Obligatory New Year's Ramblings

2015. Two thousand fifteen. FIFTEEN. I don't know why that number seems so huge to me. The obvious mathematical truth is that it is exactly one more that FOURteen, and yet it feels like suddenly I'm living in the future. Like we've been taking baby steps away from the giant year of 2000 and we just took a huge running leap forward from 12.31.14 and 1.1.15. I think it might have something to do with 2015 being a year used as a "projection year" while I was in school. As in "By the year 2015, the population of Whoozitzstan is estimated to be 40 quadrillion" or "We think that 1 in 5 Herblitz will be schmelged in 2015." Or possibly I've been pushed to the brink with this crazy-making job and I've started losing it. Who can tell?

Anyway, I have some thoughts about what I'd like 2015 to be like. "Resolutions" is too strong a word. Even "goals" seems like I'm pushing it. Thoughts. Wishes? Ehhh, here's what I'd like from 2015:

• A new job
• Good LORD Almighty, I would love for 2015 to be the last year in a long stretch of years in which I stop wishing for a new job. I would like to get one, enjoy it, and leave the wishing for sometime around 2020. Maybe.
• Less poundage
• I'm not going to get into numbers or an actual plan, because that has not really panned out for me in the past. But I would like to weigh less (possibly significantly less) on this date in 2016.
• To stand up for myself more
• Like I put on twitter the other day, what I really wish for is that people would be kinder to me this year and I would have to do less standing up for myself. But since I can only control me, I would like to set more boundaries and stand up for myself. In the tail end of 2014, I did this a little and it felt good. There's been some fallout that has sucked, but even then I was contented in knowing that I had done all I could to take care of myself. I'd like to keep doing that.
• To read my Bible more
• This sounds like such a Christian cliche, but it's so necessary in my life. Like exercise, I always feel better after I do it and yet I find a lot of reasons not to. I'm doing this reading plan through my church called Join the Journey. I really want to read every entry, even if I don't get to them on the day they're intended. By this time next year, I will have read the whole Bible, which I somewhat shamefully admit I have never done before. I claim to believe it all, but I haven't read it all? Let's change that.
• A new place to live
• Likely as not I will be moving back in with Bean when my lease is up. My apartment has been adequate, but there are a lot of issues that management won't deal with (using heat/AC makes my entire apartment stink of cigarette smoke which makes me cough and get stuffed sinuses, but it's Texas, so I have 100 degree days and 20 degree days and kind of need to be able to regulate temperature). Plus, I just love the stuffing out of Bean & Co, so why not spend more time there if they're willing to have me? However, if I manage to find a new job that pays well enough, I'll get a new place of my own that is very near to them instead.
• A....husband?
• That's probably dreaming too big, but MAN it would be really nice to meet someone and fall in love and share my life with them.

So that's my navel gazing New Year's post and it's ONLY eight days into 2015. Not too shabby for someone who posted 7 times in 2014.

Character Limits Are My Kryptonite

I was trying to write a tweet today, and I couldn't fit it all into 140 characters and get my point across. I know, no one is surprised by my inability to be brief. It's nothing earth-shattering or ground-breaking, but it might come off as one of those tone-deaf "I am so profound, look at me in my leather armchair near mahogany bookshelves faux-refurbished industrial swivel chair in my chevron-bedecked living room pondering life and using my Voice to impart to you my secret wisdomous thoughts" blog posts that I kind of hate. Or something.

Growing up, my family was very free and liberal with the phrase "I love you." Not in a careless way. We truly, 100% loved each other (even when we hated each other). No matter what was going on, no matter how we behaved, no matter the occasion, we said "I love you." Sometimes, we would say it when someone LEFT THE ROOM. They were coming right back! We knew they were coming right back! And yet, we still made sure they knew it before they left our presence. It's how we say good bye on the phone: "Love you, bye!" We are a very loving family that is not afraid to show it.

This is not to say that our home was paradise or that we never fought. Sister and I shared a room until I was 12, so you can imagine the carnage. We fought like cats and dogs; we BRUISED each other frequently. There was the normal amount of raised voices and tempers and frustrations that any family has. But we never, for one second, doubted our love for one another. A lot of this comes from our faith, which is at its essence built on love. If we truly believe what we say we do, how can we act in any other manner?

Anyway, my point is not to brag about my family, although I do think they are incredible people and I'm so grateful to have been raised in a home like this. My point is, even with never going a day without hearing and saying that phrase, I was fully an adult before I became comfortable with saying it to anyone I was not related to. Maybe this is common? I'm not trying to pull the Special Snowflake card here, I swear. But I remember most of my friends saying "I love you" to boyfriends at an age younger than one would expect someone to HAVE a boyfriend, let a lone be in love (and we can argue about whether they even KNEW what love was at that age at some other time). So maybe this comes from me never having been in a romantic relationship. I've never been in love, so I've never said "I love you" in that way. I don't know.

What I do know is that, despite coming from a loving home and despite growing up in a faith defined by love, I was...embarrassed? hesitant...UNCOMFORTABLE...with telling my friends I loved them. I have no idea why. I maybe thought they would judge me? Like that word was too big and too potent to attach to a normal friendship? Maybe it was a fear that they didn't feel the same way and then we're both left in that awkward space where there's pressure to say it anyway and there's unintended rejection if it isn't said. Maybe I believed, erroneously, that that phrase is only for blood-relatives and romantic love (that would be the dumbest rule ever, if it were true).

And now, nearly 600 words later, I'll tell you that that information? Just ground work for the thought I was trying to tweet earlier. So now you can see why I couldn't fit my idea into 140 characters. THIS is that thought: One of the greatest joys, one of the best discoveries, of my adulthood so far is realizing that I CAN say "I love you" to people who are not related to me and also that I have people in my life to whom I WANT to say it and who willingly say it BACK.

Like I said, probably not earth-shattering. Probably, most of you do this without thinking. But the magic of the Internet is those "me, too!" moments, so I thought maybe I'm not the only one. I have struggled for much of my life (again, despite the loving family and my faith) with feelings of inadequacy and fear of rejection and the expectation that people do not actually want me around. Typing it out like that, it sounds so WOE IS ME, but it's not like that. It's just this stupid, insidious, ugly thought that creeps into my thoughts when I'm in a group of people or spending time in someone else's home: "They don't actually like me or want me here. They're just putting up with me. It's an obligation to them. I'd better leave before I make it awkward for them to ask me to go." Ugh. Not pretty. And not true for most situations.

So the fact that I have people in my life who are not biologically programmed to love me, people who are not only willing to spend time with me, but are willing to say out loud that they LOVE me? That's pretty much the best thing ever. I still hesitate infinitesimally before I say it sometimes. Or I allow them to say it first, just to be sure. I'm still pretty awkward with it (although I would submit that there is very little with which I am NOT awkward). But it's become so common that I almost take it for granted. That's what hit me today. How normal and average and unremarkable it seemed to me when my friend said it right before she hung up the phone yesterday. Because it actually isn't--it's really rather extraordinary. I hope you this in your life, too.

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.

Purse Preferences

I have very specific and sundry requirements for purses, so much so that you might be tempted to ask how anyone can expect so much from a sack of material meant to transport your things from one place to another. But such is the way of ME. And while I don't tend to blog about things like purses or make-up or other shopping pursuits, preferring to save my column inches (heh...) for the really important things, like my dead beta fish named Lola and long-winded rants about musicians named Steve Roach (that no one appreciated the way I'd hoped, might I add [probably because it wasn't very good...]), I have been thinking about this often enough lately that I decided not to deprive you of my wisdom and insight regarding purses. You're welcome. And if you lost your way somewhere in the midst of that clause and parenthetical laden sentence, I don't blame you one bit. I'm still mired in it myself.

Moving on! I've had the same purse for many years now. A small, bright pink, constructed-with-non-leather-materials, Target-bargain purse. The non-leather materials started to flake off about a year ago and the strap has been tearing lately and in general it just looks bad. But, alas, I am broke, meaning I neither have the money to spend on a purse nor the money to carry in a purse. So it seemed like a non-issue for a while. But at Christmas, my mother asked me what I needed/wanted and I immediately thought of my poor, sad, pink bag limping along on its last zipper-pull and I thought LO! I will ask the mother for a new one and she will buy something practical in brown or black that is more befitting a 26-year-old quasi-professional such as myself and I will finally retire my whimsical and slightly-impractical handbag. And then she requested to know what kind of bag I wanted and, yea, the list was long (I'm trying to make it feel more Christmassy. Is it working?). And indeed, on Christmas morning, it was discovered that she had brought forth a practical, brown, professional handbag and wrapped it in swaddling, er, wrapping paper and presented it to me.

