Stumbling around Google images the other day, I came across a site that had a procrastination test.
A test!
Sounds like more time wasting fun!
What is this amazing test, you ask?
I'll show you in a bit...
Just kidding!
THE PROCRASTINATION TEST By Dr. Bill Knaus EdD, Design by EduDemic.com
Not Me Somewhat like me Like me
Procrastination comes naturally to me. Duh!
I have responsibilities that I'm not doing. Definitely.
I have plans that stay on the drawing board. So many plans on that board!
I divert from uncomfortable priorities. Who wouldn't?
I tell myself that later is the time to begin. Every. Single. Time.
I start things that I don't finish. Shall I count them?
I have a habit of showing up late. I've had people lie to me & tell me things start an hour earlier than they actually do, just so I'll show up on time.
I delay acting to meet a deadline. Sure! Why start until you have to?
I find ways to extend deadlines. Not always *sad face*
I come up with excuses to explain delays. I'm the excuse queen!
I put off hard decisions. Actually, I'm pretty good at making decisions quickly.
When I'm not sure, I'll avoid the situation. 50/50 on this one.
I put off making a needed lifestyle change. Does changing procrastination habits count?
My pessimism prompts delays. I'm naturally an optimist!
My emotions affect what I do. I'm no Spock, that's for sure!
My intimate relationship is going nowhere. Uh...are married couples supposed to be going somewhere?
I avoid what frustrates me. I like to torture myself, so I keep coming back for more
I get side-tracked by conflicts. I thrive on conflict!
My doubts and fears inhibit my actions. What doubts? What fears?
When I feel anxious, I'll avoid what I fear. That's what my pills are for.
Total "somewhat like me" + "like me" scores: 13
I got 13.
13!!!!
Ugh.
I'm sad but not really surprised that my number is so high.
The test doesn't tell you where you stand on the procrastination scale between inconvenience to disabling, but I think you can probably figure it out for yourself.
Sometimes I like to assuage my guilt by reasoning that it's not really procrastination, just over-estimating the time it takes to get things done. Like my new programming homework. Or how long it takes to get somewhere (I act like I live in LA--everywhere takes 20 min or less to get to from where I'm at). Or cooking dinner. Or a thousand other things.
Why start it a week ahead of time, when I fully believe I can finish writing that program & get it to work the night before it's due? Why waste time doing it until I absolutely have to? It's madness!
The perky, pesky, hate-inducing early birds really get my worm. How many times have I heard the comeback "If you get it done right away, you won't have to worry about it and you'll still have lots of free time afterwards!"
Try telling that to MY brain. It'll punch you in the face, kill you, then wait to bury you until it's almost too late, when the sirens are wailing away just down the block and the trunk of the car is stuck and your rigor-mortised body fights me every step of the way.
Tomorrow I'll work on a plan to stop procrastinating...
Not because the Big B forgot (I'm more inclined to forget than he is) or because I didn't get flowers or candy or a card.
Not because I'm alone, or hate the day of love, or because it's a silly holiday forced upon us by Hallmark and candymakers (which it basically is).
Nope, it's because I spent the day hugging the toilet instead of my hubby. And not for a stupid fun reason like too many Jag-bombs the night before, either.
Curse you, stomach flu!
After over a decade of escaping this cursed sickness, I was hit last winter.
Now, this year! Again! Completely unfair.
Each time I found myself scrambling for the commode I tried to comfort myself.
"Think of how much you're working your stomach muscles with each heave!" "With all this water loss, you've surely lost a couple of pounds!" "At least you're here by yourself and no one has to see or hear your misery!"
Poor kitties. They were getting all upset with me because everytime they settled in on my legs for a nice comfy nap, I had to get up and go yak again.
After the third or fourth time, they gave up and just let me slide my legs out from under them and then refused to cooperate when I climbed back on the couch, so I ended up laying down with my legs and feet all contorted so we could all fit.
After each time I hurled, I had an internal debate with myself.
Do I drink a bunch of water, knowing that it'll probably just make me have to get up in half an hour rather than an hour, but at least there will be something to toss up? Or do I drink just enough to rinse my mouth so I can perhaps go for almost a full hour before the next session?
The answer? It's better to drink the water and hope some absorbs into your system before the next attack hits. Plus, it's much better to have something to puke up then nothing at all. Nothing hurts worse.
Either way, I don't think I can ever eat that cheesy popcorn again. It's not its fault that it was the last thing I ate the night before I woke up sick, but seeing it again the next morning has ruined it for me.
Things are much better now, however, and my appetite is back, thank goodness. It's too weird for me not to be hungry. I'm always hungry!
My main disappointment is the fact that even after all that heaving, I still don't have six pack abs. You'd think the universe could at least toss me that one after all that misery. I did lose a couple of pounds, but I know they'll be back once I re-hydrate fully.
Every so often there are a few news stories filmed downtown.
I've gotten approached by news crews on two seperate occasions and managed to embarrass myself both times when my off the cuff comments made the evening story. Apparently, my thinking on the fly skills leave much to be desired when confronted by a camera.
I think I've always suspected I'm a writer, not a film person, and my two experiences with 15 seconds of local Minnesota TV psuedo-fame were enough to convince me I had the right idea all along.
Once, several years ago, Metro Transit employees went on strike, shutting down public transportation services statewide. The camera crew and attendant reporter were interviewing people on Nicollet Mall, getting their opinions on the strike and how it was affecting their commute.
The nice lady reporter asked me how the strike had affected my commuting habits.
"Makes me think about getting one of those corn-oil cars," was the response that made it to TV.
Really? That's what I came up with? I sounded like a country hick!
Okay, so maybe I am a country hick. Or so my hubby tells me. I did grow up in the country. And it could have been worse. I could have said "them corn-oil cars" instead of "those".
My second TV appearance came when I tried to go to lunch one day.
Peter's Grill was a fun lunch spot I sometimes visited when a certain craving hit me. On this particular fateful day, I jaywalked across the street and walked up to the front doors, paying the camera crew standing nearby little attention.
I yanked on the doors and was surprised to find they were locked. It was unfathomable that it could be closed! President Bill Clinton had even visited the restaurant once (as their menus proudly validate by displaying his praise and signature on their glossy covers).
The camera operators, upon seeing my dismay, quickly zoomed in and asked if they could interview me. Naively, I accepted, conviently forgetting my last disastorous foray into primetime news clips.
"Are you surpised to see Peter's Grill closed?" the reporter asked brightly.
