Things That Make You Go "Ehhh?"

For...reasons...which are neither crucial to this post nor probably very interesting to you, I have a project that requires me to look through a lot of stock photography. Much of that stock photography involves children, babies, and families in holiday regalia. The vast majority of these photos bother me in some way. A few even make me physically uncomfortable. Not like, in an explicit or inappropriate way. Like in a "I folded a newborn baby in half, stuck him in an old wooden chest with his head hanging out the side and propped the lid in a precarious and ALARMING manner over his soft spot and then walked several feet away and busied both of my hands with an expensive piece of equipment" kind of way. Also, occasionally, in a "there is a GIANT flower strapped to this baby's head and we're all trying really hard to pretend it doesn't look like a sentient tumor" kind of way.

Sometimes, the babies are old enough to reach out and put things in their mouths and they are posed with a million tiny choking hazards on a blanket on a set and just...left there. Now, do I truly believe these babies are in any danger? Not really. Probably, the mom is hovering nervously right out of the shot and will leap to the baby's rescue the second the flash goes off. BUT! 

If I were, say, to put one of these images on my company's Christmas card, what kind of emotions will it evoke? Will people think, "Ooooh, sweet little Christmas baby!" or will they think "DEAR GOD! Who thought it was a good idea to wrap a string of Christmas lights around an eight-month-old's neck and allow her to chew on a glass ornament?!" 

Maybe I'm crazy, but I would fall firmly into the second camp. I know I would, because I am the one looking at these images and I am thinking these exact things. Which is probably obvious, but I feel like stating it anyway. My first response to some of these images is physical discomfort, worry, or stress. I don't think I have an anxiety problem (although this could be a sign of one, I suppose). I'm generally a pretty even keeled sort of person most days. And they ook me out.

Now, the entire point of stock images is for use in situations when you want to convey something--put a smiling child with perfectly straight, pearly white teeth on the banner of your pediatric dentist website and you have conveyed that people should bring their children to you so that they, too, can have perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. An image of someone with a solemn, pensive expression is meant to make us feel solemn and pensive. We all get this, right?  It's simple advertising. 

So when the props you use or the way you pose the person or even the angle of the shot DISTRACTS me from the message you're tying to convey, it's not a very good shot, right? I mean, I'm assuming you're not trying to make me anxious and squirmy and pleasegivemethatbabyrightnowyouirresponsiblecrazyperson. So why are you selling this photo to a stock photo place? And why are the stock photo places buying these shots? And DEAR GOD WHY are these stock photo places trying to sell them to me?

This also goes for the truly horrifying Photoshop fails. The baby floating randomly through an animated starlit sky. The clothing added or changed to suit the "purpose" of the shot. Oh, you need a screaming kid at Easter AND a screaming kid at Christmas? I'll use my super secret stealth skills to erase the bunny ears and add this too-large and oddly lit Santa hat on top of his blotchy red tear-stained face! What. I especially like what I'm calling the Conglomerate Shot: That rattle in her hand? NOT REALLY THERE. The bench she's sitting on? MADE OF IMAGINATION. That dog playing poker? BORROWED HIM FROM C. M. COOLIDGE. That park she's sitting in? WHAT ARE YOU, NEW? The baby's real though. 100% real. Weeeeeell, okay, like 95% real. Once I got rid of her blemishes. And added a sparkle to her eye. And skimmed off some of that "chub." At least 30% of that baby is the same as the baby who came to my studio.

OH! AND! The "selective colorization" technique? Just stop. A baby on a white blanket wearing only a white diaper and a Santa hat? Fine, cute, whatever. Selectively colorize only the Santa Hat? Great job! It now looks like the baby isn't breathing. 

Never. do. that. again.

And while I'm here in Random Rant Central, I would like to make the case that people's personal Christmas photos, INCLUDING THEIR LAST NAME AND THE YEAR, are maaaaayyyyybe not stock photo material. I mean, I cannot think of a situation where someone would buy that. "Look honey! They're the Michaelsons, too. You know how much the kids hate sitting for photos. And, while they look nothing like us and have three more kids than we do, I bet our relatives don't really look at these anyway. Let's just save some money this year and send this one out instead. I mean, the year's wrong, but if they don't notice we've suddenly become Chinese, I bet they won't see the 2012 there either." Huh, I guess I CAN. I just can't think of a situation where someone would buy that AND that would also be a REAL situation.  

Some of these pictures are just...crap. There's no better way to put it. The posed family photo where the oldest child is looking off to the left and no one else is in focus? Why purpose could that possibly serve in a publication or on a website or on a flyer. "Bruno's Cheapcheap Photography: at least I'me not as bad as the guy who took THIS." The shot where the baby's face is completely in shadow and nothing coordinates and I'm pretty sure I can see the photographer's right thumb in the lower left-hand corner? Probably not the one you send in for the real cash money, I'm thinking.

I've been needing to take breaks from this project all day, about five to ten minutes in, because my arm waving becomes detrimental to my blood pressure and my work space. It's making it very difficult to get anything done today. I find myself uttering, "What? Oh, okay, maybe. No, wait, what?" A lot. Like the four pregnant women hanging out in bras and booty shorts, showing off their naked bellies and wrapping each other in Christmas garland. Sure, that looks like a normal Tuesday afternoon to me! Or the same baby Photoshopped next to itself in a row of three, each with a Photoshopped pacifier in a different color and one with a Photoshopped Santa hat. Don't believe me? Here. Many of these would qualify for Awkward Family Photos. Except they're Awkward Family Photos You Can Pay To Use As Your Own Photos. Because America, that's why.

The Crazy Boss Thing Started Early

Niece is currently napping, so I think it's a prime opportunity to post something. On a side note, has anyone ever researched the sedative properties of breast milk? Because this kid only nurses at nap time and bed time anymore, but it only takes about four minutes before she is in a FULL-ON MILK COMA. Sister-In-Law tells me it's just the combination of filling her tummy, comfort, and making her STOP MOVING long enough to fall asleep. And while that sounds reasonable and logical, I have further suspicions...

Anyway, moving on. A'Dell posted today about her first job and asked for other people's stories. And while I'm sure you are all SICK by now of hearing about my last two awful bosses and the crazy situations they put me in, I've never told you about my early years as a Productive Member of the Workforce.

Technically, my first job was babysitting. I started when I was twelve or thirteen, I think. Mostly a few hours an afternoon every once in a while during the summer--nothing that required more skill than watchful eyes and the ability to open PlayDoh containers. It was around that time that I started helping out in the nursery at church, so I feel like I've been taking care of babies and kids practically my whole life. I think this only fed my baby-fever from an early age.

When I was fourteen, my brother (who was sixteen at the time) worked for an ice cream shop--one that specializes in mixing the ice cream with various treats on a stone slab right in front of you. I'm sure you can guess which one, but I'm not going to say the name and you'll understand why in a moment. I would often accompany my mom when she dropped off or picked up my brother from work (he had his license, but limited access to the car) and the owner seemed to like me a lot. So one day, she offered me a job. I worked there from September 2001 until February 2002.

Now, fourteen is a VERY young age to start working at a real job that required a W2 and all that. In fact, it was the youngest you could work in my state and I was only allowed to work for three hours at a time, only nine hours a week, and I could not be scheduled after 9:00 pm. But I had a REAL JOB. And for a little while, I loved it! We got free ice cream every shift and I felt grown up and responsible and I had MONEY that was my VERY OWN and all of that.

And then. I began to realize that the owners were kind of off their rockers. They played mind games. They played favorites. They change their minds and changed favorites. They unexpectedly cut or added hours. They might have even stolen tips... They were just slightly unhinged. When my brother and I needed time off for a family vacation at Christmas, they messed around with our hours and threatened not to let us have the time off, which was stupid because my parents had already purchased plane tickets so the most they were going to accomplish was to force us to quit, not give up our vacation. Then, at the "Business Christmas Party," which happened to be the night before we were flying out, the owner wished us well and hoped the plane would crash.

No, that was not a typo. I didn't mean she hoped the plane wouldn't crash. And remember, this was December 2001. Three months after the biggest terrorist attack this country has ever seen that utilized AIRPLANES as its weapons. And she HOPES THE PLANE CARRYING TWO YOUNG TEENS AND THEIR FAMILY (and about 100 other people unconnected to her) WOULD CRASH. And then she laughed and laughed as if this was not the most terrifying thing our young minds could think of at the time. Needless to say, we both quit soon after.

My next job was working for some family friends who were photographers. The husband did scenic/landscape photography and his wife took pictures of dogs. For calendars. And coffee mugs. What? It's a LEGITIMATE BUSINESS. I swear. She made a profit and everything. They ran their businesses out of their home and, as sad as I am to perpetuate this stereotype about Far North, their home was a log cabin. Which meant it was drafty. And the office was in the basement. Most of us called it the Dungeon. And we would often wear two or three layers with gloves. In the summertime...

Anyway, the wife was a student teacher in Sister's 4th (?) grade class before she married the photographer and that's how we got to know them. Eventually, all of us kids worked for them at one time or another, doing basic office work, like filing the photographs and keeping up the database. But I was the only one who go to do the BEST part of the job. You see, the wife had JUST gotten into the dog photography when I was hired (she gave up teaching to spend time with her husband, who had to travel a lot for his artwork). She built a studio above their garage and had all of this miniature furniture and set dressings and costumes.

And my job in all of this? To stand behind her camera and jump up and down while making ridiculous noises to get the dogs to look at me. But not TOO much noise, because we didn't want the dog to leave the set and chase me. JUST ENOUGH to look up and let her get a good shot. This is a skill I do NOT list on my resume. As you can imagine, this did not turn out to be my life's passion or fulfilling work, so I moved on to other things, although I did go back and work for them in the summers during college, for some extra cash.