Geez! That was like five THOUSAND words to tell you I had a purse, it was falling apart, I got a new one for Christmas. In my defense, I come by it honestly. Seriously, in my family, if you use 20 words to say what only needs 10, you're barely trying. ANYway, the purse my mom gave me had a big old slice in the strap, probably from a box cutter when the store unpacked it, and the strap was going to break in the first few weeks of use, so I had to return it and the store didn't have a replacement or any other that I liked. Because of all my requirements. Which I will enumerate here so we can all move on and find something to eat before we die of starvation on the Oregon Trail that is this story I'm telling.

Oddly Specific Purse Preferences:

1. It must be of medium size. Not like a baguette or a clutch. Not like a hobo bag. [I think I'm using all of those terms correctly, but feel free to call me out. This is why I will never be a fashion blogger. Well, this and my COMPLETE lack of style coupled with my aversion to self-photography.] Partly because medium bags are easier to carry and partly because, not matter what size it is, I will fill it right up. So medium works best for me.

2. It must be wider than it is tall. I have a long-ish pocketbook for my checkbook (which I hardly ever use anymore, because seriously, who writes checks these days?), my cash, and all the various plastic cards I carry--credit, ID, gift, and other. I want the pocketbook to go in and out easily.

3. It must have a short, wide strap. When I have it on my shoulder, I want it under my arm, not hitting my hip. I am far too klutzy for this to be anything other than a choking hazard. Also, though not a deal breaker, I'd prefer one strap over two.

4. However, the strap must be slightly longer than the span from my wrist to my elbow. I know, oddly specific. Basically, I need to be able to move the purse from my hand to my shoulder in one movement and only using one hand. If I need to two-hand my purse, it is 50% less useful to me.

5. It must stand on its own. I want to be able to set it down and not have it tip over.

6. It must have a zipper for the main compartment. In case of the rare tip-over, I want my belongings to STAY in the purse. Magnetic clasps are unreliable and real clasps are impractical.

7. It must have the correct balance of internal pockets to open space. I want a few places to store things. But not so many places that I lose things and/or have trouble fitting larger items, like my pocketbook. I would also like at least one zippered pocket to store lady products so they don't come flying out of my purse when I whip out said pocketbook.

8. It must have an quick-access outer pocket. For keys. Or y iPhone, when I don't have pockets. his should probably have a magnetic closure, not a zipper this time.

9. It must be made of leather-like material. No canvas. No print (especially floral) No fringe. No giant, useless chains or studs that are flashy and obnoxious. Just a solid color. Preferably not textured (like faux-snake skin, ew) in any way.


Looking over that list, I think I can finally give up on my dream of not being high-maintenance. I was never really close anyway, I guess.

With all of that said (and I'm beginning to wonder if anyone but me cares about this topic, but I'm too far along now to quit), there is also the added obstacle of me being INCREDIBLY cheap. We can say this is due to my recent jaunts into temporary unpaid leisure time (that sounds more upbeat than "hopeless unemployment," now doesn't it?), but I think I'm strong enough to admit that my job situation has only served to exacerbate my deep-seated frugality.

Seriously, long story NOT ANY LESS LONG, I finally went to the local thrift store on their half-off day and I found two, count them TWO, purses that met these qualifications and were only $7.50 (and one of them doesn't even look like it was used). And while I know I said I was looking for something more practical and professional, like brown or black, these two called to me and let's face it, I've never been all that practical and I haven't been a professional for quite some time. And I think that, though these colors aren't typical, colored bags are so commonplace now that I really don't think it's an issue. Oh God, self, just shut up and show them the pictures already.

Here are my new (used), cheap, specifications-meeting purses:

The one I'm using right now. I LOVE it! I know the orange is a little out there, but I can't find it in me to care.

This one is a little more worn and doesn't completely stand up by itself, because the bottom is warped. But hopefully when it's full, it will work just fine.

They both have two, thin-ish straps, which is the only downside to either of them. Otherwise, they meet all my ridiculous requirements and then some. And for under ten bucks, I really can't complain at all.

So. I needed a purse, I got two purses, I like them a lot--a much shorter post, but I hope you'll agree, a much more boring one. And thus ends my purse jabber. Feel free to chime in with your own purse requirements or advice as to where to find something that meets mine (although it will probably be years before I go looking again, if I'm being honest).

And Now I Want Baked Beans and Hotdogs...

I know what you're thinking. Two posts in two days? INSANITY! I know, right? I'm trying something new and different. It's called writing on my blog. It's a revolutionary concept I expect will sweep the nation in four to six months. Or, you know, whatever.

Anyway, something funny happened yesterday and it got me to thinking about my favorite kid of blog posts. You know the kind, where someone says something weird/embarrassing/stupid about themselves and I instantly think, "You, too? I thought I was the only one who thought/felt/acted like that!" I love those kind of posts. I'm pretty sure they are the best part of the Internet.

Yesterday, Sister and I spent the majority of the day at my parent's house, partly because I'd had a crappy week and needed them and partly because they've been out of town for a while and I wanted to see them, but mostly because I was hungry and my mother offered me pancakes. I'm a simple girl with simple needs: air, water, shelter, pancakes (or any other carbs that come in somewhat circular forms). Not necessarily in that order.

At some point during the day, my dad made himself a snack of french bread and braunschweiger (if you click, please don't let the picture of the sandwich throw you off--whoever made that sandwich was an idiot who doesn't know how to make sandwiches). He's loved certain strange foods for many years, including this and pickled herring. As a child, I grew up eating braunschweiger because he liked it and I was very much a Daddy's Girl (a term which I've always hated the sound of, but I have no other way to describe it so we're going to have to pretend it isn't awkward, mmkay?) and I wanted to like what he liked and do what he did--except eat pickled herring; even I wasn't brave enough for that.  Parental hero worship might be an interesting blog post, but it's not this one. Just wait, I'm getting there.

It's probably a good thing he introduced it to me so early, because if I had come across it as an adult, I would have wrinkled my nose and never tried it. But I love it right alongside him. Again, a better blogger than me could spin that into a "LOOK! There's this thing I HATED as a kid and now I love it!" (or vice versa) kind of post. I am not that blogger.

So my dad finished his disgustingly delicious snack, which he was kind enough to share with me, and got up to go do something. And he got a massive charlie horse in the back of his thigh (sidenote: I have trouble when he gives me a pretend sad face, so seeing him in actual pain makes my chest physically hurt--it's a weird link I have with him, probably related to the whole Daddy's Girl [ick] thing).

And can we just take a(nother) break, for a quick question? Does everyone call them charlie horses or is that one of those weird regional colloquialisms that no one understands unless they grew up in a specific area? I thought it was a universal term, but I'm starting to doubt myself and I don't want to have a million wiki links peppered throughout this post (plus, it seems like a weird thing to link to), so if it IS one of those things and you don't know what I'm talking about, a charlie horse is a leg cramp that make your whole leg seize up and you have to find a way to either point your toe or flatten your foot and it's awful and no one likes them and, uh, charlie horse. That explanation got away from me. Moving on! And if you already knew and I was wrong and EVERYONE knows this information, I'm just going to move on in an embarrassed and slightly stealth-like manner.

I realize this may sound like I'm rambling (BECAUSE I AM), but this is all a (very detailed) set-up for a somewhat interesting point/question, I promise.

As soon as we got his leg to loosen up and got him set up on the couch, Mom and Sister told me a really ridiculous story about how, while I had run out to the grocery store after breakfast, my dad had gotten a charlie horse while stuck under the sink trying to fix a non-serious plumbing problem and the other semi-calamitous events surrounding the plumbing and charlie horsing and I had this CRAZY BRAINWAVE. In my mind, I have always had a memory linkage between braunschweiger and my father having a charlie horse. I cannot explain it or point to another time when he was eating it and got a charlie horse, but there is a DIRECT link in my brain.

When I mentioned this to my family, they kind of just blinked at me for a minute, so I followed it up with this: every time I go into the garage at my parents' house, I have to pee REALLY BADLY, whether I've done so recently or not. I don't know if it's because that's how we always came into the house as kids when we were playing outside and we needed to use the bathroom or what, but I am 25 and it still happens. Maybe it's the temperature difference? Anyway, they kind of got it then, I think. Or they were just nodding and smiling and thinking of where to hide the knives from the crazy person sitting on their couch.


But I have these connections with all kinds of things. Whenever I put on mascara, I think of the movie Sybil with Sally Field. This one I think I understand--I had to watch it in college for a screenwriting class and I underestimated how long it was going to be, so I was in a hurry to go somewhere near the end and spent the last fifteen minutes watching it through my bathroom mirror while I got ready to go.
And I know I just made up the rules to this...thing..., but I'm not even sure if this one qualifies: I will never NOT get the two names Gretchen and Bridgette mixed up in my head. Never.