"Yeah, it's the first time in my experience," I responded.
"Are you upset to see it closed?"
"I guess so, I was hoping to eat here for lunch today," was my inane response. Perhaps she could sense an embarrassing soundbyte in the making like a bloodhound on the trail, for she asked me only one other question before sending me on my way.
"Why do you like to eat at Peter's?"
"I love liverwurst sandwiches, and this is the only place I know of that serves them."
Guess which answer made the cut.
After running into a coworker on the elevator the next day and having to endure their raised eyebrow and laughing "Liverwurst, huh?" I made a vow:
It wasn't much--just a clear glass jar with a stem shape tapering up to a mushroom cap.
My old roommate Sarwa accidentally broke it one day. She's the kind of person to be horrified and take immediate steps to fix her mistake, especially if it involves someone else's things.
I think she had recently accidentally broke another possession of mine (I don't recall what) and despite all my protests that it was fine, she insisted on replacing my 'shroom cookie jar.
I think her guilty conscience caused her to go a bit overboard with the replacement however.
This jar was a hundred times better than the previous one. She was worried I wouldn't like it because it wasn't the same as the other one.
Who was she kidding? How could I not love it?
As the years have gone by, I've found a couple of things that complement it well.
The lids are my favorite part.
The story didn't end with the jar, however.
You see, this lovely specimen of porcelain fungi art came in a large box filled with those plastic packing peanuts.
You know the ones. The kind that get all staticky and sticky and jump around like Mexican jumping beans if you try to pick up large handfuls at a time.
I had placed the box in the backseat of my car meaning to put it in the dumpster on my way out of the parking lot one day and forgot about it.
Until a packing peanut flew by my face, that is.
At the time I had a car that came complete with fully functional sunroof. It was a beautiful day and I was driving home with all the windows down and the sunroof open.
I remember distinctly thinking to myself, "Of all the nerve! Someone is littering plastic peanuts! How dare they..." and as I was wrestling with figuring out how such littered peanuts could have possibly made their way into the footwell of my passenger side, it suddenly dawned on me.
I was the litterer! Or about to be.
Sure enough as I frantically twisted around to confirm my horrifying suspicion, there it was--a veritable mini cyclone of squeaky plastic peanuts was twisting up out of the cookie jar package box and flying around the car.
I groped for the window controls with one hand while the other flashed up to shut the sunroof, even as my knee steadied the steering wheel and my eyes guitily looked into the rearview mirror to survey the peanut carnage behind me.
Luck was with me, for it appeared that I had managed to halt the stream of packing material before it could escape the confines of the car.
As I continued to drive, I felt my face heat up, and I remember hoping that no one had seen my peanut tornado.
It was 52 degrees Fahrenheit outside Tuesday when I left work for the day, and it was January 10th.
January tenth!
I even heard rumors it was 56 degrees in Eden Prairie.
My orderly Minnesota instincts are upside down. There's patchy bits of leftover snow on the ground (first non-white Christmas in memory for me) and squirrels such as the Don are so fat, they can barely waddle along their tree-top highways.
And they seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time chasing each other in what a suspicious mind would say looks like horsing around. Or maybe that's being squirrely.
Other than a light dusting weeks earlier and a few inches on New Year's Eve, there's been zero snow. Accompanying this have been freakishly warm temps. It's like we blundered into a temporal rift and somehow ended up in March, zooming lightheartedly through December and entirely skipping January and February. I saw people going coatless yesterday. In January! It's as if we're thumbing our noses at Old Man Winter.
Or so it feels to me. I'm not mocking him, however. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop--it's Minnesota, for crying out loud! Last year we had 3-4 feet of snow already on the ground and temps were a more standard single digit or near it.
This just feels like a trap.
Not to say that I'm not enjoying it. I've taken advantage of the past few weeks of mild 40-50 degree weather to sport my last skirts and dresses for awhile, as the arctic cold I've come to dread and loathe will eventually arrive to banish them back to the closet until warmer winds prevail.
I'm just not going to rub my pleasure in the weather in Old Man Winter's face. I figure those first days of teen and single digit days will cow me into a chittering and trembling wretch quick enough without daring him to do worse.
You see, I think I've figured it out. This is all his doing, after all.
Normally we get an incremental adjustment to the temperature as the holidays pass by and the new year rolls in. By the time the really cold months hit, we're acclimated (as much as we can be) to the below zero temps and frostbite-inducing winds.
The reverse of this effect at the waning of winter is one that leads to seemingly outandish behavior, when out-of-towners may witness native Minnesotans going about their business in shorts and flip flops on a mild March day.
No wonder we're a puzzle to outsiders. The same 45 degree temp in October that sends us scurrying for fall jackets has us cavorting as if we're in the Bahamas when it occurs on a sunny March day.
This insidious but adaptive process helps us survive the winter. This year, stripped of our protective acclimation, I fear that when the cold does finally arrive, it will seem all the colder for the easy respite we've been given so far.
Be afraid, be very afraid, for Old Man Winter is puffing his icy cold breath our way and smiling maliciously.
My only consolation is the fact that his plan has a severe backdraw--we're already over a week into January without a below zero temp or even a day below 20 degrees! We're practically there, baby, yeah!
But let's not get too excited, remember. He's a cantankerous old man, Winter, and March is still within his domain and he can make it a real bitch.
*All of these pictures were taken yesterday by the Big B when he got home from work. Is there anything sadder looking than a bare yard in the middle of January?
The signs are subtle. It's the little things that add up.
Take my workplace, for example.
I am mid-level management at the company I work for. My peer, boss, his boss and another manager are all male. We work together frequently, getting together for at least one meeting weekly.
In a recent meeting, we were discussing an employee my coworker was going to have to let go because she was using company email to solicit & conduct her Craigslist escort service (hmmm, maybe that's our problem right there!). The SVP was asking my peer who this woman was and after she was described, he says:
"Oh that dark-haired girl? The fairly attractive one?"
then he looks at me over his glasses and quickly adds, "Not that you're not attractive, too, Sarah!"
WTF?
What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?!?
Why would I be upset that you called another woman attractive? Maybe it was to forstall any HR complaints by throwing a weird compliment my way. Maybe it was just to be polite? Maybe to say that I, too, could have an escort service on Craigslist, if I wanted?
Maybe it's just that these "good ol' boys" have a harder time figuring out where they stand in this age of political correctness.
