. I park on the street at their house, so by the time I reached the front yard, debated whether or not to take the beloved, but terrifying ramp (which has been repaired and appears much safer, as long as it's not raining), and arrived at the front door, I was just shy of heat stroke. (I'm exaggerating of course, but my point is, I was ready to get inside.) I turn the knob of the door, which for most of my life has been unlocked during daylight hours, only to find it locked. I crane my neck around the corner of the house to see if the car is in place. It is. I wait. I ponder. Socks.
Soon I hear rustling about on the other side of the door and the blinds are pulled up. The stern and suspicious face of my grandfather stares out at me. I'm certain he has no idea who I am for a full 30 seconds, but finally yells through the window: "Come in through the side door!"
Confusion.
Mixed signals.
I retreat from the front door, walk down the ramp, trek through the yard, and endure the 600 degree heat a little longer. I ascend the steps to the side door, which used to be a screen door, but is now a solid, dead-bolted security door marking the entrance to Socks' crib. I attempt to enter, but again find it locked. I just want to visit my grandparents!!! Why won't they let me in!!! I went to the front door, because I'm not supposed to go to the side door ANY MORE!! Then I was told to go to the side door, but it is LOCKED!!! What am I supposed to do?!!!
Desperation. Heat taking its toll. Need water. . .
I hear the patter of my grandfather's feet and a moment later he opens the door for me and offers a hug. He then closes the outer door before I can open the interior door leading into the house, where Socks is lazing about. It's a very sophisticated, complex security system my grandparents have concocted to completely and totally ensure there is no chance of escape.
I finally made it into the inner-sanctum and enjoyed a nice visit with my grandparents, during which Socks went out to his apartment. After a while I got ready to leave. I said my goodbyes and approached the side door that I entered through. As my hand reaches for the knob, I am quickly redirected to the front door. . .???. . .!!! You mean the door I originally tried to use?
You know when you get in trouble as a child and your parents tell you to "shut your mouth" but then you get in trouble for not answering their next question? This was a similar experience. I no longer know what door to use. I have a college degree, am a nationally published writer, and am responsible for educating people's children, but I do not know what door to enter and exit through at a house I have been in and out of my entire life.
I suppose next time I'll try the back door, or perhaps a cracked window. There used to be a weak spot in the floor between the living room and dining room. Maybe, with the right tools and one of those hard hats with a light attached, I could burrow into the house from underneath.
P.S. I love and respect my grandparents and consider them wise and faithful people. I also know their love for me is unconditional, and I have drawn on that knowledge many times when I felt the rest of the world had turned against me. Despite my jokes, Socks is their companion during the day. My life does not allow me to be with my grandparents every day, but Socks provides entertainment and makes them feel needed, and for that I am grateful to him.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Mail Issues
I miss getting mail. Real, hold it in your hands mail, and e-mail. . .legitimate e-mail. Now, in the gloomy shadow of a cancelled trip, I need the pick-me-ups of everyday life even more than usual. When you have something really huge and exciting to look forward to, and then it’s not there anymore, (even when it’s by your own action. . .or inaction, nonetheless) your normal life loses some of its luster. That’s why I need my mail. Mail holds such possibility.
I have a Blackberry synced with my personal e-mail and every time it buzzes, my heart leaps a little. What kind of news is it? I can’t tell you with any certainty what I’m hoping it might be, I just want it to be something. Okay, yes I can, I want it to be an agent writing to tell me she’ll represent my book, or better yet, that she’s already got a publisher waiting for someone with just my tone and she’s faxing over a 10-book contract with a $50,000 advance.
Oddly enough, it’s usually some hacked to death attempt at English telling me I’m the sole benefactress of an Ethiopian ivory fortune. I am well rehearsed in the deletion process. Spam mail is such a let down. The people responsible for spam mail should get bonuses for the fits of temporary depression they bring on. Not only are they phishing for identities and breaking down secure servers, they’re also playing on the emotions of poor freelance writers hoping for book deals. I can only assume they’re conspiring with pharmaceutical companies and other entities involved in the creation and distribution of drugs like Xanax, Wellbutrin, and Paxil. I think Little Debbie, and maybe Blue Bell, are also involved as my personal consumption of their products has increased three-fold since Sunday evening last.