BUT! Hot dogs and baked beans with new potatoes will ALWAYS make me think of that old show Night Court (Mom and Sister agreed with this one, actually), because that was almost always the meal Dad made for us kids on Saturday nights when Mom worked the night shift and we would eat it while watching that show. To this day, the smell of baked beans cooking occasionally makes me hum the Night Court theme song (Watching to that just made me SO HAPPY, you have no idea. Oh, the bad hair! And John Larroquette! BULL! Man, I miss that show).

There are a million other little things like this for me. And despite my family's initial reaction, I CANNOT be the only one. What strange, inexplicable, or ridiculous linkages to you have trapped inside of your brain? And if you don't have any, could you please make some up while you think of places to hide your knives from me?

Funny. I promise.

Several years ago, I had this job. An assistant-y type job, where I did pretty much whatever my boss wanted me to do and didn't ask a lot of questions. One of my tasks was to look through the local obituaries and write condolence letters to anyone that my boss knew or to whom she was connected in some way (she was both prominent in the community and old, leading to A LOT of these letters). One day, I read an obituary that made me laugh out loud.

And then I sent Sister a long e-mail detailing what exactly was so funny about this man and his obituary.

I know, I know. I'm a terrible person. And since that's already true, I might as well go all the way to hell and write a post based on that e-mail and post it here where EVERYBODY can read it. And before you click away, I am not going to laugh at the WAY he died or get gory at all. I may be going to hell, but I'm not that awful.

**********

FROM: Elise
TO: Sister
SUBJECT: Funny. I promise.

You're having a bad day and I promised you funny, so here goes:

I have to look at all the local obituaries and gather the addresses of family members for condolences. This is not funny. But just wait, I'll get there.

One of the men who died this week was Robert "Bob" Smith.*  He was 85 and he passed peacefully. This is not particularly funny, either.

His wife's name was Elizabeth, but he called her Bunny. Funnier.





Actually, he seems to have called her "his Bunny." Like, "My Bunny, can you get me some more coffee?" or "Hi, My Bunny, how was your day with our 11 children?" See, the funny is starting to grow on you, right?

He had three sons. Pretty average. Not too funny.

They were named Robert, Jerry, and Clyde. Clyde's kind of funny. But only a little.

One of his sons goes by Bob. Also average; also not funny.

Except that it's his second son Jerry, not Robert, who goes by Bob. Funny.

He also had eight daughters. (See! I totally wasn't kidding with the 11 children thing up there) I'm guessing he didn't find that too funny when he paid for their weddings. I would, though. Lots of money is lots of funny.

His oldest daughter's name is Shereen. Maybe not funny, but weird. 

Until you meet her sisters: Laureen, Tareen, Joireen, Kathereen, Mareen, and Janeen. Now we've arrived at the funny.

Now, you're probably thinking, "Hey, that's only seven!" And you would be right, you great counter, you. Joining Shereen, Laureen, Tareen, Joireen, Kathereen, Mareen, and Janeen is the baby sister:  Carol. Poor Carol. FUNNY!



(We could also take a second here to be a little bit sorry for Janeen, who missed out on the R that her other sisters got, including Carol. But I'm giggling too much to be that sorry.)

PLUS? Carol and Clyde were listed together. Last. Named with the same letter. I'd like to think they were twins. That would be funny. And twins as your tenth pregnancy?  Even funnier. For everyone who is NOT Bunny, that is.

So, Mr. Robert "Bob" Smith. You had a long life. You did amazing things. You raised a (presumably) good family, albeit with odd monikers. And, you made a weary employee's day a little brighter. So thanks. God bless you. And God bless Bunny, Robert, Jerry "Bob", the 'Reens, and Carol & Clyde. Oh, and Janeen, who isn't actually a 'Reen.

Funny. I promised.

**********

*I changed the last name to make this less google-able, but I swear the rest of the names are real. If you want to verify, e-mail me and I'll send you the link to the obituary. The reason I'm  not linking it here is that it will give away my location, which is a closely-guarded secret. Also, you you happen to know this man or his family, I apologize for any offense, given or taken. Please e-mail me and tell me everything you know about these people, because I think I would really like them!

Sunday Afternoon Thoughts

The title makes it sound like it's a recurring feature or something, which is just silly, because I'm sure there hasn't been any kind of regular feature on this blog, except for NaBloPoMo. And even then, the only "regular" part of it was that I posted every day. Nothing else I wrote had any kind of theme. Or met any version of the definition of "regular" for that matter. I'm pretty sure exactly zero of you needed this explained, but I think my delete key needs a break (cover letter writing and my lack of self-confidence this week wore it out), so you're all stuck with this as an intro. Or this: I have some thoughts; they are not connected; bullets.

• It is ridiculous how often I find myself praying that I do not get in a car accident, not because I'm afraid of injury (Although I am. See also: snow anxiety), but because I'm afraid that any extra pressure against the lap belt with cause me to lose control of my bladder. I guess Papa's rule about visiting the restroom before getting in the car did not last into adulthood.

• It's been gorgeous out lately and the snow is rapidly disappearing, which means that everyone and their cousin is out on the bike paths. Running, jogging, biking, and walking dogs. And all of it is making me wish I had a dog. I would be so fit if I had a dog that needed long walks to work off energy.

• If I got a dog, it would probably be some kind of lab. Chocolate (predictable, right?). And I would name it something cute and quirky with just a slight edge of irony. Like my pastor's dog. His name is Solomon and I have never met a dumber animal (and that's including my hamster named Cookie who only moved about once a week). He's all happy energy and brute strength. I always forget his name and then think, "It's a Bible name. With an S. Must be Samson." Which would be much more fitting. But less funny.

• It'll probably snow or do something else Far Northish tomorrow and I will see those same people with those same dogs and I will be supremely grateful that I did not go to the shelter and pick out a dog today. But it sure is tempting.

• Sometimes I wish I could take a picture of myself and then forget what I look like. Well, basically, I'd like to look at that photo and see myself as a stranger might. I wonder what things I would notice. I wonder which things I would forgive. I'm so used to the face in the mirror that sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out on some crucial information. Like someone who proofreads their own work; they know what it's supposed to say, so they don't read what it actually says or see the typos. I don't mean this in some WOE IS ME I AM SO UGLY BUT I DO NOT EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW UGLY I AM kind of way. I just mean it would be interesting. Psychologically speaking. Or is it sociologically? Anthropologically? One of those liberal arts that would have been more profitable interesting than the one I picked...

• I used to use the phrase Bad Decision Tuesday pretty frequently. Because most of my bad choices, usually regarding food on my lunch break when I was trying to escape my awful job, seemed to happen on Tuesdays since my weekend strength only lasted that long. Then I started using it describe any bad decision, on Tuesdays or otherwise. Which was probably funny to no one but me. BUT! I just had a phrase pop into my head, something along the lines of, "This plan was brought to you by the Bad Idea Twins." And I was kind of sad that I don't have a pair of friends that I can call the Bad Idea Twins. They would probably be a lot of fun to have around. I'm not talking about friends who CHRONICALLY make ACTUAL bad decisions and you're always having to bail them out or listen to their sob stories. Those people are annoying. I mean the kind of friends who come up with ridiculous and hairbrained ideas that would push me out of my comfort zone to attempt things that will make hilarious stories for my grandchildren. Right now, all I have for them is "I wore yoga pants and ate a lot of cake." That's sure to keep them laughing...

• Something just occurred to me: I think I have a much greater chance of having grandchildren (or, you know, CHILDREN) if I put down the cake, change out of my yoga pants, and have some crazy adventures. I might actually meet someone then... Hmmm. Food for thought. Doesn't taste quite as good as cake, though.

• I'm a big fan of automatic updates on my laptop, because I cannot possibly be expected to track down all of the updates my computer needs. But I swear, every stupid time I open my laptop, Adobe tries to update me. And all I can think is, "Adobe, you're like a preteen on Facebook--constant updates about nothing remotely interesting. Go outside and play. I'm busy."

• I just found this birthday card Brother gave to Sister on her last birthday (this is an example of the kind of familial love I'm always bragging about).

Cover: "I couldn't ask for a better sister."

Inside: "Well, I could--but I think Mom's too old now. Happy Birthday, anyway!" His message: "I think they call this a Double Burn. Or would it be a 2nd Degree Burn? Happy Birthday!"

• I WARNED you that none of this was connected. So if you felt like this post was a waste of your time, you really only have yourself to blame.

I Am A Secret Agent Of Travel (Which Is Different From a Travel Agent)

My vacation is over. I’m writing this from the air over Pennsylvania (and probably LOTS of other states), on my way from Philadelphia to Minneapolis, where I will spend 10 (probably long) hours before I fly home to the Far North (Ha! You totally thought I was going to give you a city name there, didn’t you? Admit it!). Three weeks away from home feels like forever and also doesn’t feel like nearly enough time with Niece and Biggest Brother and Sister-In-Law. 