I get that it's difficult terrain to balance on. As a boss myself, I understand the paranoia surrounding the possibilty of sexual harrassment suits. Once, I winked at a male employee while we were making bantering small talk and then obsessed for days over whether he took it as a lewd wink, rather than just a joking wink, as I meant it to be. (Why oh why did I have to wink? Why did I think it was a good idea? Why, oh why!)
Perhaps it's simply a matter of comfort, or familiarity. But somehow, I can't see the same SVP telling my peer he is handsome, too, if they had been talking about a male.
I'm not really complaining, truly. I haven't been held back for promotions on anything other than my own merits and those of the competing candidates, I get the same consideration for raises as everyone and have received plenty of recognition for my efforts by my boss and the SVP.
It's more about the intangibles--I want to be a member of the "good ol' boys" club regardless of my gender.
I must be needier than I thought! It hurts to know that in the meetings where I don't attend, they are making lewd hand gestures and bawdy jokes that they don't feel free doing in the presence of a female.
I want to shout and say, "I'm just as stuck in the gutter as you are! I want to make jerking-off motions when someone on the conference call says something ridiculous, like you do! I want to be able to laugh at the dirty jokes without seeing you glance my way to see if I'm getting upset. I want to participate, just like you!"
My peer knows that you have to be pretty extreme to offend me when it comes to that sort of thing. In my personal life, I often feel I'm the one to bring it to the gutter first (or at least the first to speak it aloud) and love to play on unintentional sexual innuendos and dirty phrases. He doesn't hold back around me, but it's harder convicing our mutual bosses that I'm down with the bawdiness.
I understand the terror they may feel at the mere thought of exposing themselves (hee hee) to potential harrassment suits, since they don't know me all that well, really.
Perhaps I just need to bust out (I can't stop) my own brand of lechery to show them that my 'tude about lewd is on a par with theirs.
But then I'd have to worry about going too far and dealing with potential harrassment backlash of my own.
Thinking on it, I may just need more patience. As they continue to open up a bit more around me and I don't react negatively, perhaps more filthy jokes will be forthcoming.
Or I could just start with a couple of dirty gestures, to get the ball rolling.
Despite all my wishes to the contrary, I am still naive.
To prove my point, witness my stupidity the other day whilst outside on my break.
I push open the doors, heading towards my usual spot by the air exchanger for the building where occasional warmth can be blown over me by the constant wind downtown.
"Nice shoes," says the man on the bus stop bench.
I have seen him before...he wears shorts even in 40 degree weather, has an Aussie-style cowboy hat with chin-strap, and a large salt and pepper beard. Almost infallibly he compliments me on my shoes, whenever I see him.
The past couple of times I've entertained the thought that maybe I know this man. He looks sorta like a fellow Minnesota blogger I follow and I've thought about asking him to confirm this.
Who knows? Maybe he IS that blogger and compliments my shoes because he knows I follow him? Although I do wear kick ass shoes...
For whatever reason, I decide that today is a good day to gain confirmation (or denial) of my supposition.
I approach him cautiously.
"Are you so-and-so? You look just like a blogger I follow..."
He shakes his head and says no.
"Oh okay, you look a lot like him!" and I start to walk away, which in hindsight was very smart, however dumb I was just a minute ago to approach him in the first place.
"Nope, but would you like a foot massage?" he says in return.
ACK!
When will I learn?
No matter how kickass my shoes are, the only men who are going to compliment me constantly on my footwear are gay men and people with a foot fetish.
And so I shut my mouth, shook my head vigorously, and proceeded to walk away in my kick-ass black zipper ankle booties as fast as the high heels would allow.
...and honestly, I'm only surprised at the length of time I made it before it did.
My apologies for my long absence.
When I took my vacation, with the best of intentions, I meant to take a mini-break from the blogger world just long enough to refresh, get some stuff done and prepare for classes to start again in the fall.
Of course, when you're a tremendous procrastinator and world-class justifier like I am, a little mini-break can become a rather large break.
A (large) part of me wants to whine & give forth all my excuses...
...but if I am to be honest, there really isn't any.
Sure, I've been busy. But I was busy the first nine months I blogged faithfully, so that holds no water here.
So I'll just leave it that I was gone, but now I'm back!
And I'll keep the excuse-giver locked inside where she belongs, the dirty creature, and just be glad instead that I'm starting again.
And for the fact that this made it much, much longer than any of my diaries or journaling attempts did in the past.
If it's any consolation, there's a large part of me freaking out over all I've missed while I was MIA.
And there she peeks her head up again, blinking in the daylight, that darkness-dwelling creature named Someday Tomorrow who says "Someday I'll catch up on all that I missed..."
A post from Pearl over at Pearl-Why You Little got me remembering my own time working in the food industry...
My worst nightmare as a server was people finding things in their food that should not be there.
Like the time my best friend Scary Sarah (yes, we shared the same name, but she got the moniker Scary while I was just plain Sarah, that tells you something, dunnit?) accidentally lost her bandaid while working the line at Burger King...and found it later on when a customer complained and came back in the store.
One evening I'm working my tables at the local Denny's diner. This was a silver monstrosity pieced together much like a huge Lego set, complete with black and white tiled floors that were more slippery than the bobsled tracks at the Olympics and featured glaring sparkly red and white upholstery.
I believe the thought was to make you feel as though you had walked through a time-warp upon entering, bringing you to the nostalgic times of the 50's when diners such as this were standard fair.
On this particular evening, I scooted over to my table bearing the loaded tray of food previously ordered, T-bone steak included. I hand the plates off and ask if everything looks okay, receive the affirmative nods, and zoom off to check on my other tables.
When serving, I tried to be diligent about coming back shortly after serving the food in case there were problems. This time they beat me to it, damn them.
I look over and I can see the slightly overweight middle-aged woman waving at me from across the smoking section. I briskly walk over and produce the Sookie-esque fake smile. "Is there something wrong?"
The woman holds up her husband's T-bone and declares loudly, "There's a HAIR in my husband's steak!"
I'm horrified but manage to keep from backing away. My thoughts immediately flash to the long-haired cook in back, the surefire culprit. I struggle not to think any of this, however, as my face is more transparent than a wet white t-shirt.
"I'm so sorry ma'am, we'll get you another right away," I say, trying not to panic even as I try to gauge her. Is she one of those people, the ones for whom nothing will fix it?
"No problem," she replies and my shoulders slump in relief.
They go right back up in incredulity, however, as she continues.