On the USPS front, I’m only getting bills, small white envelopes symbolic of balls and chains. Reminders of responsibility and mistakes. This is one area that I am expecting something of value, I am a writer that gets paid, so every now and then my lust for mail is positively reinforced in the form of monetary gain. I could use some of that monetary gain about now.
To twist the knife ever so slightly, I did get a Membership Reward postcard from American Express today inviting me to redeem points for a fabulous stay in. . .where else. . .Paris!!!
For the record, as I seem bitter, I stand by the decision I made not to travel last week. It was not the right time, I know the difference between lack of peace and fear, and what I felt was an absence of peace. However, I am very disappointed that it didn’t work out, that I wasn’t able to do it, and for that matter, that I hitched my wagon to such a far away (literally) star. I really, REALLY needed a vacation, a disconnect, which I could have accomplished much closer to home. Or perhaps, that would have been scratched, too. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere. I try not to question it too much, it’s best to just trust and wait for the perfect opportunity.
While I'm waiting, maybe I'll do some internet shopping where I can get some really exciting mail. New shoes, handbag, a red patent leather belt (basic item, yes, yet impossible to find). However, this will no doubt lead to the continued delivery of the aforementioned bills. Vicious cycle.
I have a Blackberry synced with my personal e-mail and every time it buzzes, my heart leaps a little. What kind of news is it? I can’t tell you with any certainty what I’m hoping it might be, I just want it to be something. Okay, yes I can, I want it to be an agent writing to tell me she’ll represent my book, or better yet, that she’s already got a publisher waiting for someone with just my tone and she’s faxing over a 10-book contract with a $50,000 advance.
Oddly enough, it’s usually some hacked to death attempt at English telling me I’m the sole benefactress of an Ethiopian ivory fortune. I am well rehearsed in the deletion process. Spam mail is such a let down. The people responsible for spam mail should get bonuses for the fits of temporary depression they bring on. Not only are they phishing for identities and breaking down secure servers, they’re also playing on the emotions of poor freelance writers hoping for book deals. I can only assume they’re conspiring with pharmaceutical companies and other entities involved in the creation and distribution of drugs like Xanax, Wellbutrin, and Paxil. I think Little Debbie, and maybe Blue Bell, are also involved as my personal consumption of their products has increased three-fold since Sunday evening last.
On the USPS front, I’m only getting bills, small white envelopes symbolic of balls and chains. Reminders of responsibility and mistakes. This is one area that I am expecting something of value, I am a writer that gets paid, so every now and then my lust for mail is positively reinforced in the form of monetary gain. I could use some of that monetary gain about now.
To twist the knife ever so slightly, I did get a Membership Reward postcard from American Express today inviting me to redeem points for a fabulous stay in. . .where else. . .Paris!!!
For the record, as I seem bitter, I stand by the decision I made not to travel last week. It was not the right time, I know the difference between lack of peace and fear, and what I felt was an absence of peace. However, I am very disappointed that it didn’t work out, that I wasn’t able to do it, and for that matter, that I hitched my wagon to such a far away (literally) star. I really, REALLY needed a vacation, a disconnect, which I could have accomplished much closer to home. Or perhaps, that would have been scratched, too. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere. I try not to question it too much, it’s best to just trust and wait for the perfect opportunity.
While I'm waiting, maybe I'll do some internet shopping where I can get some really exciting mail. New shoes, handbag, a red patent leather belt (basic item, yes, yet impossible to find). However, this will no doubt lead to the continued delivery of the aforementioned bills. Vicious cycle.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Random Tid Bits
It's Spring Break. My students left about 45 minutes ago, and I am leaving on Sunday for Paris. I think this calls for a laid-back sort of blog, not that all of my blogs are profound tomes of wisdom, but this one is going to be really relaxed. I'm just going to mention two very random things that have happened to me and a person close to me as of late.
1. My cousin, who lives in California with her Marine husband, recently had 12 pairs of underwear jacked from a laundromat. Who steals underwear? Yuck. (I mean this as a general comment, my cousin practices very good personal hygiene...awkward.) I'm a germophobe, so I have a bias, but I think most people should have some sort of mechanism in their brains that tells them it's not okay to, number one steal, but also wear a stranger's undergarments. I get the heebee-jeebees when I see slips at a Good Will. It ain’t right. The heartbreaking part is, her underwear was Victoria's Secret, and at a minimum cost of $8 a pair, that's at least $100 worth of panties gone in the night. Horrible, and...random.