To commemorate my last night in town, Niece attempted to kill herself. Okay, it wasn’t nearly that extreme, but my racing heart sure felt like it was. She took a header off of her “big girl chair” at the dinner table, landing on her chin and biting through the side of her tongue, which bled and bled and made her pregnant mother nauseous with both worry and blood-related aversions. Then, after she had calmed down and sucked on a few ice cubes and had her bath, she bonked her head on a doorframe, trying to avoid being more than three inches away from her mother’s side. Needless to say, the evening was a slightly traumatic way to say good-bye.

Since Niece is so verbal and has such an excellent memory (Example: when my parents visited two months ago, my mother made a comment about how, when Niece was a big girl, she could maybe ride a horsey, since she was so enamored with them. Now, any time we praise her for acting like a big girl, she asks, “Me ride horsey now? Ride black horsey? Mommy, daddy help?”), we decided to prepare her for my departure a day or two in advance. 

In order to help her understand that I wasn’t going to live with them permanently, I started asking where various people in her life live, thinking I’d ease in. But her response to every question formatted “Where does _____ live?” was “in church” or “to work.” So I started asking her where people slept. For some reason, that worked and she understood that I usually sleep in a bed in [Far North] in the same house as Sister (This is where I REALLY wish I used our real names, because then I could phonetically spell out the adorable ways she pronounces our names with her version of Auntie in front of them). But every time I tried to explain that I needed to go back to that bed and that I wouldn’t be there for Easter, she would frown very seriously and say, in the most matter-of-fact voice, “But me need you, Onta [Elsie].” Break my heart, kid. Go ahead; I don’t mind. 

Anyway, leaving was ridiculously difficult (I welled up a little, then did my classic feeling-avoidance moves and read about other people’s feeling son blogs) and I imagine she’s going to ask for me for a while and probably refuse to talk to be on the phone because GIRL CAN HOLD A GRUDGE! So, I’m totally looking forward to that… Compounding the issue was the obnoxion that was trying to check in for my flight on Delta. I cannot BELIEVE the things they are charging for these days and the hoops they are making us jump through. Okay, I’m sure I’m not the first to complain about this and y’all are probably all, “We’re SO over it by now. Oh, and also? Stop complaining about the ‘new’ body scanners already, that’s so 2011…”

But man, I miss my civil liberties and the money that used to be in my bank account. I guess this is just the cost of living safe in the land of the free. Wait… Huh? Okay, I’ll avoid getting all politically ranty up in here, since it’s PURPOSEFULLY not my style (on the blog anyway—meet me in real life and we will have a very different conversation), but can I just say that I HATE them? And that I stand inside them with my hands above my head with (what I hope is) a clear demonstration of my rage on my face and in my posture, just to make sure that those who are looking at my digitally naked body understand that I’m COMPLYING, but I am NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT (because, as a habitual Rule Follower, I am destined to be a chronic Hoop Jumper, no matter my level of indignation)? And also: that it boggles my mind that we have them at the Airport of the Far North, but Philadelphia doesn’t? Because that seems inconsistent and strange. 

I seem to have lost the thread of this post… Ah yes. Ending my vacation. I loved everything about this trip and am really sad it’s over. Pennsylvania, you’re kind of awesome (well, the twenty square miles of you I saw). You’re awesome enough that I started looking at job opportunities in the Philadelphia area, JUST IN CASE. You know, in case I get a sudden signal from heaven that PHILLY IS WHERE IT’S AT, ELISE. GO FORTH AND LOVE THE AMISH! Or something. 

I’m pretty sure that as soon as I get home, I will remember all of the reasons I moved back there in the first place, despite the six feet of snow remaining in my yard (which will probably still be there in May, even though the rest of the country seems to have collectively made a 2012 New Year’s Resolution “to prove some variation of the global warming theory and confuse meteorologists, just for kicks”). Added to this will be my DEEP LOATHING anything dealing with a) packing; b) moving; and c) things that are packing/moving ADJACENT, including but not limited to 1) house hunting, 2) cable/Internet installations, 3) learning new road systems, and 4) realizing that NO SINGLE PERSON WITH NO MONEY SHOULD HAVE THIS MUCH CRAP. All of this means I am probably NOT moving to Pennsylvania anytime soon. But you never know (See my capslocky rendition of the voice of God in the previous paragraph).

Which means that there is no longer any barrier to me looking for and, you know, OBTAINING some form of employment in my hometown. I kept putting it off because I was always just BACK from travelling or just ABOUT TO travel or in the MIDDLE of wearing yoga pants and watching television. But really? My last official day was October 3, 2011. It is now April 2012 (in case you somehow missed that fact). Enough is enough, Elise; get off your rear and be productive already.

But before I end this rambling diatribe masquerading as a blog post, I need to comment on the travel thing. I did not leave Far North ONE SINGLE TIME in 2011, so this year has been very weird. I did some math (counting calendar squares is math, right?) and I have spent a grand total of 47 nights in my own bed in 2012. That’s less than HALF of this year so far.  Wow, that might comes off kind of dirty. Let me assure you: except for seven nights spent stealing the covers back from Roommate and failing to keep her from sleeping in my armpit (oh, and the endless fights with Satan’s Cat to JUST STOP SCRATCHING MY FACE ALREADY), I have spent all those nights in other beds ALONE.

January started off normal, but I think it was just lulling me into a false sense of security. Then February hit. I spent three nights of February in my own bed. First, I went to see Roommate on my way to Phoenix (and PJ’s @ TJs). When I got home, Sister was out of town (being frivolous and learning how to do her new job, pfft) which meant I was in her room with Satan’s “I USE MY CLAWS TO SHOW MY LOVE” Cat. I thought March would be fine, since I only had the two night retreat, but then Pennsylvania called and I was off again. 

I’m not complaining, by the way—I feel truly blessed with all of these opportunities. I just find it all very unusual. But here is my one complaint: most of the other beds I slept in were queen-sized, which makes it more and more difficult to return to my pathetic little (broken) twin bed. And actually? I won’t even get to spend tonight in my own bed, even though I’ll be in my own house, since Sister is in Alabama being a Groomswoman for a college friend. So I will sleep in her bed to better corral Satan’s Cat. 

Maybe this is not noteworthy to you… Maybe you spend the majority of your nights in beds other than your own. Maybe you even do this in the fashion I unintentionally implied. Maybe you make a habit of sneaking into mattress stores and trying out a new bed every night just to be eccentric and have anecdotes of your eccentricity to put in your autobiography someday. Whatever. It’s notable for me. I am a creature of habit and I CRAVE stability. So 2012 has been a little more topsy-turvy than I’m used to. Not bad. Just DIFFERENT. 

Wow, apparently being trapped on a plane with no internet access—and no toddlers tugging me to “come on; me show you sumpsing”—makes me wordy. Wordier. Whatever. I wish I had a great way to wrap this up, but I have two hours of flight time left to ponder the imponderable and gaze at my navel, so I think I’ll just cut this off by saying that a Dunkin’ Donuts large iced coffee is indeed LARGE and I need to mosey down the aisle to avoid an unfortunate public incident. 

Until next time, when I’m sure I will again stun you with my limitless fount of blogging prowess. Have a Happy Easter. Or, you know, don’t. It’s really up to you.

Where Is the Song for the Absent Things?

I've been feeling kind of low lately. Kind of empty. And I know that when [on the rare occasion that] I post [at all lately], it's usually some kind of administrative information or it's humorous. Or, at least, an attempt at humorous...ness. But I'm not feeling the humor so much tonight.



Maybe it's the let-down of coming home from PJs@TJ's, to which nothing else can compare in AWESOMENESS. Maybe it's because I've been living by myself for almost three weeks while Sister is out of town for job training. Maybe it's because I've been spending a lot of time with Godson and his mom, who is pregnant with a new Godson or Goddaughter due this summer and who has TWO nieces on the way as well. Or maybe it's because there were potato chips on sale a few weeks ago and I didn't buy them. Who can tell?

Whatever the trigger happened to be, I have spent the better part February incredibly lonely. And not just lonely "for the company of other human beings." Because when I feel that the house is overwhelming in its quietude, I pick up the phone or I hop in my car and I connect with other livings beings (who are not cats intent on smothering me in my sleep). It's not that I'm craving human contact, it's that I'm craving a particular human. Whom I haven't yet met.

