The morning after getting to Milwaukee, we went down to look at Lake Michigan. This is me and Robby--my little brother.

It really is just like an ocean, no end in sight.

The lake was pretty.. cold. Cold and pretty. Just look at those faces!

We stood in the cold for a while, admiring the.. coldness of it all.

And we got some good scenery pictures before we headed the rest of the way home.

When we got there, we headed straight for the bar.. and who should we find? Why, my parents, of course! (Dad's watching the Packer game, he's normally a tad more attentive)

Naw, they're not drunk...

Quite possibly the cutest picture ever.

A really nice picture of the family.. if it weren't for the bar, I mean.

We had to check out the cottage before we went home for the gifts.

Snow on the bridge to the island. Isn't it pretty?

Augie got the best gift this year, I think. Of course, that's excluding the trio of jam and the Dr Phil book (WTF?) we got from Mom.

Getting ready for the drive home. I'm a natural-born scraper, of course. That's why B let me do all the work.

On the ride home, I took this picture of the swirl in Bruce's facial hair. Awesome.

The road to.. Nowhere special, apparently. B and I thought it was a little strange.

The smoke stacks were mesmerizing.

This is the view from the ride back. All the way home, the freaking sun in my eyes.

Day From Hell: Part 37

So my day sucked. Here's a random sample of sucky things that happened today:

• Pharmacist thinks I'm ridiculous and stupid because I don't understand Missouri insurance companies, even though this is the first time I've worked with them.
• Pharmacist doesn't use traditional english to request things [eg: "Get me that thing I wrote on" = "Put that bottle away", and "Talk to them about how to fix this" = "Take down this number and call it, only to have them tell you it's the wrong number, and then call the correct number and explain to them the situation, and field the 'Wow, poor stupid you!' comments that Pharmacist should be recieving"]
• Man almost had heart attack sitting outside the window. Man is ~3,000 years old, and in front of a line of 30 people, taking 1/2 hour to write a check, when he complains to me of chest pains. After he sits down and we get an OK from his Dr's office to fill his Nitroglycerin, I tell Pharmacist to watch out, because he's sleeping. She asks me, "Are you sure he's not dead?" Thanks for the panic attack, Pharmacist. It's what I really needed to top my day off.

One good thing that happened though:

• I called Robby "bitch cream" and he thinks it's pretty durn funny.

Now I'm off to Mac and Pam's to have them cook me dinner. Bruce will be joining us after his own Day From Hell.

Just Call Me Sloth

bruce: so you still want to take a cruise for our honeymoon?
sunnyfnday: yes
sunnyfnday: if we can
bruce: :-D
bruce: ok
sunnyfnday: if my teeth don't require us to get married at a courthouse and then spend the first 19 years of marriage leaching off my parents
bruce: LMAO

Yeah, another tooth is acting up. Actually, all of my teeth are acting up, in some weird protest for the one being gone, they're all being bastards. I might have to have as many as 3 worked upon in the near future. Depending on how long I can stand it.

I spent last night in a tizzy, crying over the idea that instead of having my beautiful wedding on the beach at sunset, Bruce would say, "I quit!", leaving me to move back in with my parents, while he finds someone who's not falling apart by the freaking teeth to decide to be with forever.

(deep breath)

As of this morning--after sleeping for 11.5 hours after sobbing myself to sleep over that insane idea, and waking up with a cold (and I'm not even PMSing!)--I'm a little less inclined to believe that he would leave me over something trivial like teeth.

I did, however, take measures to avoid that potential situation. I did mountains of laundry and general cleaning up today, trying to guilt whatever ideas of leaving might be in his head into disappearing forever.

He might be able to find a girl with better teeth, but a girl with better teeth who's willing to clean and do laundry when she's sick? I think not.

Animal-Tastic

God, I feel like crap.

But I'm getting a kitty for Christmas.

Yay!

Reggie White

Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before:

"Last night on SportsCenter, they opened the show with the Reggie White story and said, 'The NFL and the world suffered a great loss today...'

The world? This is on the same day where over 20,000 people died from a tsunami. Sure, the guy was a minister and I'm sure did a lot of nice things for people. But the world? I bet there are many countries where not one person knew of Reggie White.

'Did you see that wave yesterday? Something else, huh?'

'Yes, I lost my family and my entire village. But at least we still have Reggie White, the great defensive lineman.'