2. Last night my sweet tooth got to aching and there was nothing in the house. We do that on purpose. However, I did find some chocolate chips, toffee bits, and chopped pecans. I mixed them together in a bowl and ate the concoction with a spoon. Don't judge me!! Now, that in itself is random, but, there's more. After this act of desperation, I of course needed to brush my teeth because one without dental insurance does not go to sleep with toffee stuck to one's teeth. I brushed well and set my toothbrush back in the thing that holds my toothbrush (I don't know what else to call it). It bounced out, slid off the counter (as almost everything in my bathroom has done at least 46 times - the room has an altered gravitational pull or something) and landed. . .on the toilet brush. Yuck, again. This is the reason I was in Wal-Mart at 7:40 this morning, on Friday the 13th no less, buying a toothbrush and nothing else. That’s random, too.
This blog will in all likelihood remain silent next week. But, I will have Paris experiences to share when I return.
1. My cousin, who lives in California with her Marine husband, recently had 12 pairs of underwear jacked from a laundromat. Who steals underwear? Yuck. (I mean this as a general comment, my cousin practices very good personal hygiene...awkward.) I'm a germophobe, so I have a bias, but I think most people should have some sort of mechanism in their brains that tells them it's not okay to, number one steal, but also wear a stranger's undergarments. I get the heebee-jeebees when I see slips at a Good Will. It ain’t right. The heartbreaking part is, her underwear was Victoria's Secret, and at a minimum cost of $8 a pair, that's at least $100 worth of panties gone in the night. Horrible, and...random.
2. Last night my sweet tooth got to aching and there was nothing in the house. We do that on purpose. However, I did find some chocolate chips, toffee bits, and chopped pecans. I mixed them together in a bowl and ate the concoction with a spoon. Don't judge me!! Now, that in itself is random, but, there's more. After this act of desperation, I of course needed to brush my teeth because one without dental insurance does not go to sleep with toffee stuck to one's teeth. I brushed well and set my toothbrush back in the thing that holds my toothbrush (I don't know what else to call it). It bounced out, slid off the counter (as almost everything in my bathroom has done at least 46 times - the room has an altered gravitational pull or something) and landed. . .on the toilet brush. Yuck, again. This is the reason I was in Wal-Mart at 7:40 this morning, on Friday the 13th no less, buying a toothbrush and nothing else. That’s random, too.
This blog will in all likelihood remain silent next week. But, I will have Paris experiences to share when I return.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
On making decisions
We've spoken about this before, so it should come as no surprise that I'm not so good with the decisions. This truth prompted my family to purchase a "decision maker" for me at Christmas. It is a wooden platform embedded with magnets. It has different answers written on the top and above it hangs a pendulum, also with a magnet. The pendulum swings wildly at first, but then slows down and frantically jitters between two answers before finally landing on one. The likeness to my own decision making process is uncanny.
I actually turned to it as I stared at a "continue with purchase" button on a travel-booking site Monday. It told me yes, and I proceeded. I am now officially spending Spring Break in Paris, France. Once I made the decision I felt nothing but relief. Although, I periodically go through buyer's remorse moments and fret about the stability of the world in general. France is God's world, too, and wherever I am, there is He also.
My plunge into international travel inspired me in other areas, and I finally got up the courage to submit my book query to an agent. Let me set up the scene. I've reviewed this agent's submission guidelines exhaustively, but I did it one more time last night. Their web site states that an immediate e-mail acknowledgment should follow your query submission. It instructs you to resubmit if you do not receive one. I did not get one, so I sent it again with a different subject line. Still no acknowledgement. I waited until this morning and sent it again from my work e-mail account. As of the drafting of this post, I have no acknowledgement in either inbox. However, after the third attempt, I read the agent's blog where she happened to have posted about the agency's query policy. She casually mentioned it sometimes takes a few days for the acknowledgement to appear. . . visualize me in a state of frenzied worry and panic. I strive for perfection when making Hamburger Helper. Doing something this important wrong is the stuff my nightmares are made of. . .!!!