I think it will come as a surprise to exactly NO ONE who has been reading this blog for more than a minute that I am single. S-I-N-G-L-E single. And that this is not by choice. I mean, yes, I could have chosen to throw myself at anything male with a pulse and I would be in a relationship right now, if that was all it took. So when I say ""not by choice" I guess I should say that I'm not living out my twenties in some quest to "find myself" or "put myself first" or "have a career because love and family is for later" or "casually date around with no strings attached" or even "enjoy what single life had to offer" (I'm also not saying those are poor choices; they're just not MY choices... But you get that, right? Because you're smart and cool and we're friends. Which means this parenthetical is actually kind of useless. So I'll use it to say hello to my mother: "Hi, Mom!" There, that's better).

If it had been up to me and not my Heavenly Father (and a decent amount of logic, parental advice, and, oh yes, A COMPLETE LACK OF OPTIONS), I would have gotten married sophomore year of college and would have 1.5 kids already... is what I'm saying.

And while this is probably sounding like a midnight pity party, thrown by an insecure Junior High girl and attended by zero guests (because, duh, LONELY!), I feel like this has been on my mind and heart lately and I need to get it out. And I realized, "Hey! I have a blog! For my thoughts! And I'm having a few of them right now!" AND? I'm not actually asking for pity. Shut up! I mean it! I'm just trying to put into words what I'm feeling. Because I cannot possibly be the only one who has ever felt this way and I strongly believe that the Internet was created for "ME, TOO!" moments (well, and probably porn, but we're not talking about that, okay?). So bear with me, will you, my friends?

You see, I think we spend a lot of time talking about loss. On television, in movies, in books, or in song. We read about heartbreak and we talk about death. We sing about the pain of losing someone or of being unable to make it work. But where is the song for the Absent Things? The things we never had in the first place, so we cannot mourn their passing?

Because the pain is there. At least for me. And I figure for others as well. There is an ache in my heart and an emptiness in my life that cannot be explained in simple terms. It's not loss. And it's not even rejection. In fact, I'm struggling right now with how to tell you without sounding like a sadsack loser who is begging the Internet to marry her.

Because I have a good life. A warm bed. A full belly. A safe home. I have more than over 80% of the world's population. And I need you to understand that I an NOT complaining about those things. I am incredibly grateful for the blessings in my life.

Including my family. I have a wonderful set of parents that live less than five miles away and love me in a way that I wish every kid in the world got to experience because I'm pretty sure we would not have wars or violence if everyone grew up loved the way my parents loved me. And I have a fabulous Sister who is also my best friend and whom I never want to live without. And I have a brother and sister-in-law who live five miles away (in the other direction) who are a delight and an example of what young married love can be. And I have another brother and sister-in-law and a niece (and a niece or nephew on the way) who have been a constant joy in my life and who I wish were able to live closer.

I have a family.

But I do not have a Family with a capital F. A husband. Children of my own. And there is an emptiness where they should be which does not, in any way, negate the love my family has for me or that I feel right back at them. In fact, I'm pretty sure that the desire to fill this void is a direct result of the wonderful life I have lived. I want to share it with someone.

At the risk of angering or offending women with infertility issues, I'm going to make a VERY LOOSE comparison. Since I've never tried to have a baby, I fully admit that I cannot know the depths of the pain or emptiness a family feels when they cannot have children. But in some ways, I wonder if we have something in common: for all my wishing and hoping and trying and waiting, I cannot just MAKE THIS HAPPEN for myself. And it's something that seems to have come so easily for almost everyone else around me.

Since I was in High School, the world has been pairing off around me. And when I look at all of the people I interact with on a regular basis, 95% of them are married, most with their own Families. And while everyone's "how we met" stories are personal and unique and required a certain amount of waiting and hoping and risk and whatever else, they have also ALREADY HAPPENED. They met, they fell in love, and BAM! happily ever after.

I know. I know. It's never that easy. And there are plenty of single people still out there, waiting and hoping just like me. And I'm pretty sure that SOMEDAY I will meet the man of my dreams and fall in love and BAM! happily ever after. And I will look back at all my fretting and loneliness with a kind of fondness, knowing it all paved the road that lead me to him or some other sentimental ridiculousness that is probably still true despite how sentimental and ridiculous it all seems. And I KNOW that I do not want to get ahead of myself and marry the wrong man and then end up alone ANYWAY. And I AM trusting the Lord to bring me the right man at the right time (mostly... some days... I'm trying, okay?).

But can we just stop for a moment and recognize that there is pain in the waiting? That the wanting and yearning to share your life with someone is actually UNCOMFORTABLE and LONELY and IT HURTS? That there is a space that cannot be filled by anything other than Family with a capital F and until that happens, that space is EMPTY and yet still PRESENT?

That is what I am feeling this week. A hole in my heart where HE and MY KIDS should be. A hole that will someday, by the grace of a loving and merciful God, be occupied by exactly what I need. And that will maybe not hurt so badly tomorrow if I can just find some rest in a yet-again-empty bed. That is all.

Thanks for listening and have a good night.

And can you do me a favor? Can you kiss your spouse or hug your kids and whisper a thank you for your own empty space that isn't so empty anymore? On behalf those of us still waiting?

In Which I Brag About Traveling and Make Up Another Word

I have some fun and exciting news! As I've alluded to in various posts, I'm going to PJs@TJ's! For any of you who do not follow Temerity Jane, she's hosting a get-together and pajama party for about 18 bloggers and twitterers at her home (!) in the Phoenix area next weekend. Which I think is both awesome and incredibly brave! Not that any of us are scary or anything. Just that opening your home to 18 strangers (and some of their babies) is a big deal. I'm very grateful to have the opportunity to go to something like this and to meet these women. It's going to be AMAZING!

But wait! THERE'S MORE! Since I live in the (top secret, vaguely guessable) Far North, it's kind of expensive to travel ANYWHERE. So anytime I leave Far North and don't cross the Mississippi River, I try to lump together several West Coast visits into one trip. With that in mind, I am flying out tomorrow night for a week-long trip to see... wait for iiiiit... ROOMMATE!

I am so excited about this! And judging by the multiple, exclamation point laden texts she has sent me over the last few weeks, she's excited, too. She has all of these secret plans for us, including hiking some kind of mountain or hill or other tall earthen formation--I'm not sure... she's very secretive when she wants to be. We'll watch the Super Bowl together (which neither of us is really that into, but there will be food and friends and beer and fun, so I'm stoked) and eat at Olive Garden, which is my favorite restaurant in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD. And up until a month or so ago, Far North did not have a single one. NOT ONE!

AND!? After I leave Roommate and spend what is shaping up to be the best weekend ever with the amazing ladies of PJs@TJ's, I'm grabbing a five hour layover in my old college town to see a dear friend and her family. These people and their adorable children are my surrogate family.

They took me home after Bible studies and fed me home cooked meals and let me play with their babies (none of which are babies any more, oh my word) and just generally filled in for my Far North family (both biological and church) when I couldn't go home for long stretches of time. Now that I've moved home, I see them about one every year or two (usually on layovers) and talk on the phone only slightly more frequently. But none of that matters, because the second we see or talk to one another, it's as if no time at all has passed.

So, as you all can easily imagine, the next two weeks are kind of big for me. I'm very excited, but I'm also slightly nervous. Some of it is meeting all those new people (although I already kind of know them through their blogs and tweets) and some of it is just the unexplainable anxion of traveling.

Anxion? Yes, anxion. I know it's not a word. And I totally could have used "anxiety." But this nervousness is slightly different from anxiety. Remember when I made up the word obnoxion? Because "obnoxiousness" is a mouthful and doesn't convey what I want to say? Apply the same rules to anxion. I suppose it's kind of a cross between anxiety and angst...? Who knows what I'm talking about? Lord knows I don't. Whatever.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I was talking (kind of unintentionally bragging?) about this AMAZING trip that I am going on and how I have the jitters. I'm sure it will be wonderful. I'm actually a little worried I've built it up too much. But probably not. I'm sure it's going to go really fast and before I know it, I'll be back in yoga pants on my couch, without any remaining excuse not to get a job. So, this is kind of a last hurrah before I dive into full-employment again. Or, at least, full-employment seeking. Which seems like a job in and of itself.

I must go pack. It looks like it's going to be about 60 everywhere I go, which would be awesome if I hadn't gained a bunch of weight since I (barely) fit into my summer clothes. This might be no fun at all, come to think of it... I'll let you know how it goes.

Yoga Pants Will Be My Downfall (Into Poverty, At Least)

I cannot believe January is almost over. Most days, it feels like I quit my job a few days ago. But, alas. Today marks FOUR MONTHS. And I do not have another one. After all the interviews right after I quit, there has been nothing. To be honest, though? I haven't been looking that hard. I know, shame on me. But every time I look, there is nothing that I am qualified for that will pay enough. I'm not looking to live like Kanye or anything, either. I would just like to be able to pay all my bills each month and buy pizza occasionally. So I get a little bit discouraged. I keep reminding myself to trust that the right job will come along eventually, but I'm kidding myself if I think it's going to jump out of my unopened Internet browser window, through my closed laptop, and smack me in the face saying "WE WANT TO HIRE YOU!"