"It's not your fault, dear. I can see this hair is coming right out of the steak, I believe it was the food manufacturer's fault!"
I can't believe what I'm hearing. Surely she understands that a t-bone is not a hamburger? How can the hair be coming out of the steak? Unless that was one freaky cow, I believe Occam's razor is still in effect: All things being equal, the simplest explanation is often the correct one.
But I'm not about to argue with her, and I whisk the offending slice of meat off the table and a short time later provide a new one for the silent husband.
Nothing else goes amiss--they eat, pay, tip decently, and leave. We even had some fun small talk to share during the remaining part of their visit.
*whew* Disaster averted!
Come to think of it, I believe Sarah's BK customer also claimed they found the bandaid within the meat and therefore she escaped the blame...well, that, and the fact that a new bandaid found its way to her finger immediately.
Truly, however, in my experience this was the exception, not the norm. I have no problem eating out to this day...
Lately I've been daring myself to answer differently when approached on the street by someone who wants something.
Like the next time I get asked if I have spare change, I dare myself to say, "Sure, if you'll just take on my student debt, we'll call it even!"
Or something appropriately smartass-y.
Or my newest dare obsession, to make them tell me the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to them and I'll judge their story for truthfulness and their story-telling skills for humor and then decide if I should bestow what they want on them.
I'd double what they'd ask if they actually made me laugh.
Or at least charging them a quarter for a cigarette. That's a fair price...and will help me to buy stuff from the vending machines in the afternoon when the sleepies hit.
Somehow, however, I never work myself up to it or my plans fly right out of my head when the time comes and the word "No, sorry" comes tumbling out unasked.
The "sorry" part really bothers me, after the fact.
What do I have to be sorry for? I blame my Minnesota upbringing. It's not my fault I don't keep "spare" change on hand to give out to those who ask.
Yesterday took me for a turn, however.
You see, working downtown in one of the Twin Cities, I am used to being approached for things while outside or walking through our marvelous skyway system. So when I was approached twice yesterday by people hoping to score free stuff from me, I took it in stride.
Last night, in the comforts of my own home, curled up on the couch with my sister watching our premium-channel show addictions (woo hoo Nurse Jackie & Trueblood!), a soft knock was heard.
I share a panicked look with my sister before jumping up to answer the door. The Big B was in the kitchen, diligently cleaning up previous cooking messes and did not appear to have heard the knock.
I open our front door with a healthy-tug and see a tanned white man on our front steps, a random assortment of stuff piled up neatly on the sidewalk behind him.
At first glance, he doesn't appear scary or cracked out. I take in his shirt which says something about hardwood floors, and mentally I'm already preparing my answer "We have very nice hardwood floors, thank you anyways" but he surprises me by going another route.
"I'm hoping you can help me, you see I'm in a bad way and need to get somewhere and I need cab fare--"
here he stumbles and quickly recovers with
"--I mean bus fare...would you want to buy any of this stuff?" and he gestures behind him to the previously mentioned random assortment.
My neck bends of it's own accord to take a closer look. I see:
An orange extension cord
Two metal car supports
A long silver metal flashlight
Some other stuff I couldn't identify
The ever-present shopper in me pipes up and says, "You can always use another flashlight and heavy-duty extension cord!" but I shush it before it can gain control of my tongue.
The Big B will KILL me if I say yes (not that I really want to, not really) especially since he's convinced I possess the commen sense of a gnat. I flash back to when I allowed two neighborhood boys to mow our lawn for $20 last summer, thinking at the time that he would appreciate not having to do it, but instead I got an earful for spending money on something we can perfectly well do ourselves (my arguments that it was worth it to encourage youth to be responsible and earn their own money in lawful ways fell on deaf ears).
I won't get get into the cigarette incident of 2010 here, but perhaps tomorrow...
Instead, I shake my head in a (I hope) kindly fashion and tell the man we're not interested.
My sister wants to know if he looked like your typical homeless/crackhead/down-on-his-luck guy.
"He looked perfectly normal, like a construction worker," is all I can say.
At least he had the decency to offer something, instead of trying to get something for nothing. And he was very tan.
For me, gullible really is written on the ceiling.
Tell me some kind of preposterous statement, and as long as you haven't made me suspicious of you in the past, I'll most likely respond with "Really?"
Case in point:
Years ago, quasi-boyfriend Charlie and I are at his house, watching the movie Dazed and Confused when he tells me, "You know, I was an extra in this movie."
"Really?!? Cool! Are you in any of the movie scenes? Where are you?"
Charlie, laughing, says, "No, not really. I was just yanking your chain."
Not even 10 minutes later, he flicks one of those fancy (but ultimately worthless) lighters that have the blue/green colored flame like a miniature torch and holds it out in front of us.
"This lighter isn't even hot."
"Really?" I say, putting my finger perilously close to the undoubtedly hot flame.
He snatches it away, laughing and shaking his head, probably wondering if I could really be that dumb. "No! It's hot! I was just seeing if you'd fall for it."
Maybe I'd asked for it in this case since before the movie started we had talked about how gullible I was. Apparently this was irresistible to him, as demonstrated by his testing of my naivete. He could probably no more give up testing the limits of my gullibility than I can keep from saying "PEEP!" very loudly when someone tells me "Not another peep out of you!"
I like to think I've grown a bit less naive and less easily taken since I've entered the "adult" world and began working for an employer who did not serve combo meals or french fries. Especially since I joined that elite cadre of people who work downtown, with all the attendant street scams and hustlers.
Isn't my city beautiful?
I knew to be wary of bums, vagabonds and various other nefarious figures who would happily relieve me of my "spare" change and any cigarettes I might care to part with. I felt confident I could protect myself from these types. I have a great ability to say "No" when I want to.
I was unprepared for how creative they can get and how round-about they will go to get at what they want.
I've been told I have a brisk, bad-ass walk (I choose to believe this observation of it, anyways). That is good--hopefully this means I look scary enough to not bother. Unfortunately, it's not enough of a deterrent. These are professionals, and they've heard "No" so many times the word is unable to faze them anymore.
Once I was walking with my best downtown girl-walk in my strappy wedge sandals and pink floral skirt. I caught the crosswalk at the wrong time and was forced to stop. A man stops next to me, breathing a little heavily, hands on his knees, and wheezes out, "Whoa! You walk fast lady! I had a hard time catching up."
I give him a sideways look but say nothing--speaking only encourages them.
"Anyways, I was trying to catch up with you because you're just what we're looking for! How'd you like to meet Prince?"