Then, for most of my sophomore and junior years of high school, I did occupational and behavioral therapy for a high-functioning autistic boy in my church. This was one of the most rewarding and most exhausting jobs I have ever had and I have an enormous amount of respect for both the parents of those on the spectrum and for those who live their lives on the spectrum. The little boy was almost four when I started working with him, about 12 hours a week, and he was one of the cutest and sweetest kids I have ever known. I worked with 3-5 therapists, his parents, and his doctor and I learned an incredible amount about parenting, autism, and life in general. My senior year was going to be hectic, due to my over-achieving ways, so I quit at the end of the summer. In some ways, it was a relief, since the mom could be difficult and I spent a lot of time babysitting the siblings while also trying to do therapy (not helpful for anyone). But in other ways, I missed it a great deal.

All the other jobs I took during college and after are too intertwined with the secrets I'm keeping from you and from Google (mostly from Google), so I can't talk much about them. But I will tell you that, despite the fact that these experiences shaped who I am and I wouldn't trade them for a second, none of these jobs have anything to do with what I do now. Or what I used to do. Six months ago. Before I quit doing it. Temporarily. I think...

But if you were to ask me what my dream job is, it would probably include more of those jobs and the skills they taught me than my current occupation: a stay-at-home-mom who eats ice cream with her kids and takes photos of her dog and also her kids and maybe even does volunteer work for spectrum disorders. That would be a pretty sweet life!

What about you? What were your first jobs like? Did they start you on the path you're on now or just fill your pocket for the summer?

My Failures and Potential-Failures So Far This Week

Here is a blog in unrelated paragraphs. Because I am a REALLY GREAT blogger. 

NaNoWriMo ends on Wednesday... I only have 40,000 words and things are not going well in my plot. I really want to finish, but failure feels eminent. I am regretting every plot choice I ever made. So, you know, nothing really new.

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I restarted WeightWatchers today. I'm not going to go to meetings anymore, because all the ones near me are so lame that they make me want to cry or hit someone, which is not really conducive to losing weight. I think this was part of the reason I did so badly the last time--I hated going to my meetings and, therefore, began to resent the plan altogether. Well, that and my soul crushing job with saboteurs. Instead, I plan to weigh myself at home every Monday between 9:00-10:00 am and do all my tracking online. I've done really well so far today with the points. Also, when I weighed in this morning, I was so afraid I would be heavier than my original starting weight from 3 years ago (which was over 300 lbs) and have been mentally preparing for the awful number. Praise Jesus, I am not over 300 lbs! But it's close enough. So it's a good thing I'm starting again.

However, I got an e-mail from WeightWatchers today that said that the program would be changing next Monday. I have to say, I got a little bit pissed. On the one hand, how could they know that I was planning on restarting exactly one week before they changed everything? They couldn't. So calm down, self. But on the other hand? They changed the plan around Thanksgiving last year in such a major way that I basically threw my hands in the air and gave up. So to get that e-mail on the Morning of My Renewed Commitment To Avoid Being Fat was slightly discouraging. But I bucked up, because it's either go with the flow or be 700 lbs by the time I'm 30. I think you can see this was not a terribly difficult choice.

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Sister and I have finally finished LOST. It took us longer than most shows, but I think it was worth it. I've loved that show for a long time and Sister seemed to enjoy it, too. I know a lot of people hated the ending, but I thought it was kind of poetic and beautiful (even if it IS diametrically opposed to most of my personal theology) and had a nice symmetry with the pilot episode. Also, I'm not sure how they could have worked it out with any kind of closure with the rate that they killed people off, except for the way that they did it. So, in pathetic summation of a not-really review, Sister and I enjoyed it.

We had kind of already moved on to the most recent season of Big Bang Theory in the middle of the sixth season, just to lighten things up, so we finished that on the same day. We were wondering what to jump into next, since we have both now seen every single episode of every single show we own on DVD. But then I bought the first season of White Collar and we're back in business. For another twenty episodes, at least. Then hopefully we'll get something new for Christmas or we'll find something on good sale and be off again. Or there's always rewatching... West Wing, perhaps?

But I could use suggestions in the comments, if you guys have a TV show you like and want to share.

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Remember when I told you about how our furnace was acting like a melodramatic emo teen girl? Well, we seem to have fixed it. Except that it still FEELS about 67 degrees in here, but the thermostat SAYS it's 70. I think we may have reached the secretive and lying teenager phase.

Also, every once in a while, there will be a really hot smell coming from the vents. Like when you turn the furnace on at the end of the summer and it has to burn away some of the dust, since it hasn't been used in a long time? Except that NO, furnace, you were on TEN MINUTES AGO--there should be no accumulated dust to burn off. So Sister and I periodically have to run around like crazy people and climb into the half-basement to make sure the HOUSE IS NOT BURNING DOWN (because the one time we don't check, it will be...). So I think we have also made it to the "Teen smokes periodically and secretively in the basement" phase.

Pretty soon, I expect the heating vents to start yelling things like "You're ruining my life!" and "YOU! Are a MURDERER! Of LOVE!!!!"

[Name that quote and I'll make you my BFF for a day.]

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Last week, I used one of my favorite insulated polka-dot cups to make myself iced coffee, which was DELICIOUS. But I forgot to wash it out and the last tiny bit of coffe-milk and the melted icecubes have sat in it getting really nasty for several days. Because I keep these things all around the house with water in them, I didn't notice for a little while. LUCKILY, I did not try to drink it--I think I just gagged a little even thinking about it. But it was pretty gross when I opened it, so I had to scrub it really well with hot water and a lot of soap--something I don't do very often if all it carries is water.

EXCEPT?

I totally forgot that Sister had replaced the sponge on our little scrubby thing (you know the kind, with the scrubby sponge and the liquid soap all conveniently stored in the handle?). And the scrubby part of the sponge was all EXTRA BRAND NEW SCRUBBY and I totally scratched the heck out of the inside of my cup. As in, it's no longer transparent, only translucent. In a sad sad translucent way. And every time I go to take a sip of water, it makes me sad. And a little mad at myself for not seeing this coming.

I think my world has gotten really small since I quit my job....


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Do you remember when I told you that Satan's Cat has started watching the ice dispenser on the fridge for drips because of that one time I overfilled a cup and she thought the dripping water was a toy? You don't? Well, I'm not going to link to the post, because I'm pretty sure that story is an obscure side-reference anyway and you'll be all confused when you click on the link and the post is all about me quitting my job. So, just remember that she used to watch for drips to chase.

Well, now, she also wants ice cubes. I'm not sure what she thinks she'll do with it if we were to give her one. Sister thinks she might like to chase it across the wood floor and is afraid of it getting stuck somewhere and melting and warping the floor. I think she's more creative than that. Maybe she's trying to make herself a Jack & Coke. We are totally kitty-buzz-kills. And? If she's satanic normally, I fear what she would be like with lowered inhibitions.

Anyway, every time we run the ice dispenser, she comes running and then stands under it crying when we don't let her have one. We have turned the tiny kitty tables on her though. Anytime we need to leave and she's hiding to avoid being put away (it's not like that has EVER kept her from being put away, but it has occasionally made us late for things, so I guess she's still winning), we just run the dispenser for a moment and she appears, as if by magic.

There was one day recently that we couldn't find her anywhere. None of her usual hiding places were occupied, she hadn't gotten locked in the laundry room, she was NOWHERE. We were wandering around, kind of bemused as to where she could have squirreled herself away, because there was NOWHERE we hadn't looked. Then I ran the ice machine and there she was. Magic Cat.

We're hoping that if we do this enough, she will learn our trick and stop showing up at the fridge when we want ice. It might make her harder to find in a time crunch, but we're really tired of making ourselves something to drink with an angry cat blocking the fridge.

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Okay, now that I've warmed myself up on this failure of a blog post, I think I'll try my hand at noveling. Again. Only 10,000 more words to go and I still haven't gotten them CLOSE to being in love. I am THE BEST AUTHOR EVER!

Has anyone SEEN my list, by the way? It's a piece of paper and it says, "Ross" on it...

Now that Thanksgiving has passed and people have celebrated their gratitude by getting into fights at WalMart, the Christmas season is apparently upon us. And every year, around this time, Mom asks me very nicely for a Christmas list. And I tell her I will give it to her. Days and/or weeks later, she kindly reminds me again. I make a mental note to send her one, but I write it on some kind of off-brand mental post-it note that has really poor sticking quality. In order to avoid that frustration this year, I've decided to put it right here on the blog, since she reads it every day.

Elise's Christmas List 2011:

          1. One husband. Of the Christian variety, 6'2" or larger. Preferably with a steady income source and the ability to string together more than six words at a time.

          2. One baby. With a layaway option on 3 more over the next 8-10 years (like a savings bond). Please keep in mind that #1 is a prerequisite.

          3. One job. Preferably one that allows me to work from home and/or one without substantial mental and spiritual trauma.

          4. One last phone call to Nana.

          5. One teleportation device with portals near Roommate, Big Brother(and therefore Sister-In-Law and Niece), and the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii.

          6. One hundred pairs of yoga pants, black.

          7. One license to wear yoga pants in public without shame or mockery.

          8. One rear end that looks good in yoga pants.

          9. One Magic Digestive System that only absorbs the amount of calories necessary for the day and ignores the rest.

         10. Umm.... Oh yeah! That World Peace thingy. Because, why not?



I'm not sure which stores carry these items (except for #6--Target has TALL yoga pants), but see what you can do. Otherwise, I'd really like Sims 3 Pets. It's up to you, really. Whichever....




[I apologize for the obscure FRIENDS quote as the title of today's post. It's mostly for Sister. And a little bit for Temerity Jane. So if you didn't get it, just ignore it. Or go watch FRIENDS. Your life will be more complete if you do...]

Apparently I Enjoy Labeling My Furniture

I posted this picture last night on twitter:

The Essentials of Writing

I called it The Essentials of Writing (as my "clever" caption denotes). And, in the spirit of my nightstand, I'm going to label the heck out of this picture and tell you more details about my writing process than any of you probably care to know.