'Oh my, have you not heard? He passed away yesterday.'

'NOOOOOOOOOoooooooooo!!!!!'"

What a riot. Although for those of us Wisconsinites with relatives named after him, it's a little more heart-wrenching. Still, though, one has to wonder about our priorities sometimes.

I bet my dad almost cried.

Shitty thing about that big ol' wave, too, eh?

Jiggity Jig

Home again, and I never thought it'd be this great.

The trip was fantastic. Bruce got the chance to meet a lot more of his new family, and they all got along great. Seeing him and my brother joking around and talking and getting on as well as they did really made me happy. I'm a pig in shit, really. I knew in my heart they'd click, I only needed them to meet to prove it.

He got to meet Jamie, Cindy, Aunt Cal, and Uncle Harv at the farm, and then Debbie and Tom at Perkins (their treat!) on the day after Christmas. It's really funny how they try so hard to be presentable, but inevitably fail--to my great relief--by saying something like, "Man, I'd love to be a mouse on that wall!", and leaving everyone in stitches. I love my family so much.

Mom and Dad were exstatic to have us home for the holiday. They had all of their kids all to themselves, and you could see their eyes just shining. They both met us at the Schoolhouse to watch the Packer game (amazing game!) - it was the first time I've seen Dad at a bar in years.

I guess that's all I have for right now, but I'm sure the stories will be flowing in the next few days.

Pre-Drive

So we're driving 12 hours today, and I've been packing for that long (it feels like), so I'm not going to blog anything more today.

Don't worry, hands will be at 10 and 2, and seats will be totally belted.

Robert Martin, you'd better be ready when we get there.

Love,
Your big sister

Christmas!

It's coming early to Me and B.. specifically.. TONIGHT!

I have to go outside and get his presents and his special wrapping paper out of my trunk, and make his stuff look Way More Awesome than it actually is. It shouldn't be hard, I'm a good wrapper.

Christmas comes early in the Patch this year!

All I Wanted for Xmas

Was to get this freaking tooth out of my head.

I think that deep down, every single girl has a secret fantacy of some sort, involving her lying prone and having people wait on her, while she looks faint and smiles beautifically.

In theory, this idea rocks. I want people to wait on me hand and foot and bring me stuff and ask me how I'm doing every 4 minutes. I want them to have chocolates and flavored coffee and presents and back massages, and I want them given to me with smiles and songs and all five seconds before I open my mouth to ask for them. Isn't that what being sick is all about?

Unfortunately, I've never been the delicate sick type. When something is laying me up, it really incapacitates me. I guess what I mean is.. I'm not the type to lay around when things are just a little wrong. By the time that I'm actually admitting to not feeling the hottest, I'm past the point where chocolates in bed will cheer me up. I really need to start taking advantage of the semi-sick times, otherwise I'll never get to fully appreciate being ill.

The romanticism of being laid up on the couch disappears some when all you can find the energy to do is whine with increasing volume, "It Huuuuuuuurrrrrrrtsss!"

You'd Better Watch Out...

Someone who shall remain nameless is out using the last portion of his lunch break to buy me some socks.. ahem.. I mean, a surprise Christmas present.

I'm a little excited, I have to admit. It's been a long time since I've had a special person in my life to get me socks.. ahem.. a surprise Christmas present. Years. Years upon years. I've never looked forward to socks..

Alright already, you get the joke.

I've got 2 gifts in the trunk of my car, both of which need to be wrapped. The wrapping paper is out there, too.

So far, I've gotten a few presents for my family, one for my dog, and a couple for Lisa. I need to print out some things to go with these presents, which I really should think about doing before I get to wrapping.

What a lame post.

What a Sweetheart!

Sam the beautiful all-black German Shepherd Dog: "Mom and Linda and Kelly are worried about my left leg. I'm kind of dragging it. At the Showcase event on Saturday they huddled and discussed what to do. Keith also gave advice. Looks like I will be going to the vet on Wednesday."

Answer: Vicodin 5-500MG and PenicillnVK 500MG

Of course it would stand to reason that right before my much-anticipated trip to Wisconsin, wherein my fiance will be meeting my little brother (and vice-versa) for the first time, I have a major tooth eruption that will need immediate attention.