Don't get me wrong, Prince is great. I'm all about the Minnesotan celebrities, and I hung out at his club often in my raver flaver days. But I highly doubt this man is on intimate acquaintance with Prince.
"See, I was told to find some pretty young girls like yourself who want to do a photo shoot with Prince! Whaddya say?"
I am still the most gullible person you'll ever meet (outside my immediate family--where do you think I got it?!?) but I like to think I've wised up over the years.
"No thanks," I say, and thankfully the light changes and I'm able to stride away confidently with legs and arms swinging.
If I'd taken him up on his offer, I maybe could have met the Purple Rain man. Or maybe just met someone who really, really liked my purse and what was in it and wanted to separate me from said handbag and contents. Or something more sinister.
Either way, I'm glad I wised up at least enough to realize that some gift horses should be looked in the mouth.
I may not be considered a great dancer in the traditional sense, but I am an EXCELLENT car-dancer.
You know the kind--those souls to which music is like air and who can't help but sing along while their favorite songs are playing. Frequently accompanied by rhythmic motions of one kind or another.
My personal fav move? Banging the steering wheel. Or the gear shift stick. Or the side of the car if it's nice out and my window is down.
Now that I primarily take the bus to work, I find that I enjoy being in my car when occasion finds me there.
Even traffic can't get me down very often, especially since my 7-mile commute is laughably short when compared with my first year working in downtown Minneapolis. My first year I still lived at home and it was a 50 mile commute--one-way! No thanks. I barely survived that year, and I do not know how my momma did it for so many years. I was just thankful that I could swipe a ride in with her and blissfully sleep away the morning drive in her passenger seat.
I LOVE my little plastic car. It's a Saturn Ion and I love to joke about the plastic side panels and lightweight construction, but as I watch gas prices soar close to $4/gallon I am thankful that it is a lightweight plastic toy (despite the fact that it makes it vulnerable to frakkin' raccoons).
It was my first brand-new (not just new to me) car purchase and it had several selling points to recommend it.
4-doors, electric windows, AC, On-Star!
It's a stick! (I pride myself on being a Chick with a Stick. Plus, good or bad, this means my husband is extremely reluctant to drive my car.)
Sunroof (I was spoiled in my last car and was determined to get a car with a sunroof that opened all the way again).
It was green. (Green's my favorite color and I was excited to get a green car because then I could name it something cool, like Kermit or Booger, since Goober was the name of my last car so it's fitting).
It had a built-in CD player/stereo with an MP3/audio input connection.
I love many things about my car, but perhaps the one thing that I am most thankful for (other than great gas mileage!) is that teeny-tiny little hole that allows me to plug in my iPod and play whatever music I want.
Thus ensuring that on any given day you see me in my car, you'll also see me flailing around, bashing the steering wheel emphatically, bobbing my head and possibly foot-stomping (if said feet are not required to be shifting/braking/accelerating).
The car is a zone of peace for me, a place where I can sing aloud at the top of my lungs to all my favorite songs. This is important, because I'm a TERRIBLE singer who freely admits it, even while mourning my complete lack of any type of musical talent whatsoever. I wouldn't want to subject anyone to my singing voice unless I really, really dislike them (or you volunteer me for karaoke at a bar without my knowledge).
Being able to beller away at the top of my lungs in privacy is important, because I'm sure that without this necessary release, I would burst into spontaneous song at work and then they'd really think I was weird (if the collection of Dune-related art on my walls along with various cat pictures didn't already make them lean that way).
Who am I kidding? I was once caught chair-dancing (a close cousin to car-dancing) by a coworker. Not that embarassing, except I was listening to Lady Gaga at the time!
It drives the Big B nuts, because while he is passionate about many things, he doesn't have the same obsession with music that I do. In his car, the radio is permanently turned to *gasp* TALK RADIO. Not just any talk radio, but SPORTS TALK RADIO.
*shudder* I'll get over it soon....
But he hates when I'm in a musical mood, because while I'll tone down the singing to spare his tender ears, nothing can stop me from a-moving when the beat is talking to me.
This most certainly makes me less of a safe driver than others, but I do try to make up for it by being courteous.
I come by it honestly. My entire immediately family are all big music lovers. Saturdays were spent cleaning with my mom and sister while Madonna's Immaculate Collection blasted in the background. I grew up watching my mom dancing in the kitchen to the music (always played LOUD) and I learned how to thump the steering wheel from watching her rock out to some Pearl Jam when driving me. My dad had invested in a nice stereo receiver and large speakers before I was born and the entire house was wired so that music could be played in every room, including the porch out back.
As a family, we didn't always agree on musical choice, except our unanimous agreement that country music shall never step foot in our door (I don't consider Johnny Cash country although I know some do).
We did always agree, however, that music was to be enjoyed, and enjoyed loudly.
So when I find myself in my car, I happily plug in my 'pod and scroll to whatever music flavor of the day I'm craving. I have a "Bellering" playlist specifically for those instances when I feel the need to howl along to my favorite songs.
Somehow, no matter what kind of playlist I make, one song always makes its way onto it. It's the one song I never get sick of, no matter how many times I hear it. I could listen to it every day for the rest of my life and never tire of it.
Warning: This video is not for the faint of heart.
It was the last song played at my wedding and EVERYONE came out on the dance floor. I would have been mildly disturbed to see my parents grooving to Trent Reznor's moody and vulgar love song, except that I know in my heart they both enjoy a good song. Dad was smiling and my momma enjoys NiN (evidenced by the Nine Inch Nails concert I went to with her and my Bonus Dad).
So if you're in the Twin Cities area and see a booger-green Saturn Ion and a brunette head furiously bobbing to a beat with arms akimbo, pounding the side of the car door with one open palm, say hello and give a thumbs up if you approve.
Here in the U.S. of A the pace of life is fast with little time to stop & smell those flowers.
Our professionals work 40-hour workweeks in general, and in some cases, quite a bit more.
We don't take mid-day siestas (We should! I subscribe to the school of thought that a nap in the middle of the day helps you be more productive. Plus then we'd get pillows, and I love pillows).
We don't have 32 hour work weeks with wonderful 3-day weekends (damn you Europe!).
Everything must be bigger/better/stronger/smaller/faster/cheaper/sexier/racier/newer/MORE
So whenever I find myself having to do something where the results will be seen well in the future, I have a problem getting started.