I know I've been posting about NaNoWriMo and writing in general a lot recently. And I would apologize to those of you who are not writers, but my content is almost always useless information anyway, so you kind of knew that when you signed up. Or, well, kept coming back. Which I thank you for, by the way. You guys are the best readers a girl could ask for and I'm totally grateful. I only sound like a jerk in my writing. Which is always. Oops. Er... Whatever. The only other post topic that I can think of is a really sad story and I'm not up for it today. So you get heavily labeled photos and bad writing advice instead. Deal?

So, without further ado or continued jerkiness on my part, here's the labeled picture:

The Essentials of Writing, now with excessive labels.

Let's just jump right in, shall we?

1. Night/darkness, when I do my best writing. Which is why most of you don't see my new posts until the next day.
2. Skullcandy Pipe and iPod Nano. Set to an instrumental playlist, including my lullaby by Josh Kelly ("23"). Not that he wrote is specifically for me or anything like that (I wish!). But you got that, right? Every once in a while, I set it to a different style to influence my mood and put me in a character's headspace, especially when I needed to access my ANGER or my DEVASTATION buttons.
3. Candles. Smelly, flaming ambiance setters. This particular one is by Chesapeake Bay Candles and is "Jasmine Lily" flavored. Or scented. Whatever. I'm also burn their "Tropical Escape" jar candle. And another (tiny) jar candle by someone else (the label fell off) called "Garden Rain." All at the same time. This is so detailed in case would like your home to smell the exact same variety of what-the-crap-is-this? as mine does.
4. Soft light from a (cheap, Target variety) torchiere lamp. Also an ambiance setter.  I have two on either end of the couch and I put them on their lowest setting and turn out all the other lights. Except the candles. Of course.
5. Down (probably fake down) throw blanket that is soft and warm, but never long enough to cover all of me. So I put it on my lap and wear a sweater. Because writing makes my toes cold. Okay, life makes my toes cold. My future husband is in for a real treat in the middle of the night; they're like flesh-covered ice cubes.
6. The ever present, all magical PURPLE COUCH. I really don't need to say more than that, right?
7. Old pillows too flat and lumpy to be on my bed anymore, covered in nice silver pillowcases and repurposed as throw pillows. For the back support, not for napping. Rarely for napping. Okay, sometimes for napping.
8. The Laptop of Sketchy Internet Connection and Impossible to Find Apostrophe Key. I swear, all week, I've been writing crap like "don;t" "won;t" "it;s" and "Fischer;s." It's like someone MOVED it on me! Or my right pinky is suddenly deformed... Anyway, as I'm sure you're all aware, this is where all the Writing Magic happens. And by magic, I mean drivel.
9. Handy-dandy laptop desk with adjustable/foldable legs and mouse-pad-area-thingy. Mainly used when sitting upright (okay, mostly playing Sims 3), not lounging. Which is how I usually write. Still incredibly helpful, though.
10. Orange 4G USB drive. I would make some comment about using this to back up my work like a responsible adult writer. But mostly, I just use this to move old, bad writing from my old, bad computer and put it next to my newer, less-bad writing on my newer, less-bad laptop.
11. Beautiful mahogany side-table Foldable TV tray useful for holding beverages. Or laundry. Or a cat.
12. Teapot. This teapot was left to me by my Nana, who was brilliant and classy and loving and witty and slightly crazy (in the best, most creative way possible) and always wished I would grow up to be a lawyer. Who recently passed away and is the subject of that sad post I'm not willing to write right now. Who was also the leader of our tea party shenanigans and who, I hope, would love that I was writing a novel about a brilliant and classy and loving and witty and slightly crazy woman named Colbie. This teapot adds immeasurable inspiration to my writing, er, nook? cubby? couch? Writing SPACE: Inspired by Teapot, coming to a room near you...
13. Sweet 'N Low packets. For the tea. They'll probably kill me some day, but so will diabetes if I don;t get my sugar intake under control. (I'm totally leaving that "don;t" typo, just to show you I wasn't kidding in number 8)
14. My handy new ceramic mug with a silicon lid, which looks like an average to-go cup, but is washable and reusable and makes me happy. I cannot really explain why. But I love it. So it goes writing with me.
15. My handy insulated cold cup, when the tea is too warm or isn't quenching actual thirst. I love this thing so much that I bought two. This one has green and yellow polka-dots. The other one has red polka-dots. They were $4 each. Did I mention I love them?
16. Spot where my missing bottle of wine and polka-dot wine glass should be. But the wine glasses have not arrived from Pampered Chef yet, even though my consultant friend said it would only take four days and it's been a week and a half. Or two? I'm not sure. Begin unemployed means I don;t (SEE?!) know what day it is. Whatever the case, I did not have wine anyway. It made me sad. But without wine to be had and only normal, non-polka-dotty wine glasses to drink it out of, I was stuck. So, imagine there was wine. I know I did.

So that's where I write. What about you guys? If you're a blogger, what do you need to have around you to get it all done. What about you novelists? And for those of you who don't write, tell me about your hobbies and the stuff you need to get them done. I like hearing about you guys even more than I like writing inane trivia about myself.

Necessary Inventions, Unnecessary Details, and Tea

I'm kind of stuck in my novel right now, so I thought I'd change the channel on my mental TV and tell you guys a story.

There once was a girl who was unemployed, single, and childless who decided to write a book. She failed. She remained unemployed, single, and childless for the rest of her life. The end.

Just kidding! It's actually going well. Or it's going okay... I'm not exactly sure. This is one of the first times I've just let the characters lead me, instead of having a plot and trying to make it all happen. I think this is a better way, but it totally makes me sound a little crazy when I say things like, "I didn't know you were in the ARMY!" or "How the heck did you end up in a crime scene? I thought I was writing a romance, not a crime thriller!" But at least it keeps things interesting.

In that vein, I have an invention, a service of sorts, that I would like one of you to develop. Preferably in the next week or so. It would be like the Butterball Hotline (which they apparently call the Butterball Turkey Talk-Line, but I'm not getting paid by them or anything, so I'm going to be lazy and leave it as it is), but instead of free advice on cooking turkeys, it would be free advice/brainstorming help with other writers who have no agenda, but simply want to help you discover what's already in your own mind. It would go something like this:

CHRIS: Writer's Block Hotline, my name is Chris. How may I help you?

CALLER: I'm writing a book. It's kind of a romance, but it's set during World War I and is really more of a mystery/whodunnit. 

CHRIS: Okay, I'm sending you over to Brenda over in Historical Fiction. She's our resident expert on World War I. She'll set you up on a conference call with Debbie, one of our romance novelists, and Peter, who has sold over a million copies of his latest mystery "Who Didn't Shoot J.R.?" They'll help you talk out your plot points and see if we can't some new synapses firing. Please hold.

That? Would be AWESOME. So somebody get on that, would you? I'll be over here, trying to figure out if I'm dealing with a serial killer, a disgruntled lover, or a time machine.

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This is really apropos of nothing (when has that EVER stopped me?), except that I mentioned the Butterball Hotline and so now I ask you to go watch this clip, which ranks pretty high on the list of my all-time favorite West Wing moments. No, seriously. Go watch it. Now. I'll wait.

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Did you watch it? I thought you might not. Seriously, go watch it and I'll wait right here.

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Also in novel-related news (if one can squeeze "odd factoid about Elise" into a the category "news"), I have recently found a tea that I love quite a bit. Now, I grew up drinking tea all the time. My Nana was a tea enthusiast and we had tea parties (actual tea parties, not political rallies, which I guess makes me a tea hipster or something, since I was tea partying before it was cool... or something...).

Anyway, while I was on relocation this year, I discovered a new tea. Bigelow: Green Tea with Lemon (And I'm not sure why they feel the need to specify it as gluten-free. I was unaware that was a common tea ingredient, but, then again, I've never lived with a food allergy, so no complaints or anything). Now here's the "odd factoid about Elise" part: I don't like green tea and I NEVER take my tea with lemon. But for some VERY strange reason, this tea is DELICIOUS to me. It might be gluten-free, but I fear it's not crack-free... This stuff is addictive.

And before you ask, yes. I did think that maybe my tastes had changed and I have tried both green tea and also other teas with lemon. Still gross. But? This tea still tastes good. I'm pretty sure it will become the one of my Writing Staples. Not like the metal things that will fasten together papers that I've written on--tea leaves make extraordinarily poor binding agents. I mean that this tea will probably become something that I need to have to help me write. Like some people need a giant bowl of M&Ms and others need particular music. But I think you probably got that, huh? Moving on.

***********

I know I'm not usually one to talk about current TV shows (much) or give away spoilers or anything. but can I just say, "Private Practice, where are you GOING with this? ANY OF THIS? Because I don't think it's any place good and I'm not sure I want to go with you..."? Because all of those things need to be said and I have a blog, so I'm saying them. And I apologize to any of you who are enjoying the current season or are waiting for it to come out on DVD. Please don't let my rant spoil your good time. I may not know what I'm talking about. All I know is that I needed to say these things and I happen to have a platform. So, yeah. Done with that...

***********

I hinted at it in yesterday's post and I'm only going to hint about it again. My former job is not as former as I would like it to be. There are certain circumstances, which have to remain secret (both for the original Rules reasons, but also because what is happening is kind of confidential), that have my blood pressure rising and are reminding me of all the reasons I quit in the first place. It also been a pretty good reminder that I really don't want to be in that particular section of my field for a good long while, so this may have answered my quandaries about a possible job offer I vaguely alluded to in a DIFFERENT post. 

That whole paragraph has served as nothing but a waste of your time, probably, because of how vague I have to be and I maybe shouldn't even post this because you don't know what I'm saying and it doesn't really help me to say it so vaguely, but I'm going to leave it because I typed it and I'm supposed to be ignoring my delete button this month for NaNoWriMo and I would hate to get into a bad habit so early in the game. So chalk this up to another "Unnecessary Detail" and forget I said anything, okay.