I woke up in the middle of the night on Sunday with a throbbing face, and it didn't subside until I'd downed 5 advil. I'd just barely made it back to sleep around 7am, to wake up at 8 for work. I went in, brave soul that I am, and worked my full four hours (ha!). As I left, I informed HR that I might not be in for a few days, as My Face Is Exploding. They took it nicely, reminding me, "You look swollen."

I went to the dentist. Dr. Beazlebub was very kind, letting me know my options:

1. Attempt to fix it, thus reducing my shame at having to smile with a tiny gap in the far left side of my smile for the Rest of My Life, and furthermore earning his practice untold amounts of Christmas money with which to buy happiness.
2. Remove the tooth, and leave me to face my cosmetic shambles of a face.

I am all for cosmetic shambles.

Really, I've thought about it for a long time (aproximately 2 years), and there is no way that I'm going to spend a fortune on saving a tooth that probably won't take well to being saved. I'm especially not fond of the "Attempt" in the first option, because I know first hand how expensive all those attempts could be.

No, I politely informed him that I'm pissed off with the rage of a thousand suns at this tooth, and would like nothing more than to have it cast from my head ASAP. He looked heartbroken, but I did not spare him the sentiment--no need to get his little greedy hopes up on my account. This tooth is getting yanked, come hell or high water.

On a much brighter note, I was able to sleep with much more efficiency last night.

Question: What do you get when you combine a 2-year-old broken tooth with Christmas cheer?

Saturday Night (Christmas) Fever

After the Christmas party, Bruce and I (shown here, and My Don't We Look Spiffy) and a few of our friends..

Decided to go out for a round of drinks at a fancy-pants martini bar. Luckily, they sold beer.

Jade Dynasty

A few weeks ago, we went to eat at a proper Springfield chinese buffet. The view was spectacular--and the little girl behind the fishtank seemed to agree with me.

Even the desserts were uncommonly good. You see, these immigrants have discovered the one true american weakness... Little Debbie.

Merry Christmas!!

There have been a few changes to my blog. Those of you who are smart enough to realize them deserve a reward. Those of you who don't understand will be getting a major clue in the next day or two.

In the meantime, it's really raked into my "weekend hours", so I'd appreciate some comments. You know, to keep my spirits up. In particular, what do you guys think of me as a whole? Not as though I'd base anything off of it, just so I have a platform off of which to perform and not leave you guys wondering.

I love you guys.

The Uterus (or Why I Don't Want Babies)

I saw a uterus today. Well, not an actual, real-life uterus. More like a model of a uterus. Yeah.

No, it was a drawing. Anyway, I'm sure you can see already that it made a profound impression upon me. Kidding aside, it freaked me out a little bit.

I've heard about IUD's before, and I know what the basic concept is. They stick a little piece of plastic up in there, and your body thinks it's a fetus. Naturally, since you can't get preggers when you already are (thank god, by the way, how weird would that be?), it's a pretty effective method of birth control. When I originally heard about it, I was 16--newly sex-fiendish and mad for any information I could find on any and all types of birth control. Most of what I read about BC was slightly outdated, and the information they had on IUDs was that they were potentially dangerous. I think they used to use crazy things to make them, or something. Anyway, my point is that I always pictured this little tiny piece of plastic sticking to the wall of a giant, cavernous uterus. Yummy, yes? For some reason, I always think of the uterus as a hotel for babys, room to swim and all that goodness. Not so, apparently. It's tiny.

Well, not microscopic or anything, but when they say it expands they mean it. I'm looking around and trying to find something to compare it with, to give you folks an idea, but I'm coming up with nothing. Best I can do is tell you to get some paper and marker and draw a triangle. Not a teensy one, but not one that takes up a quarter of the page, either. Ok. That's the size of a uterus.

What really blew me away was that the IUD they had sitting in front of the picture of the uterus was made to fit inside the whole freaking thing. Thoughts on this:

1. Where did I get this crazy notion that uteruses (uterii?) were cavernous?
2. Babys really don't have a lot of room for stretching, do they?
3. I never want to have children.

Ok, so that last one is more of a lifetime's worth of thoughts, less of a light-bulby thought that happened when I saw a drawing of a uterus. But I mean it. I guess my sister will have to hurry up and get married to someone else and then start spitting out kids, cause she's my mom's last hope for grandchildren. When I start feeling nostalgic about having kids (usually it only happens about once a year), I just go down to the mall. The people with strollers full of crabby babies are more than enough reminder that I have no maternal instinct.