Exercise is my best example. Do I want a nice toned body sleek with muscles and berefit of any jiggling except in acceptable areas? Of course!
But after diligently exercising for an entire SIX WEEKS (years ago) what did I get for all of my sweaty, hard, and expensive work?
Nada. Oh sure, maybe the Big B said my arse was growing firmer but that wasn't enough for me. I wanted VISIBLE results! Results I could see, feel, admire. So I stopped going to the gym, which is sad because clearly I was close to obtaining those results, but my instant-demanding self wasn't satisfied.
I continued paying the "fat tax" aka Gym Dues for several months, with occasional visits whenever I was inspired to actually use the facilities I was paying for.
Luckily, life is full of things you can do that provide that instant gratification of a job well done. Activities like ironing, dusting, vacuuming a very hairy carpet, shaving your legs, raking leaves, and mowing the lawn.
Ahh......mowing the lawn!
This past weekend was the first time I got the pleasure of mowing the entire lawn All By Myself. Previously, this duty was relegated to the Big B by dint of his manliness and the fact that I have no problem playing the male card when it suits me. However, we both realized that while our self-propelled push lawnmower is excellent as far as lawn-mowers go, the Big B would not be able to do this yard duty for some time yet.
Thus. I ended up pushing that wonderful machine around our little corner lot. Previously I had always scoffed at the Big B's insistance that we have a big lawn. I grew up on a lot that was a couple of acres, and my BFF down the road lived on 40 more, so to me these little postage stamp-sized lawns were hardly worth of the title "yard".
I was a bit daunted as the Big B showed me how to prime the motor, then pull the cord to start the engine. I was happily surprised when it started after only a few pulls, because my puny arm strength in the past had been no match for appliances requiring a pull-start.
But as I pushed the whirling blades around the yard while dodging the tulips that survived last year's mowing massacre I found that while this was definitely WORK, I was enjoying it.
I liked placing the wheels precisely in the rut of the previously mowed row so that no errant blade of grass would escape uncut. I enjoyed seeing how neat the cut grass looked and how easy it was to see where I hadn't mowed yet and where I had.
I delighted in the fact that although last year when this was his job he callously mowed down our pretty flowers, since I'm the one doing it this year, I could make sure that the tulips, peonies and other perennials would survive with leaves intact throughout the summer.
I may have been a bit overzealous initially as I weaved and dodged around the haphazardly placed flowers, as a blister soon developed from my frenetic wheeling and turning.
That was okay, however, as I found a way to avoid adding additional punishment on to the tenderized skin when I moved to the front yard. There, I got to delight in mowing around and around the yard in a big wiggly circle until I was finally done.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sweet satisfaction.
Until I realized that the Big B had been overzealous with the weed wacker and had attacked some tulips near the fence that I had made a point of sparing in my earlier sweeps.
WTF? How does this man not recognize tulip plants when he sees them?!?
I grabbed the poor, broken and dismembered leaves from their grave by the neighbor's fence and held them up accusingly between us. He tries to tell me he thought they were weeds. I drag him to another part of the yard where other plants had been spared and tried to point out how the leaves were THE SAME.
"How do you know they're tulips?" he says, an impish grin threatening to break out on his face and a mischievious glint in his eyes telling me he's messing with me deliberately to push my buttons.
I throw my hands up, exasperated, and stalk off after it becomes clear that the man is hopeless when it comes to plants. This had been shown to me earlier when we were halfheartedly weeding one of the many small gardens littering our backyard, but I guess I didn't want to admit that my hubby has chloro-phobia. I was earnestly pulling up weeds while he watched and when I went to grab a particularly large one, he stops me to say, "Are you sure that's a weed?!" all concerned-like.
I had to stop in disbelief, as the weed I was pulling was the same as the ones I had already pulled, just larger. "You really can't tell the difference?" I asked, incredulous. Apparently, he couldn't.
My man is color-blind when it comes to living, green things.
*sigh*
Apparently, he's excellent at telling a gray squirrel chitter from a red squirrel chitter. Maybe he was trying to prove that his city-boy upbringing wasn't as derelict when it came to flora and fauna as I thought.
I can't believe it, not even for a second, especially coming from a man who didn't know that this was a canadian goose.
"What do you call it then?" I ask, dreading the answer.
"A goose, what else!"
I give up. He's hopeless, but it's part of his charm.
Stumbled upon this while doing research for a school project on the Japanese crisis.
It was just too weird to resist!
And no, I don't know what House or Hugh Laurie has to do
with the Japanese earthquake, tsunami or nuclear disaster.
If you are what you eat, Hugh Laurie must get all his daily serving of vegetables. Which is a direct contrast to my Bonus Dad, who eats nothing green that isn't a Skittle. I still can't puzzle out how he avoids scurvy!
As another example of pure random-ness, I got my very first anonymous/spammer commentor today. It must be spam as I don't see it on the original post, but my email received notice.
Should I be tickled or annoyed by this? I'm not sure but the sheer novelty of it is making me lean towards tickling.
I'm a big Incubus fan. Been a fan since well before Make Yourself (with it's famous singles "Drive" and "Pardon Me" ) debuted.
When I was still a music snob, it was very important that the distinction was made.
"Oh, I knew them before anybody liked them."
As if that confers some sort of majesty to the fan, as if recognizing talent before it's time is something special to get snobby about.
I've since learned that good music is good music, and if your current favorite group/singer hasn't hit it big yet, if you're a good fan, you'll try to be a part of helping them make it big and sharing their awesomness with the world. Now you won't get me to stop sharing my music with you.
"Just listen! I know you'll like her/him/them! Listen to this part! Isn't it SO incredible?" and variations thereof.
Back to my point, however, as I seem to have strayed.
One of my favorite parts about Incubus was the lyrics. The actual music is excellent too, but the lyrics were perfect for my disenfranchised youthful self.
"Too bad the things that make you mad are my favorite things"
If that isn't an anthem for growing teenagers everywhere, I don't know what is.
Another point in their favor? Their lead man, Brandon Boyd, is an incredibly gifted signer and is gorgeous to boot. Even before he cut off his dreadlocks in favor of a less-smelly hairstyle, I was in love with him.
Their love songs just made me fall for him more deeply than I thought possible for someone I've never actually met in real life. A man who is that beautiful, who can sing like that, who is SENSITIVE on top?
Pure icing on the cake, honey!
Coincidentally or not, I realized the other day that almost every single one of my more serious relationships had an Incubus song as "our song". If this isn't proof that women do all the choosing of "our songs" (because men don't care as much) it's at least proof in my past relationships.