Someday, I hope I'm able to tell you all of these secrets I'm keeping. Except that by the time that happens (if ever), it probably won't be interesting to any of us anymore, so it would be kind of anticlimactic anyway. So, sorry for that. And for the above paragraph. Again.

**********

I'm going to Brother and Sister-In-Law's house for dinner tonight with the whole family. We have to leave in an hour and I'm not wearing any pants. Okay, I'm wearing yoga pants. But I always say, "If you're not allowed to wear them out of the house, they don't really count as pants." This dinner thing means I have a perfectly valid excuse for not reaching my word count goal for today. Except that I was already behind. So EVEN THOUGH it is COMPLETELY LEGITIMATE, I'm having a little bit of The Guilt. So I should end this post and see how much further I can get before pants are no longer optional. 

Have a good night and a good weekend. I'll see you all tomorrow!

**********

[I was not paid by Butterball Turkeys, NBC, Aaron Sorkin , Bigelow Teas, ABC, Shonda Rhimes, or Vague Job Industries for any of the preceding statements. I have not, at any time, received compensation for statements I have made on this blog, unless you count Sister slipping me a twenty to keep me from telling embarrassing stories about her (which actually never happened... the stories or the twenty). All of the opinions expressed on this blog are the sole opinions of the writer and probably not even that. No one would pay me to type this drivel. But if the would, I'd totally take it. As long as the didn't ask me to do any REAL work....]

 

Today's Word Count: 1560

Monthly Total: 4887

If You've Never Seen LOST and You Want To (Or You Couldn't Care Less About LOST), This Post Is Not For You

I'm going to have to make this a quick post today, because I have somewhere to be in an hour. But I didn't want to lose the momentum I've built up over the last...er... two days. Um... Yes, well, moving ON.

As many of you know (it's pretty inescapable knowledge if you've been around this blog for more than five minutes), I recently quit my job and am living the life of luxury. If luxury means "all the free time in the world, but no income and the need to buy a car VERY soon..." As many of you also know, Sister is currently between jobs. This is a recipe for lots of fun, but also absolutely no productivity.

We've been watching LOST. I came into the show in the middle of the third season, when they took a really long mid-season hiatus and ABC did a few of those hour long shows that were really just all of the highlights of each season. I stayed loyal through all the rest of the seasons and will not say anything bad about the finale, even though others (Brother and Sister-In-Law included) thought it was less-than-spectacular. Then I bought all the seasons. Or I got them as presents. I can't remember. It's not important.

Sister has never seen the series, except for the occasional episode at Brother and Sister-In-Law's house when THEY were catching up on DVD. She's a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to suspense and the supernatural and--oh who am I kidding? I am, too. In fact, in college, a friend had the first season on DVD and tried to get me to watch it and I chickened out and didn't come back to it for over a year. So I get why she was reluctant to get into it. But now that the show is over and I can warn her about the scary parts, she's willing to try it.

We've been taking it a lot slower than our other TV shows on DVD, since it's a little suspenseful, can get wearing, and we don't watch it as the last thing before bed (this is a good plan for anyone a little fraidy like we are). We started the first season last week and we just finished it today.

Anyway, we were watching the pilot episode. And I was warning her right before freaky things would happen. And we got to the scene in the cockpit with the injured pilot. And I warned her that he was still alive and would gasp awake and scare her (I had also warned her about the copilot falling out of the cockpit door and almost knocking over Kate and Jack and Charlie), that the Smoke Monster would be coming around soon, and that the stupid pilot who stuck his head out of the broken windshield would be getting exactly what one would expect, to be sucked out of the plane and ripped to bloody shreds. She appreciated this.

Now, one of the things I really appreciate (and also simulataneously hate) about J.J. Abrams and his crew is that they really know how to end an episode in the exact wrong spot so that you HAVE to jump to the next episode or disk (or wait desperately for the next week, back when it was on air). Sister is unaware of this element of LOST.

As we all remember, right after they run through the jungle to get away from the Smoke Monster and Kate finds the bloody body up in the tree, everything goes black, the strange exploding musical note plays signalling the end of the episode, and the white letters spelling LOST flash on the screen. I turn to Sister and (to emphasize the cliff-hanger-ness of the show) say, "And that's the end of the pilot."

And then I start laughing hysterically. Sister looks at me odd. Gasping, I spit out, "Completely unintentional double entendre!" She looks puzzled. I point at the screen. "End of the PILOT?"

And this leads me to: Why can't I be this funny ON PURPOSE?

Pirates Totally Do Yoga

I bought new yoga pants yesterday. They were on clearance at Target and I needed them for a costume I'm putting together. Except that I ended up going in a completely different direction that cost less than these clearance yoga pants, so I really should return them. They are black gaucho capri yoga pants that are one size too large that were more than I usually pay for anything on clearance (although that photo makes them look even worse than I think they look). They are, in a word, ridiculous. I should definitely return them.

Actually, let's back up and I'll tell you all about my costume adventure. Do you remember me mentioning that I'm going to a Christian ladies conference at the end of the month? Sister-In-Law is leading worship? And Sister is singing? And I suck at singing but I do media so I play on the computer while I pretend to sing but I'm actually seething with jealousy and you guys are remembering this, right? It's not like I've posted that much in the intervening time, so it should be pretty fresh--as fresh as anything I say to you is, because I'm sure you have other things like CHILDREN and HUSBANDS and WHOLE LIVES vying for your attention so you forget everything you read here as soon as you click away, but I don't blame you because if I had any of those things, I'd totally ignore you, too. Anyway: I'm going to a retreat a few hours away. That might have been the easier thing to write rather than the rest of the above paragraph, but I'm leaving it because it's my blog, so ha!

Can we just start over? Okay. So I'm going to a retreat thing. It's a three-day/two-night kind of deal with sessions and workshops and fellowship. On the second night, we always have a themed banquet where everybody dresses up. But not in fancy formal wear. Nope. In costumes! The dressing up has a lot to do with the theme of the weekend and also the event right after the banquet, so don't go thinking we're all crazy or anything. Anyway. Lots of the ladies go all out, but some don't dress up at all--it's pretty laid back and fun. I think my crew landed firmly in the "go all out" camp last year.

The theme was Superheroes. We all did costumes in varying assortments of black and pinks (mostly hot pink). Sister had fairy wings and a giant tutu she made herself. Sister-In-Law had a short black mini skirt, a cape, and "hoochie" boots (as she likes to call them). I wore all black clothing (yoga pants, baby!), with black cat ears and a black feather boa for a tail, but with a hot pink sequined mask and feather boa around my neck. It was AWESOME! (And if you're asking how any of those costumes tell people we have superpowers, you really don't understand us at all and it's your loss.) But last year set the standard pretty high for this year.

You see, this year, the theme is pirates. That's a much more narrow set of criteria. You can't reinterpret that to mean a variety of things like superheroes. Superheroes come in all shapes and sizes because their superpowers come in all forms. But a pirate? Is pretty much just... a pirate. You kind of have two options: Jack Sparrow or Slutty Wench. And this is a Christian Women's conference, so you can see my conflict.

So how do you get creative and have fun without looking like everyone else there or like someone you don't want to be? You turn to Sister-In-Law, who may ACTUALLY BE a superhero. She's pretty awesome and has already sewn herself a simple corset (no boning, but still AMAZING) that she will put over a white tunic-y blouse. She has also made a raggedy skirt and a sash. She'll wear last year's hoochie boots, a fake sword, and a bandanna on her head. The outfit looks spectacular! But if I have to sit with her, and I DO because I LIKE her, then the standard is even higher!

So the logical conclusion is to force her to help me create a look of my own. Because she's OBVIOUSLY more creative than I am. Off we went to Target to shop the clearance sales. I bought a black and tan striped shirt, the aforementioned yoga pants (with the goal to cinch them in at the calves to make them into kind of bloomer things), and a scarf to tie around my waist. But together, that was about $30. Which is okay, because I can wear each of those things (separately) again, but I wasn't entirely sold on it.

Then we busted out the big guns: Value Village. Now, I know they do ready-made costumes, but a)I'm looking for something more original; b) those things are EXPENSIVE; and c) I probably wouldn't fit into most of them. But the thrift shop part of the store? A veritable treasure trove (pun intended) of pirate booty (again, intended; how did you not see this one coming?).

I found some black crinkly linen capris that were $3, so I won't feel too guilty chopping them to make them look ragged. I also found a red skirt in the same material that was $5, so I'll chop that, too, and put it over the pants to create a water-waif effect. I kept saying, "It's a whole character! I have to look like I've been living ON A BOAT!" This, of course, led to several mental renditions of SNL's I'm on a Boat, but that's a different story for a different day (and if you look that up, beware of the swearing--for those of you who avoid the swearing).

And then, right before we were overwhelmed by the need to WASH ALL THE CREEPINESS OF USED CLOTHING OFF OUR BODIES WITH A BRILLO PAD AND BLEACH, I found a black and white striped shirt that gathered at the sleeves and had shrunk to almost a belly shirt, which means I can wear it a little jaunty with a black camisole under it--hopefully looking more "ruffian" than "Britney Spears." Because that's a much better look for me. And all of us, really. It turned out the shirt was 50% off, so I think it ended up being $2 or something relatively insignificant (in relation to the Target prices, or actually? clothing prices in general), so WIN!

In the midst of this, there were many comments along the lines of "They're really more of guidelines, anyway" and "Swash swash, buckle buckle." There was also a significant amount of snarkery about the non-pirateworthy clothing there. Sister and I found a matching set of green and brown floral skirts that ended up looking more like camo skirts than anything else. We decided that, if we were ever inclined to go hunting, they would be the centerpiece of our wardrobes. And for a while, we gathered a collection of Ugly Christmas Sweaters, but they reached a height of such epic hideousness that we gave up, fearing for our retinas. We thought about buying some really cute boots, but we couldn't get over the idea that SOMEONE ELSE'S FEET HAD BEEN IN THERE.