Heap big drinky last night.

No more Mad Dog 20/20. It might have tasted a little like grape juice at the time, but I don't think it was as good the second time around (must ask Lil Nick for confirmation). Bleh, me no likey worky after heap big drinky. Especially at new job, where have to Act Responsible, so that they don't suspect that I'm a freak on wheels. Nice work lady bought me breakfast sammich, yummy. B was right, I feel better after eating something just now. Mmm, bean dip.

What's up with "nuke" in reference to a microwave? As in "The bean dip? Oh, just nuke it for a minute or so, it'll be fine." How did "nuke" become the verb to use in conjunction with the microwave? Is it sad 70's slang that I use accidentally (damn you and your Old Slang, Mom!)Where did that come from? Was it a cold war thing? Is it just my mom who says it? If so, then disregard that. For some reason it just struck me as strange and I want to know the answer.

Last night was pretty awesome, I must say. Here I thought it was turning into a quiet evening, and all of a sudden it exploded in a breathtaking shower of alcoholic goodness. Much Fun Was Had. Much Talking Was Done.

Man, even now, after the hangover has passed me by (I think that nonsense at the beginning of this post was the last wave of it) the MD makes me cringe.

Other than that, though, things are looking up for the weekend. B and I are going to head down to the japanese gardens tomorrow morning, and then Pam and I are going shopping. I Really Need to get something for Bruce, and I'm not really sure what it's going to be yet. I guess I'll just do it like I do all of my Christmas shopping, wandering around looking at stuff until something strikes me as Absolutely Perfect. I love that feeling.

I already know what we're getting for most everyone else. I've even got an awesome idea for Robby, and I never freaking know what to get him.

What? Oh, you want to know what I'm wanting for Christmas?

I have no clue. Surprise me. I mean a good surprise, not like the mystery bruise on my thigh. Happy surprise, like the lady passing out birth control like candy this afternoon. Good surprise like the no-hastle, no-haggle birth control, please.

Not Ortho-Novum 7/7/7, though, I've got enough of that to last me a year.

Wait, how the heck DID I get this bruise?

"The Gift That Got Away"

(I found this blog the other day, and I just responded for the first time--thus announcing my presence. It's a good question, and instead of stealing it like usual, I thought I'd share my responce with you guys, and recommend this blog to you.)

Every year for as long as I can remember, I've asked for a Chia Pet. I saw the commercials (you know, the ones that they still play every year at Christmastime), saw the magical goo grow into beautiful green hair on that schmucky clay face, and I was in love. I wanted the sheep, the one where the alfalfa grows into "wool". I asked for a Chia Pet from the time I was 5 until I was 18, and I never got one.

A few years ago, my "uncle" Bun gave me and my little brother Christmas presents for the first time. He's a retired biker/drunk driver, and it was probably the first time he'd ever had enough money to spare on the holidays. I took the present dubiously, unsure of what he'd have bought a 20-year-old who wasn't really his niece, just the daughter of his high school buddy. Lo and behold, it's a Chia Pet. It wasn't the sheep, it was the clown--but still, it's got to be the best Christmas present I've ever gotten. Completely unexpected, and completely what I'd always wanted.

I never grew it, I think it's still in a box somewhere; it's a little bit too sweet to actually cover in the goop and grow, you know?

I'm sure there are more presents that never came, but that's the one that always sticks out in my mind as "the one that got away". But then again, you know what they say, "If you love something, set it free.. blah blah blah."

Startled

I was just making coffee and I glanced into the living room and saw who I think is Robert Marone playing the hired thug in Weekend at Bernie's. Is this true? I can't be sure because I only saw him for a few seconds, and he was talking in a completely different accent than normal. If it's him, he's pretty damn good, that's all I've got to say.

Stupid Question:

Apparently today is the day for doing things I've been putting off for a while. I just posted an update on B and the Mrs, and now I'm about to place a call to Planned Parenthood.

Here's the problem: I've always had a slight issue figuring out what to ask people like them. Do I call and just say what I need? Should I play dumb and ask them how to go about getting put on birth control? Or should I be straightforward? I always lean twards playing it stupid, because that way, I don't get all puffy-chested over misinformation. Also, I've got a strange fear that if I tell them the truth (that I just moved down here) that they won't let me use their services. I realize that PP is hardly a heartless organization, and that they really want to help people out, but I can't help but feel as though I'm walking on thin ice when I talk to them. They seem almost too good to be true.