So, one possible outcome of all this decision-making empowerment is, I just sent the same query to an agent (not just any agent, but the one I've been researching for six months) three times, that'll go over well, very professional. The other? I have been rejected by their e-mail system, not once, not twice, but three times from two different addresses. Only time will tell. In the meantime, anybody know a good agent?
I actually turned to it as I stared at a "continue with purchase" button on a travel-booking site Monday. It told me yes, and I proceeded. I am now officially spending Spring Break in Paris, France. Once I made the decision I felt nothing but relief. Although, I periodically go through buyer's remorse moments and fret about the stability of the world in general. France is God's world, too, and wherever I am, there is He also.
My plunge into international travel inspired me in other areas, and I finally got up the courage to submit my book query to an agent. Let me set up the scene. I've reviewed this agent's submission guidelines exhaustively, but I did it one more time last night. Their web site states that an immediate e-mail acknowledgment should follow your query submission. It instructs you to resubmit if you do not receive one. I did not get one, so I sent it again with a different subject line. Still no acknowledgement. I waited until this morning and sent it again from my work e-mail account. As of the drafting of this post, I have no acknowledgement in either inbox. However, after the third attempt, I read the agent's blog where she happened to have posted about the agency's query policy. She casually mentioned it sometimes takes a few days for the acknowledgement to appear. . . visualize me in a state of frenzied worry and panic. I strive for perfection when making Hamburger Helper. Doing something this important wrong is the stuff my nightmares are made of. . .!!!
So, one possible outcome of all this decision-making empowerment is, I just sent the same query to an agent (not just any agent, but the one I've been researching for six months) three times, that'll go over well, very professional. The other? I have been rejected by their e-mail system, not once, not twice, but three times from two different addresses. Only time will tell. In the meantime, anybody know a good agent?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
New habits are born easily
What foods did you hate and refuse to eat as a child? Mine were numerous: broccoli, spinach, tomatoes, onions, cottage cheese, sour cream, even mayonnaise. As an adult, all of these foods have become my favorites. I want spinach leaves on my sandwiches, tomatoes on my burgers, would jump through fire for crispy and delicious onion rings, love cottage cheese for breakfast, and you get the idea.
I found the same thing to be true with words. Certain parts of speech have meandered into my vocabulary quite suddenly. Like the word ‘foolish’. It’s not an uncommon or difficult word, but I never used it much (read: ever) as a child or teenager and now, it’s just poppin’ up everywhere. I’m sure this can be attributed to the fact that I am a WRITER and also an avid reader. Oh, and also, I grade approximately 300 pages a day (oh yes, I counted) in every core subject. There, that mystery is solved.
I cited these happenings in order to compare them to my life as a teacher. I now practice what my teachers preached. I embrace and enforce the rules I rejected and rebelled against. I subject my students to things that I hated my teachers for when I was growing up. And I went to public school. Within the private education setting, I know I have much more latitude when it comes to discipline (disclaimer: we do not practice corporal punishment). I am constantly telling students to tuck in shirts and change out of their P.E. shoes (part of our dress code). I daily assign detention for tardies and nail them for talking in class, failing to do homework, and a plethora of other things that I DID as a teenager.
The irony? I was much worse than any of them (I hope), and I’m quite afraid I will one day soon be blackmailed. I skipped class almost daily my senior year – all of my seniors, or senior wanabees, are quite motivated and dedicated to graduating on time, and therefore miss very little school. I don’t know much about my students’ “extracurricular activities” but none of the signs of alcohol or drug abuse/experimentation are there. It is a small school where my own sister attends. I know she isn’t involved in those things and she never alludes to any of her friends partaking, either. (Partaking, another one of those words.) However, as a high school student I spent my Fridays and Saturdays, and many weekdays, in places I had no business being, and as a result, I tend to be more suspicious of my students than is probably fair.
In closing, remember that one teacher you really didn’t like that was never, NEVER, sick? Mine was my senior chemistry teacher and she missed maybe one day the whole semester. I had a student the other day comment on how I am never out sick, and I’m not (and thank God because I don’t have insurance). Her words: “Ms. Rachel you’re never sick, you’re always here.” She didn’t mean it in an ugly way, she’s one of the students that can stand me. But what about the others? I ask this and chuckle to myself. That’s right, I come from very good stock and I will always be at work, ready to tell you to tuck your shirt, set your goals, stop talking at the computers, etc.