By the end of the trip, I had one and a half costumes and Sister was done--she found a stripey shirt and an ACTUAL corset, which was enough to complete what she's already got going on at home. Sister-In-Law, being both more creative and more organized than us, didn't need anything else piratey and instead bought two sports jerseys for the next time our worship pastor decided to do a Sports Sunday (in which the band and singers wear jeans and jerseys instead of the normal church clothing). Because that happens more than you would think.

I decided to keep the thrift store purchases and the scarf from Target ($7.50). But I'm returning the Target shirt ($13). And I'm totally gong to return the yoga pants ($11), too. Except. Well, the tags just fell off. Yes, they just FELL off as the yoga pants leapt from the bag and put themselves on my lower-half without my permission(I'm not sure how they removed the pants I was wearing at the time, but they DID). And their magic would not wear off by bedtime, so I HAD to sleep in them. And this morning, they looked so lonely that I almost ended up wearing them under my dress pants to keep them company. I didn't, because my butt already looks enormous in these dress pants. But I'm pretty sure Target won't take the yoga pants back now. Plus, I would totally cut them if they tried.

And that's the story of how I got new yoga pants.

What have you bought lately?

[In case the lack of ads on this blog and the zero product review posts I have done haven't clued you in, this blog is not monetized. So I wasn't paid to link those things to Target's website or anything. I'm just really into visuals. So full disclosure: no money changed hands in the making of this post. Except for the money I paid to Target for the privilege of owning these items. FYI.]

The Agony We Choose

Hi everybody! Thank you for the kind words and helpful tactics (and horror stories) you all shared last week. Was it last week? Or the week before? Geez! I haven't posted in ages. I know. I'm suffering a considerable amount of guilt over it. This was my worst fear when starting a blog... That I would get a few months in and run out of steam. Out of interest. Out of things to say.

Except that I still have all KINDS of things to say. I just can't talk about them here. First, because of The Rules. And second, because of... The Uninteresting Whining. Because that is all it would be. Rage and whining and nothing worth reading. Aren't you glad I've stayed silent? And in case you're wondering, nothing has changed yet. But I'm choosing to rise above. Well, today, I am. Who knows about tomorrow...

I also kind of unplugged from all social media. I threw myself into this (blogging, tweeting, commenting, reading, participating) when I first started and I loved it. I met a lot of cool people, had some crazy-awesome Twitter conversations, and have made some genuine friends. And I still love it. But I haven't figured out the balance of it yet. Because as soon as I joined Twitter under this name, I stopped checking Facebook under my REAL name. Now, Facebook drives me crazier than almost anything, so this might be a good break, but I have to ask myself if all of this is worth it if it causes me to abandon my real-life relationships...

Plus, now that I follow more than twelve people on Twitter, it's hard to keep up with the stream. And you know how much I love to read things from the beginning and all the way through. But that is practically impossible! So last weekend, I kind of unplugged from everything and then never replugged.

But I miss my people. I miss the crazy tweets and the comments. And I miss expressing myself and having people respond. You know, the reasons I got into this in the first place. So I'm back and trying again.

Has anyone realized that this post has basically been about nothing so far? Well, we're going to change that right now. I'm going to ramble aimlessly, but it's going to be ABOUT something. About my plans for the evening. Hey! I'm easing back in. No judging.

Tonight, I am at Mom and Papa's house for dinner. Supposedly because Sister wants to watch the Cubs game with Mom. But mostly because Mom offered to cook. Which actually sounds like it's going to end up with Mom picking up pizza. Because it's Two for Tuesday at Papa Johns. I may have referred to this as Bad Decision Tuesday in the past. But that's only because I was alone with two extra large Hawaiian pizzas and Satan's Cat was powerless to stop the calories, not because this pizza is a bad decision. This pizza is the BEST DECISION EVER!

So we will eat pizza. And they will watch baseball. I will not be watching baseball. Because even though I was raised a Cubs fan (my parents grew up in Illinois), played t-ball as a child (read: picked clover in out in left field), and can talk about the game more knowledgeably than any other sport and most other hobbies (just don't get me started on horse racing), I pretty much HATE baseball.

Okay, that's not true. I just hate talking about baseball. I actually enjoy the game. I like watching it on TV. When I lived close to a city with a team, I liked going to live games. I liked watching my brother play for most of his childhood and adolescence (mostly I liked the ballpark junk food and playing with Barbies under the bleachers, that's pretty much the same). I like baseball. I just can't get worked up about it. I can't find any passion for it.

Sister, however, has. Located. The. Passion. She LIVES AND BREATHES baseball. Okay, maybe that's a little strong. But she has like seven apps on her iPhone to help her keep track of the Cubs and the NL Central, she reads at least three sports bloggers, and she watched or DVRs almost every game. And it makes her happy, so I don't complain. Much.

But I have personally given up on the Cubs. It's been 103 years, people. It's no longer optimistic. It's no longer hopeful. It's just plan masochistic. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Sister. But this is not really new information to either of you, am I right? I love you...

So while they enjoy the pain of the predictable ninth inning give-away, I'll be reading my book. A book that was foist upon me by a friend who claimed it was an amazing series and I HAD to read it. It's teen fantasy, which is not my normal cup of tea, but I'm pretty willing to try anything on the recommendation of a friend. And it's not THAT bad. Except that the main character found out (near the end of the first book) that her love interest is her brother. Which is weird and whatever, but I think we're all aware that this will turn out to be a lie or a red herring or something. EXCEPT THAT I'M FULLY INTO THE THIRD BOOK AND HE'S STILL HER BROTHER! AND THEY'RE STILL MAKING OUT OCCASIONALLY!!! But I cant stop reading now. Because I have to find out. If I leave now, it's like it's true and it will always be true. But if I keep reading, there's a chance it's not.

Well I guess we all find our own ways to punish ourselves, huh... So, in the grand tradition of blogging (starting discussions about things-that-no-one-ever-thinks-to-discuss-but-are-incredibly-important-to-discuss), tell me about the ways you've been punishing yourself recently. Er... Uh... Not that kind of self-punishment... Come on, people, you know what I mean! Right?

I Have No Answers or Excuses--I'm Sorry For This

Here are some things you need to know:

• Nothing has changed in my life in two months. I wouldn't have a problem with this except that there are some bad things going on in my life right now and I could stand a little bit of change (Kim at Let Me Start By Saying... had a good analogy about lemon shaped bruises). Instead, I get nochange (Nochange is a THING. It IS. Leave me alone). So, just FYI: Misery isn't that funny. Neither is this blog. There is a correlation.
• I was driving down the highway the other day and saw an interesting sight. A man was driving an old (probably late 1980s) model Honda Passport--a junky old SUV with dings and large rust spots. He was wearing a t-shirt that he'd cut the sleeves off of, so it was like an extra low-budget muscle shirt. He was pale, flabby and past middle age. Then he stuck his hand out his open window to flick some ash off of his CIGAR! I didn't know how to process this. My brain says cigar = high society/rich/pretentious, but junker car + homemade muscle shirt + flabby white guy = something other than classy/rich/pretentious. I didn't get a look at his face, but I'm kind of guessing pornstache. You?
• I have a REAL post written and all ready to go. But I was feeling self conscious about it, so I sent it to Sister for review. She hasn't read it yet. So, let's blame her that you get a blog in bullets today, shall we?
• I've decided that I'm not allowed to clear my feedreader or look at Twitter during the day until I have written a post. I'm hoping this will lead to more posting, but I could just stop going on the Internet. We'll see...
• Twitter is a time suck of massive proportions and I never seem to keep ahead of it. Maybe I'm following too many people? I actually went through and unfollowed a bunch of people whose tweets I generally ignore, because c'mon. What's the point of following someone who doesn't post information relevant to my interest? Except. Now I have this massive guilt every time someone follows me. I feel obligated to follow back. Plus, I feel this pressure to tweet interesting/funny/relevant things to make it worth following me. You'd think I was Catholic with all of this guilt I'm carrying around.
• Umm... Catholic jokes? Funny or offensive? My funny sensors aren't functioning properly. I mean, jokes with the Pope in it seem to be pretty funny (Popes in a Volkswagen!). But maybe that's just because "Pope" is a funny sounding word. Where's the line?
• Speaking of lines, I have a whole OTHER post written about lines. But I think it might just be grammatically obnoxious and morally depressing. I'm leaving it as a draft for a while to see if anything gets better. We're going on a week, so I'm thinking the outlook is a bit dim.
• Back to Twitter (I got distracted by the Catholics): If you're following me and you think I'm a jerk for not following back AND you think your tweets would be relevant to my interests/that I will fall in love with you/be your new Twitter BFF, direct message me. I can't promise I'll follow forever, but I'm willing to give it a chance.
• Word of warning... if most of your tweets are flowery pseudo-philosophical nonsense stolen from someone who self-published a self-help book and/or four-square-esque updates about you being places I have no interest in A. being or B. knowing you're there, I might not even give you a chance... Sorry. Take solace in the fact that many other twitterers agree with me. Ooops. Maybe that's only solace for me...
• I have a lot of split ends and my eyebrows look like a small woodland creature has taken up residence on my face. I have no idea why you need to know this, but I'm sharing anyways. I should go see my hairdresser, but it's pretty difficult to time off of work right now. I kind of want to ask my boss, "Do you want a furry-woodland-creature-faced employee or do you want to lose my 'productivity' one half hour early at the end of a Thursday?" And by 'productivity' I mean blogging...But the boss isn't completely read in on the whole blogging thing. So I'll stay furry for a while.
• I love Pandora. But today, I wish it was an actual person with an actual body so that I can grab it by the front of its shirt and shake it while asking, "WHY WOULD YOU PLAY AVRIL LAVIGNE ON THE SAME STATION AS DAUGHTRY AND ONEREPUBLIC? WHY???"
• I'm drinking free coffee. I like free coffee. I especially like that I got this free coffee after eating lunch with my mother. I like my mother. Actually, on a list of things I like, coffee and my mother are totally  top five. So, today is a good day. Better than most, at least. Thanks for suggesting lunch, Mom. And for paying. I like when you pay. I also like you. In case you're worried, my liking you is not dependent on you paying for things.
• I thought that these bullets might disguise it, but I'm giving in. This is not a well thought-out, planned, or even bullet-worthy post. It's just stream of consciousness rambling. I'm hoping that the bullets keep you from thinking I'm crazy. Probably not, huh?
• It is pouring today. We don't often get a deluge like this, complete with thunder and lightning. But every once in a while, we do. And I love it. I don't love getting wet so much, but sitting indoors watching the rain pelt the earth and hearing the crash of the heavens is pretty cool. But these things are only fun if you get to be indoors, be near a window, and have time to enjoy it. I've mostly been dashing to my car praying I don't fall off my high heels and land in a puddle. Completely possible. I'm a dancer, remember? This is not to say that I'm not loving the storm. I am. I'm just wishing I wasn't missing so much of it.
• Today is the first day of school for most of the kids in my town. It makes me a little bit nostalgic. But not enough that I actually miss going to school. Because ew.
• We have Youth Group tonight. Last week, the kids were extra squirrely and I felt badly for all the teachers that would have to handle them this week. I'm not sure if a whole day of sitting still and listening will make tonight easier (because they're primed and disciplined) or even worse (because THEY'VE BEEN STILL ALL DAY LONG AND WILL NOT STAND IT FOR ONE. MORE. SECOND.) We shall see. I think I know which one my money's on.
• I have to pee (damn you, free coffee!!). So I guess this is as good a place as any to stop the rambling and hit publish. See you tomorrow. At which point, I will hopefully have an ACTUAL post for you. If Sister doesn't want the job, I bet my mom will read it for me. Because she likes me. Most days.