Especially here, where they don't require a pelvic exam to provide a person with birth control (it's called HOPE--Hormones with Optional Pelvic Exam). SCORE!

The Holidays Cometh

Here it is, the middle of December, and I've yet to update Mrs. B. This will be my attempt to catch everyone up on the facts:

• I moved from Shawano, Wisconsin to Springfield, Missouri on the 6th of November.
• We settled me in, moving my things to appropriate places in the domicile, hanging (all but 2 of) the pictures I had brought and going grocery shopping to compensate for the fact that my diet expands beyond ramen (not that I don't love ramen as much as the next guy, but...).
• I spent a few weeks agonizing over finding a job that would fit what I was looking for, ending up alarmingly close (nearly mirroring, actually) the job I'd just moved away from. Pharmacy technician seems to be my fall-back occupation now. I have to say, it's a step up from "cashier" or.. well, "cashier" seems to cover everything on my resume. In any case, I'm pretty darn happy that I got the job.

That covers much of what I've been doing for the past month-point-five. Sorry for not keeping the blog up-to-date, but I'm generally pretty lazy. To make up for it, here's a list of what's to come in the next 2 weeks. It might not seem like a big deal, but it's the first time I'll be sharing any of this with Bruce, and that makes it extremely special to me:

• Christmas cards.
• Christmas-present-buying.
• Drive to Wisconsin to spend holiday with my family (Bruce and Robby meet!).
• Drive back.
• Figure out what to do over New Years.
• Have Sean spend some time at the apartment (Sarah and Sean meet!).

Mommy Dearest

I can't wait to go home for Christmas. It'll be 3 days of reminding myself why it's great not to live at home anymore (again). I miss them terribly, but there are a few things I've gotten used to in a very good way.

For example, my mom wants me to call my grandma on the phone, and whine to her about not spending any time with her, so that she cuts back her stay at the Evil Auntie's house. I'm supposed to do this under premise that I'll spend loads of time with her if she's not at EA's house, which is frankly a lie. I'll probably spend 1/2 hour talking to grandma, whether she goes to EA's house or not. I'm not looking forward to getting involved in all sorts of family drama over my 3 day vacation.

"Loose"

So, today at my brand-spankin' new job, I didn't do my actual job. No, that would have been too pleasant. Today, I spent 6 hours on checkouts.. or I was supposed to. I only did that for aproximately an hour, though, and then focused my time entirely upon putting the shit that people didn't want for one reason or another back in it's place.

Normally, this would have been pleasant, a withdrawl from the monotony of the registers. Today, however, on my 3rd day at the job, it was it's own special brand of hell. Seeing as how I don't know where most of the departments are, nor the general layout of the store yet, it meant that I was wandering around the store trying to find the "homes" for things I'd never seen before. Curiously enough, in this Kmart it's called putting away the "loose" items, as opposed to doing the "shop-backs" as I'm used to. For the first 20 seconds after they asked me, I stood looking at the girl who requested it of me as though I was "differently abled" in the head. What do you mean, you want me to "do the loose"? Luckily, she's probably used to training people even dumber than I, because she was kind enough to explain.

I've got aching feet, an aching back, and my tooth hurts. All but one of them is related to walking aproximately 10 miles around in circles for 6 hours, indirectly due to the fact that I absolutely refuse to ask someone about every single item I'm re-shelving. Does that make me more or less of a moron?

On the upside, I've got a better mind-map of the store now.

Cupid

Until I was 5, we owned a cat named Cupid. We got Cupid from the Dillenburgs as a young siamese, which he remained throughout his lifetime (the siamese part, not the young). He was an indoor/outdoor cat--which I suspect I might have been partly to blame for, as during the time he was with us, I went through several stages of "annoying brat" in the eyes of any animal (namely ooh-let-me-pull-that-tail all the way up through this-is-my-baby-watch-me-carry-him-around-the-house). No matter the reasons, he spent a fair amount of time outdoors when the weather permitted.

Cupid (or Puke-id, as I liked to call him, much to the amusement of everyone around me--See this post for another amusing story.) died when I was 5. I remember sitting in the scraggly faux leather chair in my living room, on my mom's lap, when my dad came in to tell us. He found Puke-id in the garage, sleeping.. but he wouldn't wake up. I cried my little eyes out in the chair that was in shreds put there by that damn cat.