Some women turn into their mothers. I however, have turned into Mrs. Buckley, Room 318, Chemistry I.
I found the same thing to be true with words. Certain parts of speech have meandered into my vocabulary quite suddenly. Like the word ‘foolish’. It’s not an uncommon or difficult word, but I never used it much (read: ever) as a child or teenager and now, it’s just poppin’ up everywhere. I’m sure this can be attributed to the fact that I am a WRITER and also an avid reader. Oh, and also, I grade approximately 300 pages a day (oh yes, I counted) in every core subject. There, that mystery is solved.
I cited these happenings in order to compare them to my life as a teacher. I now practice what my teachers preached. I embrace and enforce the rules I rejected and rebelled against. I subject my students to things that I hated my teachers for when I was growing up. And I went to public school. Within the private education setting, I know I have much more latitude when it comes to discipline (disclaimer: we do not practice corporal punishment). I am constantly telling students to tuck in shirts and change out of their P.E. shoes (part of our dress code). I daily assign detention for tardies and nail them for talking in class, failing to do homework, and a plethora of other things that I DID as a teenager.
The irony? I was much worse than any of them (I hope), and I’m quite afraid I will one day soon be blackmailed. I skipped class almost daily my senior year – all of my seniors, or senior wanabees, are quite motivated and dedicated to graduating on time, and therefore miss very little school. I don’t know much about my students’ “extracurricular activities” but none of the signs of alcohol or drug abuse/experimentation are there. It is a small school where my own sister attends. I know she isn’t involved in those things and she never alludes to any of her friends partaking, either. (Partaking, another one of those words.) However, as a high school student I spent my Fridays and Saturdays, and many weekdays, in places I had no business being, and as a result, I tend to be more suspicious of my students than is probably fair.
In closing, remember that one teacher you really didn’t like that was never, NEVER, sick? Mine was my senior chemistry teacher and she missed maybe one day the whole semester. I had a student the other day comment on how I am never out sick, and I’m not (and thank God because I don’t have insurance). Her words: “Ms. Rachel you’re never sick, you’re always here.” She didn’t mean it in an ugly way, she’s one of the students that can stand me. But what about the others? I ask this and chuckle to myself. That’s right, I come from very good stock and I will always be at work, ready to tell you to tuck your shirt, set your goals, stop talking at the computers, etc.
Some women turn into their mothers. I however, have turned into Mrs. Buckley, Room 318, Chemistry I.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Crush
Remember that Jennifer Page song? It's just a little crush...
There's just something about having a crush that gives you butterflies, huh? It's far less satisfying than the feeling you get when you're in an actual, meaningful relationship, but it's still nice to have someone to look forward to seeing everyday - I know this is true for girls. So, it seems fitting this Valentine's Eve to talk about love, or like, anyway.
Usually, about spring time, I start getting nostalgic about past relationships, and I lose some of my passivity when it comes to dating. This year, it came a little early. Many of my friends and family (okay, most) don't know I did this. I kept it under wraps because it has an aroma of desperation, but, I recently subscribed to an on-line dating service. It didn't work out, and I've since cancelled the membership. However, for about three weeks, I talked to one person, and that non-reproducible, gives-you-butterflies, air of possibility hung thick around me. I met this person, and that feeling quickly evaporated. Proof that ignorance is bliss.
That was a few weeks ago and the nostalgia subsided. Now, though, thanks to the weather, it's making a comeback. Spring time brings the cool, but not too cool mornings that seem to lend a clarity and cleanness to the whole day. Oddly, (this is East Texas, so not really odd at all) those days have been a part of this February's meteorological tapestry. Lately, I've found myself driving with windows down and sun roof open listening to my favorite old crush songs. When I get home in the evenings, I want to go for runs and walks and get out in the boat, and I expect to smell the grill fired up, a sign that summer is approaching. I'm just happy these days, and I want to share it with someone. The analyst in me says that with spring comes renewal, therefore my animal instincts are kicking in telling me to be fruitful and multiply. I can assure you, I have no intention of acting on these instincts. I write it all off to spring fever, just looking for a new element to entertain me until summer gets here.