Think of This More As a Bunch of Little Blog Posts

I'm have blogger-block. I think taking the long weekend off was not so much refreshing as it was detrimental to all of my newly formed bloggiding habits. So, to stretch my blogging muscles and try to get back into the groove, I give you a list.


Here are a few things that have been happening in the land of things that are not bagels:

• My office building is under construction. I've whined about this on twitter, I'm sure. There's a lot of banging, scraping, thumping, drilling, and stomping, not to mention noxious fumes that make my head swim and no air conditioner. Today, they had to cut the power and phones from 12:30 pm until "a few hours" later. Which meant HALF DAY! I knew this construction had to benefit me somehow.
• Speaking of work, I have now officially applied for another job. We will see what happens. Hopefully, I will be able to keep my current not-so-wonderful job until this other one (or something else entirely) pans out.
• I just realized that I have some problems with the links to my earliest posts, because they were under a different domain name. I will fix this, I promise. I would have done it by now, but that kind of thing is daunting to me. Also, I'm lazy.
• Tonight, I'm going to go play Shaving Cream Baseball with the hooligans. Have I told you all that I help out with the Youth Group at my church? I can't remember and I apparently can't be bothered to look. So: hooligans=church kids between the ages of 10 and 18. FYI. Every Wednesday night from 7:00 pm to 9:00 pm. So if I'm not on twitter, that may be where I am.
• So, Shaving Cream Baseball. You're probably wondering what that is. Well, I will tell you. 
1. Go outside. 
2. Take a wiffle ball. 
3. And take a can of shaving cream 
4. (I'm linking so you know that I mean exactly what I say). 
5. Fill the wiffle ball with the saving cream. 
6. Yes, put the nozzle in one of the holes and hold down the button until shaving cream squirts out of all the other openings. 
7. Now lob the wiffle ball at a young person who is holding a plastic bat. 
8. Duck. 
9. Get covered in flying shaving cream. 
10. Repeat. 
11. All other baseball rules and strategies apply.
• After we play baseball with the kids, we will have a water balloon fight. Then we will send them home to their parents slimy, wet, and smelling like an old man. Why, how does your Youth Group work?
• A childhood friend of mine got married on Monday (don't ask me why Monday or why July 4th, I have no idea). She is the last of my childhood group of friends to get married. Oh wait, no. There's still one unmarried girl in the group. Who is that? I can't remember... Wait, I've got it. It's me. 
• In completely unrelated news, I'm afraid I'm going to end up bitter and alone. Without a cat, even. Because cats like to flay my face open.
• Moving away from the unrelated news and back into the original subject, I am completely happy for my friend and her new husband. He also grew up with us (middle school on), but didn't tell her he was in love with her until three years ago. It was a sweet ceremony and I'm excited for both of them to start their life together (both are from pretty damaged homes with really awful divorces, so I'm glad they each found someone to make a family with).
• Some more unrelated news again: there are no boys left from my childhood that will show up one day to confess their unrequited love for me. Just sayin'.
• I caught up on my feed reader. Either I was away from it for a lot longer than I meant to be (possible) or you people were incredibly prolific over the holiday weekend. Which is strange, because I totally wasn't. 
• I spent Sunday with the Godson. He's amazing. He chased Satan's Cat all around the house and she only scratched him once. Don't look at me that way. When a two year old is repeatedly told to stop chasing the cat and to leave her alone when she goes under the bed, or she might scratch him, it's a good life lesson for him to get scratched when he crawls under the bed and pins her in a corner. While I am saying, "No, don't do that. You'll get an owie!" and trying to pull him away from her.
• Godson says some really cute things at this stage and I'm going to bore you with a few of them (because it's my blog, that's why!):
• In response to, "I love you!" He purses his lips and says, "Too! Too!"
• He calls the cat, alternately: Kika (kitty-cat) or Isameow (It's a meow).
• In the same way most children mispronounce the word "truck," Godson struggles with the word "fox." And it's funny. So sue me.
• "Moo-Cow" is the catch all name for quadrupeds--especially horses, cows, moose, and zebras.
• The same goes for "Choo-Choo Train" for trains, large cargo trucks, RVs, and 4x4s.
• He will come find you to tell you when he needs a new "viper" but if you ask him if he needs to be changed, he will always tell you, "No."
• Today is a gorgeous day. Sometimes in the summer, I stare outside at the blue sky, the fluffy clouds, and the waving green leaves and I wish for a away to absorb it all and sear it into my mind's eye, because I know it will be gone in a few short months. And I feel like my body and my eyes are not large enough to take it all in. And then I hope that I can remember to enjoy it enough now to last for the long winter months, so that maybe by next year, I will have figured out how to capture it for good. 
• Now that Sister's home, I'm back in my own room. And I'm back to blogging from my new purple couch. I'm not sure how it's possible to ache for an inanimate object, but I can't believe how much I missed this couch. And that's pretty silly, since it's been across the hall this whole time. But it's been covered in clean laundry I was too lazy to fold and put away.
• That is all. 
• For now.
• Maybe.

Watch Your Feet, There Are Serpents Everywhere

[The following is an excerpt from a conversation between Sister and I, in the car home from Sister-In-Law's house tonight. I wish I could tell you this is an odd conversation (and I guess it is to most people), but it's pretty run-of-the-mill for us. I like to keep you guys informed about the reality of my life. This is why I love Sister and cannot live without her. She gets me. I hope you do, too, but I'm not holding my breath...]

Why I Missed Sister, in One Act

Sister: That was a small creature that just scurried across the road. I don't know what it was.

Me: I saw it. I'm going to guess "Three-Legged Serpent"

Sister: ...Alright...

Me: He has sixty-four toes. You figure out the distribution, I'm too tired.

Sister: Okay...

Me: ...

Sister: Six and six and fifty-two on the last one.

Me: Yep. Exactly.

Sister: The back left has the fifty-two. The front left and the back right each have six.

Me: So there's just a place holder on the front right?

Sister: You said "Three-Legged." I assumed that meant there used to be four and he lost one.

Me: Well that's a silly assumption. Serpents don't usually come with legs at all, so the default is not four.

Sister: Some believe the serpent had legs before the fall of man.

Me: Yes. But this one didn't. He has two in front and one in back. Like airplane tires, but backward. And he kinda scurries in front and hops in back.

Sister: ...Oh...

Me: He also has seven ears...

Sister: With fringes. But only on six of them.

Me: The seventh is in the middle of his forehead. The fringed ones go down his back like dinosaur spikes.

Sister: That's fine, they're merely decorative anyways.

Me: Of course.

Sister: It's on account of all the glitter.

Me: Well, only the males have glitter.

Sister: ...

Me: The females have full-on sequins.

Sister: Nah... I think the men need to be flashier than the females.

Me: Yeah... That's why they have a strobe light on their tongue.

Sister: Ah...

Me: Get it? C'mon. You gotta give me credit for the "flashy" thing.

Sister: Sure...

Me: ...

Sister: Hey, you'll be very proud of me. I went to Barnes & Noble today and didn't buy any books.

Me: You know I am not opposed to you buying books.

Sister: Yes, but my bank account is.

***Scene***

MC: This has been another installment of Conversations with Sister, a series of one act plays performed live every day. These plays are not for the faint of heart or the rational of mind, so you may feel queasy, dizzy, and/or disoriented when the curtain falls. There are medics on hand for just such emergencies. Please make your way to the back of the theater in an orderly fashion and please don't step on Ricardo, our roving Three-Legged Serpent. He's in league with the alligators, but has capitulated to a guarded truce. So please don't anger him.

[Bonus points to anyone who gets the reference in the title. No, Sister, you can't play.]

Music Speaks to the Soul (Noses Only Speak to the Brain)

It's 7:30 pm. I am seriously considering going to bed right now. I have had a pretty stressful and craptastic week. I think things will radically improve in my life in a few weeks, but for now, I'm living on the edge of two not so great realities with the Sword of Damocles hanging above my head. Does this make any sense to you? Probably not. But that's okay. These last few sentences have been more therapy for me than information for you.