First there was Jared. My first relationship to last more than a few days/weeks/months. He was shy, quiet, played the trumpet and could dance like no other white boy I'd seen. He made me look great on the dance floor at junior prom, and that's a feat (as my BFF will most empathetically back me up on). Our song was from Make Yourself which debuted during my high school years. He was a year older and during my senior year, he was doing his freshman college year up north in Duluth. Although where I grew up was north of the Twin Cities, it still wasn't quite as far as Duluth, which is a beautiful city on the shore of Lake Superior. We did the long-distance thing for awhile. Subsequently, our song was naturally I Miss You.
A truly beautiful and endearing love song. Still one of my favorites to this day, especially the acoustic versions.
Cory was a short-lived romance but he was IN A BAND, and the lead singer, no less. So he gets a brief look.
Our song was Stellar off of Make Yourself. He once sang it to me in his bedroom in his mother's basement. I didn't swoon or anything, but it was a sweet gesture from a mostly sweet boy.
I'm counting Kieran in here, even though we dated just about three months or so. We had met at a rave, getting into one of those all-night philosophical discussions and didn't realize the entire night had passed us by. Kieran had the most gorgeous pair of man-boobs underneath the hairiest pelt of chest hair. His furriness on the chest was only rivaled by Austin Powers. We split after a few months when it became obvious that we were heading different directions.
Kieran: I just don't think we want the same things. Me: What do you mean? Kieran: I mean, if you saw me in 15 years and I was pumping gas, would you be happy for me or would you pity me? Me: If that's what you wanted to do with your life, I'd be happy for you.
My older, wiser, more cynical self responds "YES I'd pity you, you dumbass! You're paying $15k a year to go to a 4-year accredited university for an education. You'd damn well BETTER not be pumping gas for a living in 15 years!!!"
Ah youth. But Morning View had just been released and we were in the throws of dating and heavy petting. While Aqueous Transmission didn't necessarily fit us exactly, I made it fit anyways. Ironic considering that I couldn't fit my square-peg self into his round-hole life.
Then there was Sean. We worked together downtown and he was my first serious "adult" relationship. I don't like to dwell too much on this period of my life (suffice it to say, Sean was a jerk. Any man who gets upset with you because you read too much & don't pay enough attention to them while you're both just sitting in front of the TV has serious issues). We actually worked on the same floor and so we often were riding in the elevator together. Naturally, Crowded Elevator off of Incubus' EP When Incubus Attacks Vol.1 was the song for us.
Years later I'm kind of pissed that I wasted such a good song on him.
Finally there's the Big B. We met through a mutual friend before I dated Sean. He dated another girl, I dated the Asshole, and we were both single at the right time three years later.
We fight, argue, and discuss as way of saying "I love you". It's our relaxation, our dynamic, and it works great for us. Doesn't leave everyone around us comfortable 100% of the time, but frankly, we don't care.
This is why Dig off of the Light Grenades album was OUR song. It matched us so perfectly--how we fight, we make up, and we understand that when one of us is being a jerk, all we need do is remember the person they were the day before (pre-jerkiness) and help them bring that aspect to the fore once more.
This was also the song we danced to at our wedding.
These aren't all of the love songs they've sung, by any means. But at this point, I'll have to "make" any new ones match the Big B and I, since I don't plan on giving him up for anything.
I'd even give up chocolate and ice cream for him.
Okay, so maybe this one isn't Incubus, but Sarah has been one of my fav's since before the first Lillith Fair.
And this is a gratuitous addition because I was digging around YouTube and saw that there was a video for this song, and it's one of my all-time favorite Incubus songs. Enjoy A Certain Shade of Green, my personal favorite to blare loudly in the car during rush-hour traffic.
And the anthem of angsty youth everywhere....Favorite Things.
Favorite Things--Incubus I'm thinking of my soul's sovereignty
Yet I know, everything you hate in me
Fill me up with over-pious badgerings
Throw them up one of my favorite things
Too bad the things that make you mad
Are my favorite things, my favorite things
Remember all the lessons fed to me
Me the young sponge, so ready to agree
Years have gone, recognize the walking dead
Now aware that I'm alive and way ahead
Too bad the things that make you mad
Are my favorite things, hey yeah
Oh yeah I'm so happy
I see you looking, I know that you're thinking
That I'll never go anywhere
Things that I've promised and the things that I've seen
I don't really expect you to care, no
Too bad the things that make you mad
Are my favorite things, hey yeah
Oh yeah and I'm so happy
Too bad the things that make you mad
Are my favorite
Too bad the things that make you mad
Are my favorite things
Forgive my absence...playing nursemaid was a much more involved job than I realized!
Waiting is hard.
The last day of February was the big day. Surgery Day. SPINAL surgery day.
The Big B was nervous. I think that morning was the first time I've ever seen him get up the first time the alarm went off. Neither of us are morning people but when that alarm went off he was out of bed quicker than you can say "Skittles".
We are people that are habitually late--whether it's a family event, a party, appointment or something we just want to do. I can't remember the last time we made it to a movie early enough to catch the previews.
Not this day however. B's anxiety had him way too keyed up to allow for any lateness.
"I don't want to add being rushed and late to my anxiety today," he explains to me as I'm frantically readying myself in the morning. Perfectly understandable, but it was funny how at the same time he was ready to let little things delay us a bit before heading out. The catbox hadn't been done; he offered to do it right before we left but I told him it was fine that I do it when I got home. I think that although he didn't want to be late and rushing on this day of all days, he wasn't that unhappy at the prospect of having some more time before the surgery would lay him low.
Surprisingly, I felt pretty good about the surgery all day. We parked; we got his back brace fitting, we checked in at the surgery desk and waited. His parents arrived and joined us in the waiting room. They called him back to get ready for the surgery (I followed until a nurse chastened me and told me I could see him later on after they called me).
Waiting. Waiting for the surgeon and his team to be ready, waiting for B to be stripped, IV'd, and hospital-gowned.
Waiting for the surgery to be over; waiting for the surgeon to consult and tell us how it went, waiting to see Brandon after he leaves the recovery room.
Waiting to see whether the surgery fixed his leg pain, his back pain, and whether he'll get full mobility back.
Waiting to see if it worked. Waiting for him to wake up. Waiting for the nurse to come with more meds.
Waiting for the day he could go back home. Waiting for him to move himself in that slow and careful way people have when they are in great pain.