But that would be awesome, right?

Now that Sister is back at work, my day basically consists of a lot of TV and Sims 3, along with sleeping late, getting the SICKNESS OF DEATH AND PHLEGM, and going to doctor appointments with friends. I'm not kidding: I went to Godson's Mom's ultrasound a few weeks back and today I'm driving into the next town over with another friend to wrangle her children while she talks to the doctor about an out-patient procedure I have no idea about. It's a little strange, right? I'm fully expecting to start getting Evites to colonoscopies and tonsillectomies. Maybe there's a job in this? Professional Child Wrangler and Medical Appointment Support Technologist... Has a nice ring to it. But I bet the pay isn't much and the insurance is crap...

And speaking of insurance: I have been sick for a week. It's that upper-respiratory, post-nasal drippy kind of thing where you think you will drown every time you try to sleep. And the whole time, I'm praying that it will not develop into anything more serious because I HAVE NO MONEY. Okay, I have some money. But I'm trying to use that to eat, not pay for incredibly expensive medical care. And then I get a twinge in my ear and I think, "Don't be an ear infection, please don't be an ear infection. I cannot cure an ear infection with NyQuil and tea. Please don't be an ear infection!" And then my ear stops twinging and says, "PSYCH!" And I want to weep a little. But then I remind myself that would not make my sinuses feel better.

It doesn't help that I have been watching copious amounts of Grey's Anatomy in all of my spare time, which is also copious. So now my ear twinges and I'm like, "Please don't be an ear infection! Or a brain tumor! Please don't be a brain tumor. Although, if Dr. Derek Shepherd were my brain surgeon... No, not even that is worth a brain tumor. Please don't be a brain tumor. Or an ear infection..." When my throat was all swollen last week, I thought cancer or some kind of infectious, auto-immune thing, not "common cold." (I was also watching a lot of House that week...) I should probably just turn off the TV and go get a job. But I really like my yoga pants.

Anyway, at this point, I am almost over it. I'm not achy or exhausted anymore. In fact, yesterday, I did two loads of laundry and most of the dishes. I'm like a SUPERHERO or something, right? (Yeah, no...) But I've still got that feeling of having Silly Putty hanging down the back of my throat that is involved in some kind of Whack-A-Mole challenge with my windpipe. Too much information? Sorry. I get honest when I'm sick.

ANYWAY! I'm not sure why I'm telling you all the gruesome details of my sickness. I know it's not very entertaining. Unless you're the kind of person who enjoys laughing at other people's pain. And then I'm not sure I want to be your friend. Which leaves me in a strange conundrum of my own making, I guess.

But the thing is? I'm going to PJs@TJ's in two weeks. And we are all trying to get to know one another through blogs and twitter before we all arrive. And as soon as I decided to go, I promptly stopped blogging, reading blogs, or checking twitter. Because that's logical. So I'm trying to get back in the pattern so they don't accuse me of FAKING being a blogger just to get invited to TJ's house. I am a blogger, I PROMISE! I just kind of suck at it. Also, anyone reading this who is also going to PJs@TJ's, could you please forget that I just gave way too many details about my bodily functions and just appreciate the fact that I'm blogging? Pretty please? Thanks.

Where I've Been and What I've Been Doing (Or Not Doing)

I don't even know how to start... I made a promise at the end of NaBloPoMo that I would continue posting every day but Sundays. And then promptly stopped posting for sixteen days. Only a few of those were Sundays. I have many excuses and even a few reasons, but I hate to be one of those bloggers who is always apologizing for their lack of posting--it makes me feel like an idiot and it really doesn't help you at all. So instead, I'm going to tell you about a few of the things I've been doing in the last sixteen days. And make a few excuses along the way. Because I'm a chronic apologizer.

The first day of December, I purposely did not post. I was tired. I had kind of run out of words--I had used A LOT OF WORDS in November. So I took a break and read someone else's words. During the madness of November, I had been unable to stick my mind to books. It was the strangest thing. The more I put my own words out there and the more I developed a story line for my novel, I avoided other people's words and story lines. At first, I was afraid of unconsciously stealing someone else's work. Then I just couldn't make my brain focus.

The the first thing I read once I finished the Na____Mos was the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants series by Ann Brashares, so that I could read the newest addition. On December 2nd, I started the new book at about 10:30 pm and put it down at 6:30 am, when I had read the very last page. I was exhausted, but I did not regret it at all! That book was incredible! I laughed. I wept. I felt as if I was one of the characters, experiencing all of the same emotions they were. I'd recommend it for anyone who enjoyed the first books or the movies or, you know, enjoys good books in general. Just read the first four--they're meant for teens, but you need the back story.

After that, I fell into a little bit of a funk. The book followed me for a few days and I felt like I was still grieving all that had happened, which is kind of strange, I know. But good books stick to me. That's how I know that they're good. It was during these days that I meant to post and never managed to do so. I had TOO many words in my head again.

And then I just got lazy. I admit it. JUST PLAIN LAZY. I was so relieved not to have a daily deadline and THINGS TO DO (unemployment has completely spoiled me) that I found all kinds of reasons not to post. We watched a lot of TV and a lot of movies. I played a lot of Sims 3. And when Sims 3 is running on my computer, I can't access the internet. It was the PERFECT EXCUSE. The perfect excuse to avoid the thing that I actually enjoyed, but had somehow convinced myself was a giagantic burden... Kind of strange.

I have also been house-sitting for my parents, who are visiting my mom's dad. Last Sunday was his NINETIETH birthday. That's CRAZY, right? Ninety! All five of his kids and some of the cousins came to his house from across the country to celebrate with him. That man is amazing. He accomplishes more everyday at 90 than I do at almost 25. He's still very spry and alert, although slightly curmudgeonly. Aw, heck. If I get to be ninety, I'm totally going to be a little grumpy, just because I CAN!

I have very little excuse for not posting at the parents' house, since their Internet is MUCH better than mine. Except? Sims 3. And television. And Firefly. And John Adams. And letting the dog out every five minutes and letting him back in, because he's barking, less than ten minutes later.

OH! AND! A few weeks ago, Godson's mom texted me a picture.

A picture of a positive pregnancy test.

YAY!! A brand new godson or goddaughter to dote on! She had her husband had been trying to conceive for almost six months and she had been getting worried. And then both her sisters-in-law (one of them being Sister's best friend) announced that THEY were pregnant. And Godson's mom was even sadder, because no one else knew they were trying, so it kind of looked like she was just being rude to those who were full of joy. But now, there will be three new grandchildren in her family sometime next summer. We were all very excited! Her mother's head is practically exploding with all of the babies coming into her life.

The next day, I go another text. Another person very close to me is pregnant. I can't say who, because I do not have permission. But it is very exciting and jump-around-the-room worthy. YAY! Babies. Babies and more babies!

Except? I have a black part of my heart that was not so happy. Because I am single, childless, unemployed, overweight, and all around dissatisfied with the direction my life is traveling. So while I was BEYOND excited for these new babies and their parents, I was also feeling a little bit sorry for myself. Because OF COURSE the world revolves around me.

For a day or two, I was kind of overwhelmed with the fact that my life is going NOWHERE. Funny thing is, I have some level of control over at least half of the things I think are wrong with my life. So basically, I'm just a whiner. And lazy. SURPRISE! Not.

Whether my feelings were rational or charitable is not the point. In those days, I knew I SHOULDN'T post, because anything I said was going to be something I would regret. And it's not that I don't already love these children. I do. I really do! It's just that I'm self-centered and have a black part of my heart where I apparently think other people having babies is some kind of indictment of my own lonely status. Because that's rational and reasonable and NOT AT ALL ridiculous. Sure...

And then I got another text about a pregnant friend. But this one was different. This one was sad on many different levels. This was the most difficult to wrap my mind around and is a lot of the reason I haven't posted THIS week.

A twenty-year-old friend of mine (a girl I had once babysat and who has become a dear friend) had been pregnant and had miscarried. And while the timing was awful--she's unmarried, still in college, and barely supporting herself--she wanted this child in her life. And yet, because the timing was so bad, she's also relieved that her life won't change so suddenly. And she feels guilty for feeling relieved, because her child is dead.

I am sad on so many levels. I am sad that she lost her child. I am sad that she slept with her boyfriend. I know many of you will probably not understand this, since most people don't give a second thought to sleeping with people they are not married to (and this is no judgement on either you or my friend). But I believe that there is all kinds of pain and devastation wrapped up in sex when it is not done in the right relationship or in the right timing. And I know that my friend is already feeling that pain and devastation. I am also sad for her future relationships--either continuing with this boy who is probably not mature enough to be a father or in a different relationship that will bear the burden of these poor choices. I am sad for her parents, who hoped for so much more for their daughter. I am sad for this boy, who many never understand that he DID NOT dodge a bullet. He just caught a different one than the one he expected and it may take him years to understand the wound.