What you need to know is this: I'm having a hard time lately, I'm pretty stressed, I'm not sleeping well, and I want to hide in a hole from everything obnoxious in my life. This leads to the urge to tuck into bed at 7:30 on a Friday night. And if it weren't for Satan's Cat and her unpredictable ways, I might attempt it. Instead, I'm going to blog for a little, both to relieve stress and to make the evening go faster. And I'm going to eat some Starbucks Java Chip Frappuccino Ice Cream. Have you eaten this stuff yet? Because seriously, amazing! Go try it now. Seriously. I'll wait. Actually, while you're off running to the grocery store, I'm going to pry the sleeping cat off my legs, run to the kitchen, and pull my pint-o-awesome out of the freezer. Be right back.

Okay. I'm back. And I've got the ice cream. Delicious! Next, to turn on the music and come up with a blog topic. Yep, I'm doing it again: 250 words in and I have yet to talk about anything remotely resembling an cohesive theme. My high school English teachers are clutching their heads in pain right now, I'm sure. I guess I should get on with it and starting saying something useful or entertaining before you all stop reading. But before I do, can I just tell you how difficult it is to type with a spoon in your hand? Riddi9culusly digficul;t...

Anyway, today's topic: noses and music. Wait, what? Just go with me for a second, okay? They say that nothing can bring back memories more quickly and more vividly than our sense of smell (I don't know who they are exactly, but I've heard this many places). You've probably all experienced it at one time or another. Catch a whiff of a scent and you're suddenly back in your grandmother's house as a small child, at a county fair, or in the embrace of your high school love. Sometimes, scents don't even evoke any images, just a sudden rush of emotions you can't quite identify. Anyway, they (whoever they are) say that our olfactory nerves are the greatest link to our memories.

If scents are the best link, then music is the second best. I have absolutely no scientific data to back up this idea, but I have a lot of anecdotal evidence. And since this is my blog and I needed something to write about today, you get to hear my anecdotal evidence.

The first piece of evidence I have is this: Sister knows all of the names of all of the countries of the world. Is she a genius? Maybe. I've never checked. But her IQ level has little to do with it. It's actually due to a cartoon show called Animaniacs (Do you guys remember them? They were awesome and hilarious.) She learned the countries of the world from this song here. Plus, Sister-In-Law remembers everything from her 4th Grade year, because her teacher taught everything with a guitar (she even remembers non-school stuff and she claims that it's all linked to the songs).

So, that's kind of evidence. But maybe more evidence of learning with music that music bringing back memories. But it goes to the point. Here's my second piece of proof: I cannot listen to *NSYNC's first album without immediately feeling insecure, inadequate, and faintly depressed. And it's not just because of their over-highlighted hair, their incredibly baggy pants, or their femininely high voices. It's because it was the very first CD I ever bought myself and I listened to it practically every day of 6th Grade. And 6th Grade was a bad time for me. In so many ways, I cannot count them (I'm probably not unique in my middle school experiences and don't claim to be, so can we all agree it was bad? Thanks.). Because I don't like to go back there or feel like that, I don't listen to that CD. Or Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca. Because no.

You need more? Okay. Today, I was listening to my Josh Kelley station on Pandora (I love him and if it weren't for Katherine Heigle, I would be having his babies right now). When Roommate was in town, Sister and I introduced her to Josh Kelley (His music, not him personally. Because I don't need any more competition, thankyouverymuch) and she loved him almost as much as I do. So when his song came on my iPhone, I was immediately in the car on the way to the glacier, the sun shining and Roommate in the seat next to me. Then Michael Bublé came on after him and I was again with Roommate, this time studying (okay, dancing really) in our tiny dorm at college at midnight. These two experiences right after one another almost killed me, by the way. Because Roommate is not here and will not be within at least 500 miles of me for about a year. Musical memories can do that to you.

Music is so powerful, it can make use recall memories that aren't even really ours. Yes, I just reread that and it doesn't make much sense to me either. I work better in examples: I'm listening to a Lifescapes album while I type this and I feel like I'm starring in a Jane Austen adaptation. I should be writing a letter to an unrequited love with quill and parchment instead of blogging to a readership that is likely composed entirely of robots. Music can change our moods instantaneously, even if we have no memories associated with the particular song. Because music speaks to our souls, not just our brains (take that, olfactory senses!). I know in my life, a good angry rock song at the end of a bad day can lift me out of my funk, but put on something mournful or balladish and I may finish the day in tears. Even actors listen to specific kinds of music to get emotionally ready for difficult scenes, because they know that music offers a window into the human experience.

So, I have a question for you, because I have to ask you a question at the end of posts like this to make you think I have put some kind of thought and planning into it and also to make me look really philosophical and crap. Here goes: How does music affect you? Do you find memories linked to music? Can a song change your mood? Is it the lyrics or the instruments that impact you? Tell me about your musical experiences, will you?

P.S. Hey look! It's 9:30 pm. I might be able to go to bed without feeling like a complete loser. And also, the cat may not eat the flesh off my bones at this hour. But she probably also won't let me sleep in tomorrow morning. Luckily, Sister gets home Monday morning, so only three more sleeps until I don't have to fear a feline death.

P.P.S Did your mother ever count days in "sleeps" when you were little? As you can see, mine did.

When I Grow Up... If I Ever Do

When I was 10 years old, I hit the "horse stage." I'm pretty sure that at least half of all young girls go through a this phase (and I'm also relatively sure that 33% of all statistics are at least 45% made up). When I was 10, I discovered a book on Sister's bookshelf: A Horse Called Wonder by Joanna Campbell. I had actually given her this book for Christmas many years before--I vaguely remember standing in the bookstore with my father, deciding what to get her that year and picking out this book because the cover was so pretty (don't tell me not to judge a book by its cover--I'm very susceptible to advertising, including trendy book jackets and/or cute baby animals).

I was 10 and looking for something to read. I was not an avid reader at that age, so it must have been for school or something. But when I opened that book, the world came alive for me. It was the first book that I remember enjoying outside of the picture books of my younger childhood years. This was different. I didn't love it for the pictures; I didn't love it for the fact that I could read it by myself; I didn't love it for the fact that my mother did all the voices of all the penguins. No, I loved it for the story. The way the words came alive and made pictures in my head. And through loving the story, I began to love horses. 

After that, I inhaled books. I used all of my allowance and birthday money to buy the next book in the Thoroughbred series, then the next, and then the next (there were over 72 books in this series... I think I finally called it quits somewhere in the 60s). When that didn't slake my thirst, I read The Saddle Club, The Golden Filly Series and the High Hurdles Series, Horsefeathers, Heartland, Misty of Chincoteague (and all its sequels), and any other book about horses I could get my hands on. And before I knew it, I was consuming any book, about horses or not, that looked vaguely interesting in the Juvenile Literature and the Young Adult Fiction sections of my local library.

In the 6th Grade, I was placed on the gifted track at my school (Don't start thinking anything of this. My IQ was a tiny bit higher than average and my parents were very involved in my learning outside the classroom, so I was ahead of my classmates by a little bit. It's not like I'm in Mensa or anything. Because, please.). The gifted track at my school basically meant that I got to skip language arts and part of geography to go to a creative writing class. This class, combined with my newly voracious reading habit, was a pivotal moment in my life. When I realized I could make stories just like those famous authors and all I needed was paper and a pencil (or a keyboard... or my just my mind for that matter), I was changed. My dreams of becoming a racehorse trainer in Kentucky (For reals and for serious. I was going to go to the University of Kentucky, major in Animal Husbandry, and train racehorses. Why? Because I was 6' tall in 6th Grade, so knew I could never make it as a jockey, duh!) paled in comparison to my new dream of being a writer.

[Incidentally, I actually started this post to tell you about my career ambitions at age 10 (a prompt from Mama Kit's Losin' It), which were deeply horse-related, but it has taken an odd and yet completely reasonable turn. So bear with me if it seems scattered.]

So, time goes on. I leave the 6th Grade and that writing class, along with a lot of memories I'd rather forget and a big girl complex to last the rest of my life. But that, my friends, is a poem for a different cafe. Anyways, I kept reading, branching into all sorts of genres and interests. My library, as awesome as it was, is a small town library with low funding, so by the time I hit 8th Grade, I had read almost 75% of the section (see the statistic quote above). I had read anything that had remotely piqued my interest and quite a few that hadn't, so one (sad) day I stopped going to the library. And my life got a lot more expensive.

My bookshelf was overflowing with books that I had been given for Christmas, birthdays, and had purchased with any babysitting money I managed to capture. By this time, I was reading the assigned books for school as pleasure reading--weeks before anything was due (and then forgetting to do the assignment and almost flunking 7th Grade language arts, which is further proof of my inability to follow through on anything). I was enjoying some of the classics, though I wouldn't discover my love for many of them until adulthood. I discovered Harry Potter at the start of my 8th Grade year, during a weekend stay at a hospital while a surgeon cut into my mother's grey matter (What, I haven't told you about that? Remind me to get permission and maybe I will...). These books, love them or hate them, opened my eyes to a talent like I had never seen before. J.K. Rowling can write, she can foreshadow, she can misdirect, and she can create a fantastical world from nothing other than her grey matter.

My freshman year, Sister handed me a book: Whatever Tomorrow Brings by Lori Wick. It was a Christian Romance novel, possibly a little more mature than I should have been reaidng at 14, but nothing racy or scandalous. I actually set it aside for a few months, not really interested, because it was a grown-up book and was probably boring. When I got over myself and read it, I fell in love for the very first time with a fictional character. Marshall Riggs was my hero and everything I wanted in a man. I finished the rest of the series in two days and started pillaging my mother's and Sister's bookcases for anything like them.