Although, another theory I have, this time around anyway, is that my book is influencing me. Is it possible to have a crush on a fictional character? I think it is. I've always had a thing for Rhett Butler. But what about a character I've created? This is erring on the side of schizophrenia, so I won't linger here long. The love interest in my book is a Puerto Rican district attorney and the personality (and looks) I've created for him makes me wish he was a real person. I guess that's a sign that my book is engaging. If I, as its creator, can get that wrapped up in the story as I'm writing it, it stands to reason others will, too.
Yet another explanation for this onslaught of mushiness, is that every acquaintance I've run into lately has asked me if I've gotten married. I used to get defensive about these inquiries, but now I shrug it off. I'm very happy with my life. I've been happy with it for quite some time, in spite of not being married or in a serious relationship. So, I really don't think that's the explanation, either.
The culprit is most definitely the time of year, the romance in the air, and I'm not complaining. I even worry that once I'm permanently attached, I won't get this feeling anymore. But, then I remember that I'm waiting for God to send Him, and whatever He has planned for me is so much better than anything I can find or produce on my own. In other words, something wonderful is on the way - even more wonderful than a crush.
There's just something about having a crush that gives you butterflies, huh? It's far less satisfying than the feeling you get when you're in an actual, meaningful relationship, but it's still nice to have someone to look forward to seeing everyday - I know this is true for girls. So, it seems fitting this Valentine's Eve to talk about love, or like, anyway.
Usually, about spring time, I start getting nostalgic about past relationships, and I lose some of my passivity when it comes to dating. This year, it came a little early. Many of my friends and family (okay, most) don't know I did this. I kept it under wraps because it has an aroma of desperation, but, I recently subscribed to an on-line dating service. It didn't work out, and I've since cancelled the membership. However, for about three weeks, I talked to one person, and that non-reproducible, gives-you-butterflies, air of possibility hung thick around me. I met this person, and that feeling quickly evaporated. Proof that ignorance is bliss.
That was a few weeks ago and the nostalgia subsided. Now, though, thanks to the weather, it's making a comeback. Spring time brings the cool, but not too cool mornings that seem to lend a clarity and cleanness to the whole day. Oddly, (this is East Texas, so not really odd at all) those days have been a part of this February's meteorological tapestry. Lately, I've found myself driving with windows down and sun roof open listening to my favorite old crush songs. When I get home in the evenings, I want to go for runs and walks and get out in the boat, and I expect to smell the grill fired up, a sign that summer is approaching. I'm just happy these days, and I want to share it with someone. The analyst in me says that with spring comes renewal, therefore my animal instincts are kicking in telling me to be fruitful and multiply. I can assure you, I have no intention of acting on these instincts. I write it all off to spring fever, just looking for a new element to entertain me until summer gets here.
Although, another theory I have, this time around anyway, is that my book is influencing me. Is it possible to have a crush on a fictional character? I think it is. I've always had a thing for Rhett Butler. But what about a character I've created? This is erring on the side of schizophrenia, so I won't linger here long. The love interest in my book is a Puerto Rican district attorney and the personality (and looks) I've created for him makes me wish he was a real person. I guess that's a sign that my book is engaging. If I, as its creator, can get that wrapped up in the story as I'm writing it, it stands to reason others will, too.
Yet another explanation for this onslaught of mushiness, is that every acquaintance I've run into lately has asked me if I've gotten married. I used to get defensive about these inquiries, but now I shrug it off. I'm very happy with my life. I've been happy with it for quite some time, in spite of not being married or in a serious relationship. So, I really don't think that's the explanation, either.
The culprit is most definitely the time of year, the romance in the air, and I'm not complaining. I even worry that once I'm permanently attached, I won't get this feeling anymore. But, then I remember that I'm waiting for God to send Him, and whatever He has planned for me is so much better than anything I can find or produce on my own. In other words, something wonderful is on the way - even more wonderful than a crush.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Three-day weekend, sort of
I contracted a demon stomach virus last week – so not by choice I checked out at 3:30 Thursday. I never got sick in the “classic sense” one thinks of when a stomach bug is involved, and for that I am most grateful, though I still begged my mother to give me intravenous drugs of some kind to knock me out. My skin hurt, my stomach hurt, and it sucked. I was awakened at 3 a.m. Friday to the sound of frogs outside my bedroom window. I sat up and listened, listened some more, then realized the sound was not coming from my amphibian friends. It was coming from my stomach. Something dark and unnatural was going on in my intestines, and I was dripping buckets of sweat, so I reached over and reset the alarm to 7:30, just in time to call in sick, or if I happened to be cured within the next five hours, call in to say I would be really late. I stayed home. There are some things you just don’t screw around with, and the risk of, well, I stayed home.