As you can imagine, this situation has greatly changed my attitude. It helped me see how selfish and whiny I was being. It also reminded me why my life is where it is right now--the timing is just as wrong for me as it was for my friend. And I want to do all of this in the right time and in the right way. As much as I wish that the timing WAS right, I know there is so much I need to do before I get there. I knew all of this. But my friend reminded me in a way that my own brain could not accomplish. It also reminded me how to be a good friend, which I am ashamed to say I have been neglecting lately.

So these are just a few of the things I have been doing (and/or NOT DOING) while not blogging. I'm sure there's more, but I'm too lazy to think of it saving it for future posts. My parents get home this afternoon and I'll be back in my own bed tonight, which is kind of a relief. House-sitting is not difficult-- as we all know, I am a CHAMPION "sitter while in houses" --but the bed I'm sleeping in here is a queen-size and I'm afraid I'm getting used to it. And it has an electric blanket, so I'm been slow-cooking myself every night. I need to get home to my cold, small bed before I CAN NEVER GO HOME AGAIN.

Who Does Steve Roach Think He Is?

FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS! I wrote 50,000 words this month. Actually, that's not true, because my blog posts are, on average, 800 words and I'm not even counting them in the 50,000 total. Actually, I have no idea if that average is true, but it sounds about right. Where was I? Oh, yes. MY NOVEL. You guys, I finished it! Actually, that's not true either. Apparently, I have become a liar.

Here is the truth. This month, I have written:

• 30 blog posts (of questionable entertainment or literary value)
• 50,000 words in novel form (also of questionable entertainment or literary value)
• 6 post-it notes about nothing
• 1 Christmas list
• My name on credit card slips, more often that I care to admit.

My novel is not finished, but I did reach 50,000 words. Exactly 50,000. Because I am a little bit compulsive about numbers. And I am a little rebellious about writing assignments--I will DO IT, but I will do it to the limit and NO MORE. I'm not sure what that's about. I'm sure if I can ever afford a therapist, she would have some interesting things to say about that.

Anyway, I finished NaNoWriMo!! I really wasn't sure it was going to happen there at the end, but I managed to pull  it off. And I'm so happy I did. First of all, failure and I? We don't get along well. Secondly, it was an excellent way to do the thing I'm always TALKING about doing, but I never actually DO: write. The story has some major flaws and there's so much of it left to tell, but I feel like I've accomplished so much already.

So thank you, for all the words of encouragement you left in the comments. They pushed me on like nothing else could have. Except for Sister, who occasionally threatened to lock me in my room and sometimes withheld TV time until my words were done for the day. Thanks, everyone. You all made this an awesome experience!

This post also marks the end of NaBloPoMo! I can't believe I didn't miss a single day. I mean, I might have missed the mark some days, but I never missed a POST, so that's something. Some of you have asked if I'm going to keep posting daily. And I am! To the best of my ability and Internet connection, I am. Except on Sundays. Because I need an occasional break. And the Sunday posts were lame anyway. I would encourage you guys to go back and read them to verify the veracity of my previous statement, but they aren't worth the effort.

Thank you all for showing up here day after day to read my stuff. I know I tear it down more often than I say anything nice, party because a lot of it IS crap. But I am so glad I started this blog and I am incredibly grateful for the friendships I have made in this community. I'm also very grateful to have a place to share my thoughts with the world. Thanks for being willing to listen. And laugh at my lame jokes.

So now, on to the real post. I know, minds boggle at the fact that the preceeding 500 words were not the actual post. But it's true. I have a story to tell you.

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Last night, I wrote over 7,000 words on my novel. I don't remember if I shared it with you at the time, but my previous daily word record was about 6,200 words. And I thought that was amazing. But last night, I just let it all flow from my fingertips. Because I was on a deadline. And I was not going to fail. And for once, the words were there. I crawled into bed at about 3:15 in the morning. But I was still incredibly jazzed from the writing experience. And probably some of the caffeine I'd consumed throughout the day (I totally tried to give it up this week and my brain almost exploded).

Anyway, I was in bed, kind of jittery and pretty excited about where the book was headed. To calm down, I read about 50 pages of magic pantsiness and then my eyes were SO SLEEPY. But I still had all this pent up energy buzzing through my limbs. I have been here before. So I grabbed my phone and started catching up on my feedreader. I read Temerity Jane's cosmo post. And I tired not to wake up Sister with my laughter, which started from the first paragraph and didn't end until long after I put my phone down.

Seriously, go read that thing. It's AMAZING. I'll wait.

I finished reading and decides blogs are too stimulating at that hour. I needed some sleepy-time music. I could feel myself calming down and sinking into my pillows, but I wasn't not quite there yet. I left my stereo remote across the room and even though the stereo is PRIMED with sleepy-time type music, I am too lazy to get out of bed and got get it. Instead, I found some headphones on my nightstand and had a brilliant idea. Because Pandora ALWAYS has what I ask it for. Except for a station based on my lullaby by Josh Kelly called "23." Sad about this, but still tired, I typed in "lullaby" and clicked on a station that DIDN'T say "toddler" or "child."

This station's called "Soundscapes & Lullabies." At first, it was just simple instrumental music. The next song sounded like flowing water, with piano played over it. It was at this point, I thought I might need to pee. The next song was very soothing, but the one after that was kind of strange. It sounded kind of New Agey, but also kind of futuristic. And there was this weird sonar pinging in the background. So I turned on the phone to figure out what THE HECK WAS GOING ON. And I saw this:

I took this picture today (since I had paused the song last night) which is why the time looks wrong. I swear I would never lie to you! I know you're all too smart to buy it.

Leaving the weird cave painting of an alien superimposed over what seems to be the internal structure of a computer out of the discussion, what the HECK does this mean? Seriously, Steve Roach, what the heck kind of title IS that for an album?

I mean, "dreaming..." is not a terrible title for an album, poor capitalization and ellipsis use aside. But you don't stop there, do you, Steve Roach? No, you don't. I don't even really know what the rest of this MEANS! Seriously, "now, then"  "a retrospective" "1982-1997"? Is this the musical form of all of your dreams between 1982-1997. It would kind of explain the cover art, to tell you the truth. But raises some serious questions about your dreams, Steve Roach.

But as I lay there in bed, staring at this image, all I could think about was TJ's commentary about Cosmo's view of sex. Apparently, Cosmo thinks sex has changed SO MUCH in the last year that they need to distinguish their sex tips by putting them in a "best of the year 2011" category. Because last year's sex tips are so out. Or something. Anyway, having just read THAT, all I could think about this nonsense was, "CRAP! They've changed sleep, too!"

I wasn't too worried about them changing sex--I'm sure I'll catch up when the time is right. But sleep? I LIKED sleep! HOW HAS IT CHANGED and WHAT DO I NEED TO KNOW? Come on, Steve Roach! I need ANSWERS!

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!

Bad Behaviors That Annoy

Today, I'm going to climb on my high horse a little bit and "preach" about some bad behaviors that make me crazy. Like RAGE kind of crazy. I promise that none of this is about anyone in particular (unless it is and then it will be noted). I'm not calling anyone out, so calm down. But a few of these things really bother me and it's my blog, so every once in a while, I get to use it as a soap box. And you know what? I bet at least one of them is something that's bothered you before. Because that's the beauty of the Internet.

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Bad Behavior Number 1: People who only know one topic really well and steer EVERY conversation in that direction.

This one will need some background information. You see, I had this boss. I think I might have told you about her once or twice. I called her Crazy Boss Lady. Because she was a lady (using this term to mean only "female" not "genteel and gracious") and she was my boss and she was completely BAT-SHIT CRAZY (yes, I just swore...it's the only way to get the point across this time, sorry Mom). Crazy Boss Lady was incredibly incompetent for the position she held, which she had gained through a series of ridiculous situations that no one seemed to foresee as one of the signs of the impending APOCALYPSE. Okay, maybe not that, but close.

Anyway, Crazy Boss Lady's late husband had been a beloved dentist in our community. And before she got the job in which she tried to stomp all over my soul, she helped him run his dental practice. And by "run his dental practice," I mean, she answered phones at the front desk for a few hours a week. This made her an "expert" in all things dentistry.