It would be years before I discovered that very few men exist with Marshall Riggs' kind of tender, yet rugged manliness. And that these kind of novels set young women up for a certain level of dating failure, because no man in real life is that patient, perfect, understanding, or communicative. I'm not ragging on men; Lord knows we women have our issues, too. Plus, it's not like the women in these books are paragons of reality, either. Okay, rant over... I think. My point is, however vague I was in making it, that there was something in these books that spoke to me. They weren't all completely realistic, but there were slivers of truth in each story. It was like when I found the Thoroughbred Series, but deeper. I realized that it was the ideal, the life I had always wanted: to fall in love and make a family.

Some of the books were better than others, some much more fantasy than a realistic description of a the evolution of a relationship. But in each of them, I connected. And the more I connected, the more I realized that I had stories in me. My own characters who pestered me incessantly to put their stories on paper. For much of my life, I have ignored them or only allowed them out to play in the moments before sleep. When I do write, my self-doubt always creeps in and I end up causing permanent damage to my delete key. Or I allow the files to languish on my hard drive or in a notebook under my bed.

Since I've started blogging, though, I've found the "Publish Post" key to be the kryptonite to the dreaded delete key. I do some editing, sure. And I still over-think everything before I type it. But at the end of the day, I still publish. Because I have readers that I don't want to lose and who might walk away if I leave them alone too long. I try not to think too much about them running away if I reveal too much or say something stupid, because... There's a lot of crap on the Internet that has readers. I've found a niche and I'm staying here.

Anyway, this post has taken a strange and winding turn, one that I took a break in the middle of to cry over completely unrelated and yet intrinsically linked issues. So, what did 10-year-old me dream of doing when I grew up? I dreamed of living in Kentucky, training racehorses by day and writing novels by night. What do I dream of now? I dream of getting married. I dream of having babies. I dream of working a job that I am passionate about, without being abused by my boss or terrorized by my coworkers. And writing novels by night.

I guess that answers more questions than the one I asked myself at the beginning of the post. If this doesn't make sense to you, don't worry... I'm still working some stuff out about which direction I am supposed to go with my career and my life right now. If it does make sense to you... Well, you are probably my mother or father. So, Mom, Dad, if you're reading this and it makes sense to you, will you call me and tell me what it means? Thanks and I love you. Oh, and: sorry for keeping you up so late tonight.

Enough of my ramblings. What did you dream of being when you grew up? Are you doing it? Did your dreams change? Or did your expectations from life and from yourself change? What do you dream of now for your future? Will you give yourself permission to have it? If you do, do you realize how rare that is?

My Life Isn't Interesting

So, over a week ago, I posted a really obnoxious survey. And at the end, I promised to answer any questions you might ask as a reward for completing that ridiculous questionnaire. I got a lot of awesome answers, but only one question. So I put off posting the answer until I got more responses. Then I realized that this was all I was going to get. Then I forgot to upload the photo. Then I got home last night and watched a not-so-great movie and forgot to post it. So, here we are, over a week later, on a Tuesday (this fact is not relevant or important, but I like the word Tuesday), and I am finally posting it.

And by the way, this photo as taken right after I saw the question, so I'm following your rule, Kim. I'm only late in posting, not in taking the picture. This is my nightstand (or as some call it, bedside table):

And here is my nightstand with number labels so that I can inform you about how not interesting my life is. Ready? I thought so.

      1. My lamp. I have had this lamp since the sixth grade. It has been dropped and broken, so it has a crack that has been sealed with some kind of clear glue. Also, it has one of those new eco-friendly light bulbs in it that's all funny shaped. And the shade of this lamp is supposed to attach to the bulb, so the shade teeters and slips all the time. Yes, I know you can buy them to look like regular light bulbs. NOW. Now I know that. Where were you before, huh? Geez! Oh, and the light bulb buzzes, which is kind of obnoxious. Interesting, no? No. Alright, moving on.

      2. My super cool insulated cup from Walmart (Let's just get this out of the way right now: yes, I occasionally shop at Walmart and no, I don't care who knows it). It kind of looks like a Starbucks cold cup, but it's covered in lime green polka dots and has a matching straw. Which is awesome! I also have one with red polka dots. I usually keep a cup with a lid next to my bed, since I get thirsty at night and I live with Satan's Cat.

      3. A small glass of water. Because sometimes I like to live dangerously. Except it's here because I was too lazy to go find my cute cup when I was thirsty, not because I'm particularly risky (I should have known the cute cup was by my bed, since that's where I keep it...). This cup sat here for three days. Also because of my laziness. Which is not notable. But the fact that the cup remained in this position for three days with the water remaining inside the cup for all of those days is a testament to the capriciousness of Satan's Cat. It's actually still there, more than a week later, since I'm sleeping in Sister's room right now. Watch, I'll post about this and then Satan's Cat will spill it all over the place tonight.

      4. My iPhone charging cord. Which I only just plugged in near my bed for reasons that even I just don't understand. I used to keep it across the room... And then someone would text me at night and I would have to go get it to text back or make it stop buzzing. I think it may have been an outlet-space issue. But really, there's no excuse for this kind of ridiculousness. So now it's next to the head of my bed and I can text or tweet long past the time I should have been asleep.

      5. The remote to my SkullCandy Pipe that I got for Christmas last year (thanks, Mom!). And yes, that does sound vaguely like drug paraphernalia. Okay, more than vaguely. And the website kind of plays into that. But really all it is, is a speaker system for an iPhone or iPod. So I dock my iPod and can then control my music from the rest of the room. Which is sweet! The remote is on my nightstand because I listen to my lullaby every night. What is my lullaby? I'm glad you asked. My lullaby is an instrumental song by Josh Kelley called 23 on his album To Remember, which you can preview here (I tried to find a better link for it, but this was the best I can do. But go listen. It's totally worth it! I mean, I listen to it every night, so it's gotta be good, right? Right.)

      6. A book called Finally Thin! by Kim Benson, a woman who lost 212 pounds with WeightWatchers. It was given to me by a friend who knew I was already doing WeightWatchers (so it's not like they were calling me fat or anything). It's basically a description of her journey, not a weight-loss plan or anything. It's actually really funny and also kind of eye-opening, so I encourage anyone who's struggling with weight issues to read it.

      7. Another book, Young Adult Fiction this time. It's The Throne of Fire by Rick Riordan (he's the guy who wrote the Percy Jackson books). It's the second in his Kane series, which is about a brother and sister who have just discovered they're descendants of the gods of ancient Egypt and have magical powers. It's pretty good so far. I liked the first one, too, so if you're looking for something new to read, check it out.

      8. A metal bookmark with cute charms hanging off of the end. My father made it. Now would probably be a good time to tell you that my mom and dad own a very small jewelry business, which is more of a hobby from which they sell their creations. They order the semi-precious stones from various companies and then design necklaces, bracelets, and earrings to sell at craft fairs and small weekend markets (no soldering involved, just stringing and crimping wire). For Christmas a few years ago, my dad made a my sister and I each a bookmark. He chose the charms himself--different ones for each of us. It was very sweet and it makes me smile every time I look at it (which I think may have been his nefarious plan). Mine has two different butterflies, the Statue of Liberty, a little girl praying, and a colorful strand of beads. I don't remember what Sister's has, but I'm pretty sure none of it means he loves her more than me. Because we all know he loves me best. Right, Papa? Right?

      9. Two issues of Women's Health Magazine. One of them has Julianne Hough on the cover not wearing enough clothing (tiny denim shorts and a bandeau bikini top). The other has "Glee's Heather Morris" on the cover not wearing enough clothing (a hot pink bikini and a jean jacket--Why a jean jacket? I have no idea...). One of the magazines claims to be a "Special Weight-Loss Issue!" but I have to wonder which issues of Women's Health aren't about weight-loss... Anyway, Roommate gave me a subscription for Christmas and I haven't been near my post office box enough to have read much of them (my job makes me relocate for a quarter of each year and also: Sister and I are terrible mailbox checkers). But I totally plan to read them, because it was a nice gift and I could use the advice. I just kind of resent the tiny, half-naked girls on the cover...

       10. A cute gift bag filled with ridiculous dollar items from Sister. You see, after I got home from living with Crazy Boss Lady and was so...damaged..., Sister did everything she could to cheer me up. And to make me feel loved and safe. What better way to do that, than to get me a gift bag filled with squirt guns, pinwheels, coloring books, crayons, a magic wand (that lit up and sparkled!), a pull string disc launcher thingy, and a notebook with a Schrute Buck for a cover? No other way! I laughed so hard when I opened it and we had a lot of fun playing with all the stuff (especially the disc launcher, which drove Satan's Cat out of her mind). However, you may wonder why this bag is still next to my nightstand over a year later. Well, what does one do with a bag full of things like this once one has sucked the fun out of the marrow of each item? Like you, I have no idea. Plus, I'm lazy, so that's where they live until Godson or some other child visits and I realize I need some age-appropriate toys. Which is handy, let me tell you!

      11. This is a crate of Play-Doh that was also in the bag. It is unopened, which is sad. But I've never really had a good opportunity to break out the PlayDoh. I'm not sure why I need a good opportunity for Play-Doh, but I've been waiting for it. Maybe tonight's the night. Except Sister is still out of town and it is kind of sad and pathetic to be a 24-year-old playing with Play-Doh alone on a Tuesday night (again, I'm pretty sure it's not relevant or important that it's Tuesday, but... Umm.... It's my blog so there. HA!) [I'm not quite sure why I linked to Play-Doh, or even why it's spelled "Play-Doh" (I keep doing the Homer Simpson "Doh!" every time I type it), but it is trademarked, so I thought it might be wise...]


So, there you have it. That's my nightstand as it looked one Saturday earlier this month. I hope you've realized just how interesting my life is (read: not interesting at all) through this process and I encourage all of you to take pictures of random surfaces in your home and give an inventory to strangers on the Internet. It's actually kind of liberating. Liberating from what kind of bondage, I have no idea. But people seem to be feel liberated a lot and I think this might be what they're feeling. Either that, or I'm hungry. It is 8:30 pm and I haven't had dinner yet. But we'll say liberated. Sure.