Ordinarily I love couch time. I had couch time on Friday. About 3:00 my brain was tired of couch time, though, but I didn’t feel well enough to walk around and do anything about it. I hadn’t had much to eat because everything my lips touched sent debilitating pain ripping through my abdomen. (Side note: The guy who brought the virus to work, quit on Friday. Chicken. He knew what was coming.) So, I just remained on the couch, in pain, I went to bed, in pain, and I woke up Saturday morning, in pain. But, to alleviate said pain, I went to the boardwalk in Shreveport with the parents, Rebekah and my Aunt Sheri and Uncle Larry. We rounded out the day by going to visit Sheri’s parents. Her mother is awesome. For those of you who think Texas is crazy, you should spend some time in Louisiana. They’re a breed apart, must be the gumbo. Her mom has been in a wheelchair for several years, I’m not sure why, but she is just the sweetest lady. So, we’re all sitting out on the porch and I mentioned the concealed handgun license class and the conversation briefly turned to firearms.
Sheri said, “I’d like to take a class and get that license.”
“Yeah, me, too” I replied. “But. I have to get a semi-automatic first, because - ”
“Oh, I want one of those, like my mama has,” said Sheri, as she pointed to her mother pulling a small pouch out of her wheelchair pocket.
I surveyed the pouch and considered the possible contents - manicure kit? Nope. Collapsible .22.
That’s freakin’ cool. You might think an older lady, confined to a wheelchair, alone during the day in a rural area would be vulnerable to hoodlums and such. Not this lady – she’s shot at people before and she’ll do it again. She also said if she had to shoot someone in the street, she would, then she’d drag them into her front yard and claim the blood trail was arterial spray. She probably has rope in that wheelchair pocket just for the purpose of a wheelchair body tow.
I’m considering writing a blog, shoot I could probably write a whole book, on things you only see and hear in the South. This story would make the cut, as would this observation: Why do people down here use Confederate flags as window treatments?
Ordinarily I love couch time. I had couch time on Friday. About 3:00 my brain was tired of couch time, though, but I didn’t feel well enough to walk around and do anything about it. I hadn’t had much to eat because everything my lips touched sent debilitating pain ripping through my abdomen. (Side note: The guy who brought the virus to work, quit on Friday. Chicken. He knew what was coming.) So, I just remained on the couch, in pain, I went to bed, in pain, and I woke up Saturday morning, in pain. But, to alleviate said pain, I went to the boardwalk in Shreveport with the parents, Rebekah and my Aunt Sheri and Uncle Larry. We rounded out the day by going to visit Sheri’s parents. Her mother is awesome. For those of you who think Texas is crazy, you should spend some time in Louisiana. They’re a breed apart, must be the gumbo. Her mom has been in a wheelchair for several years, I’m not sure why, but she is just the sweetest lady. So, we’re all sitting out on the porch and I mentioned the concealed handgun license class and the conversation briefly turned to firearms.
Sheri said, “I’d like to take a class and get that license.”
“Yeah, me, too” I replied. “But. I have to get a semi-automatic first, because - ”
“Oh, I want one of those, like my mama has,” said Sheri, as she pointed to her mother pulling a small pouch out of her wheelchair pocket.
I surveyed the pouch and considered the possible contents - manicure kit? Nope. Collapsible .22.
That’s freakin’ cool. You might think an older lady, confined to a wheelchair, alone during the day in a rural area would be vulnerable to hoodlums and such. Not this lady – she’s shot at people before and she’ll do it again. She also said if she had to shoot someone in the street, she would, then she’d drag them into her front yard and claim the blood trail was arterial spray. She probably has rope in that wheelchair pocket just for the purpose of a wheelchair body tow.
I’m considering writing a blog, shoot I could probably write a whole book, on things you only see and hear in the South. This story would make the cut, as would this observation: Why do people down here use Confederate flags as window treatments?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Scientific Discovery
There was HUGE, BIRD-LIKE DINOSAUR discovered in China, well its fossil anyway. Guess what they named it?
Gigantoraptor.
Enough said.
Gigantoraptor.
Enough said.
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