And that was the only thing she knew. I'm not kidding. She seemed to have no other skills whatsoever, unless you count the ability to reach inside a person's mind and diminish their will to live by using only fake compliments and creepy smiles. And in case you are wondering, my job (and by default, her job) had NOTHING TO DO WITH DENTISTRY. Oh, but she tried to MAKE it about dentistry. In any meeting with clients, at any meeting with her colleagues, or in any conversation with her employees, she would relate everything back to dentistry, her husband's practice, or the fact that three of her five children had chosen to be dentists. You would not believe how many things can relate to the care of teeth if you try hard enough. It was like playing The Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, but a lot less interesting.

The problem with this is not just that NO ONE wants to talk about teeth that much. It's how selfish AND stupid these people look when trying to turn the conversation toward their interest. Because, although Crazy Boss Lady makes the best example, I have watched countless other people fall into this pattern as well. In her case, I think it had to do with the fact that she wasn't understanding the current conversation and was too insecure to ask for an explanation. But some people do this just because they are bored with what YOU want to talk about, probably because it is not ABOUT THEM or THEIR INTERESTS. I think it's pretty obvious why this is a bad behavior that annoys me.

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Bad Behavior Number 2: Thinking that other people think you are amazing and repeating their "praise" of you to others.

I had another boss, right after I had Crazy Boss Lady. We call him Big Jerk Boss Man. Big Jerk Boss Man was about as qualified for his job as Crazy Boss Lady was for hers. Actually, he had three different careers before gaining his role as my boss and he was kind of intelligent in his day, but he's now in his seventies and has some health issues that I'm convinced have affected his brain. Also, he grew up as a scrawny kid in the gangland of Manhattan in the 1940s and 50s, so he pretty quickly developed an inferiority complex and the ability to tear people down with his words (since his hands weren't strong enough).

Strangely, this man had an ego the size of, well, Manhattan probably. Now that I'm away from him for good, I can see that it's all a defense mechanism--he actually hates himself and doesn't want anyone to see it. But the EGO on this man was enough to crush you flat if you stood too close to him. And he was constantly coming to us, his employees, for both validation and to brag about how much people liked him. I think it's pretty obvious why I quit my job....

On occasion, my boss would be invited to speak at community events or business luncheons. Often, we were required to go with, in order to fully appreciate his awesomeness. And he would stand up and begin his speech and I would cringe. He was NOT a very good public speaker. He rambled. He meandered. He used way too much personal detail and made people uncomfortable. He forgot what he had been asked to speak about and improvised. He never prepared in advance and was always flying by the seat of his I'm-too-big-for-these britches.

BUT. Inevitably, some well-meaning soul would approach him after the speech and tell him he did a good job. Or, more often, he would go and ASK people if they liked his speech. Yeah, he would walk up to someone, who was usually in the middle of a different conversation, and would interrupt them to ask, "So what did you think of my speech? It was great, right?" He was a Social Skills Train Wreck. And the person, caught off-guard and cornered, would say something like "It was very interesting..." or "I've never heard anything like that before..."

Now, I think you (and most everyone else in the WORLD) is smart enough to see through the non-answer in those answers. Words like "interesting," "special," "unique," and "informative" (without giving details as to HOW it was informative) are all the lazy man's way of saying "I have nothing better to give you because that speech was boring/weird/bad/uncomfortable and I don't want to offend you and you totally just put me on the spot" and/or "I wasn't really listening."

But, oh how the boss would glow and preen at these comments. He would come back to the office and tell us all about how people LOVED the speech. How he'd gotten SO MANY COMPLIMENTS. How HE WAS THE BEST SPEAKER MAN IN THE HISTORY OF MEN WHO SPEAK. And we would smile politely and give him the same kind of feedback as those who didn't know what to say. Because we liked our paychecks.

And GOD FORBID anyone EVER critique or dislike his speech. They were immediately eviscerated with his words (sometimes in person, sometimes behind their backs), shunned, and ignored forever. This man could hold a grudge like no one I've ever met.

And this brings me to the conclusion of Bad Behavior Number 2: repeating non-compliment compliments in an effort to stroke your own ego is not only arrogant, it's sad and pathetic. Just don't do it, okay? Big Jerk Boss Man was the worst non-compliment compliment taker I've ever seen, but just like Crazy Boss Lady before him, he's no special snowflake. I've heard other people repeat things they think were praise and I hear as "that's the word people use when they have nothing better to say." This has also made me suspicious of praise directed toward myself, since I'm always wondering if it was actually intended as praise or if it was just something you say to be polite.

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Bad Behavior Number 3: Women who constantly tear down their husbands and complain about their children on the Internet.

[WARNING: This is where I get less funny and more preachy. I would apologize, but I mean every word.]

I could probably just round this one out into "all people who spend the majority of their time complaining and whining about EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD AND THEIR LIVES OMG!" But I'm not going to, because this particular subcategory of complainers makes me rantastically crazy. And really, this is more directed at women who husband-bash than those who complain about their kids, because most women know that they'll get called out if they go too far in insulting their children but that most people will ignore husband-bashing rather than stand up for someone else's husband.

And I'm calling out WOMEN in particular, for these three reasons:
1. I don't spend a lot of time with married men without their wives, so I don't have a good sample of their whining, which therefore means;
2. When I see this behavior, it is almost always coming from a woman and finally;
3. Women just seem more prone to this kind of "public" complaining, which men may do with their buddies but don't seem to engage in online.

I see it all the time on twitter and facebook and a little less often, but still frequently, on blogs. I even find it in real-live conversations at work and church and the grocery store. There are some women who apparently HATE their husbands and their children. Now, I understand that the Internet can be a safe and anonymous place to say all of the things you cannot say in real life, so a lot of venting takes place here. And I also understand that marriage can be difficult and that raising kids is no piece of cake, so there are times when you JUST HAVE TO LET IT OUT.

And, in case I haven't couched this one ENOUGH, it should be noted that I'm not talking about the joking kind of complaining. Like when you say, "OMG, my kid just painted the wall with his poop. In unrelated news, he is now for sale on ebay" or "The baby kept me up ALL NIGHT LONG. I'm so tired I can't remember her name. Remind me why I wanted kids?" Those are funny and real and help us understand that your day has been rough. I'm not asking for sunshine and ponies all day long in your twitter stream.

Btu there are some women (probably not as many as I think, they are just so loud and obvious so it seems like there are more of them than there really are), who never seem to have a  nice thing to say about their families. And the things they DO say are so incredibly demeaning and disrespectful and unloving, that I want to vomit. I've seen tweets similar to: "My husband is so EFFING stupid, I don't know how he hasn't accidentally killed himself yet" or "My kids are the most annoying creatures on the planet. Why won't they just shut up and leave me alone?" I'm even bothered by the seemingly more innocuous tweets that say "I am so annoyed at my husband right now" when I've seen the same sentiment more than three times this week from the same poster.

I don't think it's okay to call your husband stupid on twitter and mean it (not saying that he did something stupid, but implying that he is ever in a state of stupid). I don't think it's okay to call him a loser or other derogatory names, when you're obviously not joking. I don't think it's okay to talk about your kids as if you wish you'd never had them. Again, I see this more often directed at husbands than at children, but I still see some really negative things about kids.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I am a single woman and deep down to the core of my soul and the marrow of my bones, I ache to find that one person who will love me for me and know me better than anyone in the world, with whom I will raise a passel of babies and next to whom I will grow old and senile. And every time I see a woman who has all the things I want, TEARING IT DOWN like it means nothing, it makes me kind of sick.

Right about now, I have a feeling a few of you are hiking up your sleeves, about to attack your keyboard in an effort to give me a piece of your mind, because you think I'm talking about you. I'm not. Really. This is a general observation only. But? If you were thinking that, it might be time to examine the percentage of your tweets/updates/posts that are negative toward your family and see how many of them you were "joking" about...

Because ladies? If you're constantly talking that way on the Internet, it's more than likely that some of that resentment and disrespect has already crept into your real-life relationships. And if you're not willing to love and honor and respect your husband, he might go looking for a woman who will. I'm not saying I'm out to take anyone's husband (I am SO not) or that all men who cheat have complaining wives. All I'm saying is that I've watched too many marriages fall apart because "she" tore him down and "he" went looking elsewhere--both wrong, both with devastating consequences. So treasure what you have and be careful with your words. They have incredible power.

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Here is where I wish I had a Bad Behavior Number 4 to share, so I don't have to leave the post on such a bummer kind of note. But I don't have another one in mind right now and I'm not going to make one up for the sake of making you forget what I just said above. I'm also thinking about not posting this, because it might offend people or it's a little bit outside of the "Here's some crazy stuff that just happened to me and a recipe or two" thing I have going on. But I thought it and I wrote it and I still think it, so I guess I'm posting it. I'm also thinking of making a series out of these bad behaviors that annoy me, if no one yells at me too badly for this one. We'll see. For now, enjoy my opinionated rant and don't throw too many tomatoes, mmkay?