Now some of the waiting is over. The surgery went well, the leg pain at least is gone and the Big B is stylin' in his new back brace. He's goofy as hell from all the pain medication. I've gotten numerous impromptu serenades from him in the days since he returned home from the hospital.
We must endure more waiting, no matter how sick we may be of it. Waiting for the next time he can take his pain pills, waiting for the next exercise time, waiting for his post-op follow up appointment to find out when he can return to work (and whether we'll be eating Ramen for the next month or not), waiting for the full and complete recovery so he can go back to all the things he's been missing--like discgolf and Texas Hold 'Em poker, and things he hasn't been missing like mowing the lawn, doing the dishes and cleaning the catbox.
I'd be willing to wait a long time if it would mean he would be fully recovered with complete elimination of his back pain.
I definite geek, nerd, and dork differently. To me, they are related but distinct categories.
Geek--someone who likes strange things, things that may not be "cool" or socially acceptable to a random selection of people. Geeks are weird but can still have social skills.
Nerd--someone who likes science, math, computers, videogames and other "nerdly" activities. Frequently socially awkward but is painfully aware of it, sometimes shy, has a hard time getting laid.
Dork--someone who is socially awkward but doesn't know it (ignorance is bliss). Likes silly or dumb things.
Many will disagree with my definitions, but that's my worldview and I'm comfortable with it.
I primarily identify myself as a geek (or geek beak, a special appellation given to those geeks with a tendency to get very silly. I think that's what my momma meant when she called us that, anyways).
But sometimes other traits surface. Particularily with items that strike the OCD cord in me. To me certain habits are really inner nerdliness making itself known.
For instance, at work I use a variety of colored highlighters. They reside in a metal mesh cup on my desk. They all have to have the caps facing down (to make them last longer) and they have to go in the order of the rainbow (see my obsession with rainbows here).
Other OCD things of mine:
I own blue, green, yellow, orange, and red Fiesta dinnerware. The dishes must be stacked in order of the rainbow as well. Since inheriting additional green plate settings from my dad, it's been driving me nutso that I have more green than any other color since it disrupts my neat ordered world.
When stacking things of varying sizes, they must go in order of largest-to-smallest.
Square things out of alignment make me a bit bonkers, so I will straighten them to align with edges whether it's my property or not.
Papers have to be completely squared when stapled, paperclipped, or stacked together.
My closet is organized by the type of clothing--tanks, stretchy tops, sweaters, button shirts, tunics, etc. I use items that are a bit of both to act as "transition" pieces (I draw the line at organizing by color within these categories).
My books, CDs and DVDs are organized not alphabetically, but by most favorite to least favorite. It's a system that makes no sense to anyone but me. I know if somethings out of place however!
Folded towels--these must be folded in a certain way (hotdog hamburger hamburger), with every towel stacked the same way so that the big fold faces out. When my husband folds towels I have a hard time not going back & refolding them after he's done. He caught me doing it once and threatened to never fold towels again. Now we have an agreement that he washes & I fold them, and everyone's happy.
Grocery shopping. I make a meal plan for the week and write down everything needed for the meals. Then I cross off whatever we currently have at home, and re-write the list so that the items are in the same order I would find them as I walk through the store. While at the store, I get out my little calculator and add up the item cost so I know where I'm at with my budget (and whether I can get that box of ice cream cones...)
Keyboards. I have to type on a keyboard before I purchase it. If it doesn't feel or sound right, I won't buy it. If you see me in Best Buy or Office Max near the keyboards, you'll catch me typing on them just for fun.
There are other things but I think that's enough sharing for now.
I come by my OCD honestly. I can't say whether it's nature or nurture, as my mom has her OCD things too, and while I've picked up some habits that are the same, others are entirely my own, and some (like the coffee mug handles all having to point in the same direction) I somehow escaped.
Thank goodness this type of thing isn't happening in my neck of the Midwest anymore.
This was the scene on Lake Drive in Illinois on February 2nd. My department at work has a sister region in Illinois and we had to cover their functions while they dealt with this.
My sister's co-worker sent her this pic.
I'm happy to say that right now, it's shorts weather in Minnesota.
I'm joking, of course. Maybe. It's above 40°F right now, which is a heat wave for February. A temperature of 40°F in March/April allows Minnesotans to feel that it's socially acceptable to wear shorts and t-shirts again. The same temperature in October makes us reach for our bulky down jackets. It's all a matter of tolerance.
It's enough to make me feel like spring is just out of sight around the month's turn. Unfortunately this is not true--we're most likely in for a cold, snowy and mushy March, followed by a cold, rainy and mucky April. Still, it's hard to resist the temptation to think Spring really is here. It's made me brave enough to wear a few skirts to work this week (well, that and the fact that I need to do laundry badly). The yard is looking shrunken somehow. I never knew that height could make a yard look bigger, but the couple feet of snow layered on the front and back yards has been steadily declining and somehow the backyard looks smaller.
Of course all this wonderful melting has it's downside. The ugly part of winter is arriving--the part where all the snow is black from pollution and dirt (although it was sorta fun "finding" all the pine needles from our Christmas tree where we put it out for the garbage man). The part where your shoes are constantly wet and muddy and you have to do the skitter-walk to maintain your balance on wet melting ice patches.
I won't bitch too much however, because this thaw is short lived and we won't see this type of weather for a few more weeks most likely. It's especially nice coming off of the deep freeze of last week, where I "Princess Parked" downtown several times (phrase stolen unapologetically from my mother) in order to avoid losing my legs or other limbs waiting for a bus that is often late.
And either way, I can be happy that the snowstorm above didn't hit us (For Once!) and we didn't have to shovel more mountains of snow onto already huge piles. At least now driving in my neighborhood will be a tiny bit safer, now that some of the end-of-driveway mounds have melted down enough for you to see the car coming through the uncontrolled intersection.
This will have to be superfast as I don't have much time, but wanted to get something out there today as it's approaching a week since my last post. Good news is that I have TONS of material to post about later this week so stay tuned for steampunk, a glorious 80's nostalgia fest, and why my parents' decorating choices when I was a child allowed me to get out of traffic tickets later in life....
Saw this funny quote on one of the blogs I follow (a fellow Minnesotan).
On the possibility of alien life elsewhere in our universe...
"My parents always said my brother was an asshole child. If he had been the first-born, there never would have been a second. With that in mind, I hope we weren't the first species in the universe.."