Don't you hate it when you realize that you've believed something completely ridiculous for as long as you can remember? I do. There are so many things that I used to think were true, simply because I didn't question my parents when they gave me an explanation for something, or because they didn't clarify my explanation when I gave it.

Cupid was missing the tip of his right ear. When I was little (think 2-3 here), I asked my mom what happened, and she told me that he had gotten it slammed in a door. I was horrified of getting things caught in doors for my first 10 years, thinking that those parts might fall off (this was corrected when I accidentally slammed my little brother's finger in the car door, and it didn't fall off. He did cry an awful lot, though).

It was only about 2 years ago that I asked my dad about that ear again. Apparently I was old enough to explain the real reason to, because I learned that Cupid had had frostbite once.

robby: Chad & the robber

I posted this on B's blog by mistake, and thought I'd spread the wealth a little further. Here it is again, just click on the title of this post. My little brother, the poet.

It's well worth the visit, I promise.

Not in Kansas Anymore

I've just completed my first day of "grownuppedness" in Missouri. Sure, the job search was heart-wrenching, but the actual completion of a full-days-work really sets in stone that I'm here for the long haul. At least a 6 month haul. That's a lot to people like me--my most long-lived job happened between the ages of 14 and 16, and I had barely grazed the wonders of $6.00 per hour when I quit. What can I say? Dairy Queen, I am not.

I have a confession: When I was 18-19, I stole some money, and got caught. Anyone ambitious enough to stalk me could find out that I, in fact, stole a total of ~$2000.00 from a past employer. It is my least proud moment, and those of you who have been reading for a while know that I do have more than my fair share of unproud momentii. I'm telling you in order to get it off of my proverbial chest. My real chest is in no mood for lightening--it's been at the same state of self-shame as it has been since the fateful day on which I was arrested.

That's right, arrested. Full-blown, escorted-from-the-building-in-handcuffs arrested. My insides squirm thinking of the complete shit that descision has brought to my life.

The shit of it is (being a begger doesn't leave me much room for pointing blamey-fingers, but I will anyway) that "They" (my employer) waited until I was over the legal age of prosecution and had taken enough money to qualify as a felony before they confronted me. Yes, I put up a fairly good "I have no idea what you're talking about" battle, but in the end, it didn't matter very much. I was caught, and I knew it.

I believe the only thing that kept me afloat in the sea of justice is my innocent appearance. Even with bleach-blond hair, I looked like I was 12, and that's the major reason that I don't resent my young appearance. I never will. They charged me on two misdemeanor counts of theft, when they could have tried me on a felony, and won. I owe much of the good parts of my life to that decision, and I'm grateful forever.

Don't assume that I have been spared the consequence of paying for my mistakes. As Bruce would be happy to explain in detail, I'm a virtual wreck when applying for new jobs. I can't stand the idea that they might look into my past and find out this thing which marrs me for life as someone unemployable. It's almost too much.

My stomach is churning today because, even though I've gotten the same job I had in Wisconsin, they require more of a background check. For now, I'm working because I've sent in the application to be employed in Missouri as a pharmacy technician, but I'm scared beyond my comprehension that that application will come back Denied. Pharmacy Technician is the only job I've ever had where I felt as though I was doing something important. Making a difference. This application, the one which requires a questionaire and a Notary Public Signing and two (count 'em, two!) sets of fingerprints? It's a bit much to be weighing on my mind.

I haven't done anything illegal since my trial. Of course I'm excluding the few excursions into the land of pot, but hey, I was a college student. I need some reassurance, please. Does anyone have anything similar to share, or some stories to tell me to make me feel better? I'd appreciate it, whole-heartedly.

My Brother

(Wherein we discuss pizza, his try-outs for a solo in choir, and poop.)

rObStEr: i ate too much pizza
sunnyfnday: mmmm pizza
rObStEr: no more talk about it
sunnyfnday: :-(
rObStEr: i didn't get a solo.
sunnyfnday: why not?
sunnyfnday: fuckers
rObStEr: i know
rObStEr: seniors did
sunnyfnday: bastard seniors
sunnyfnday: what the fuck they need a solo for anyway?
sunnyfnday: not like they're going to learn anything from it that they can use in their real, grown-up lives
rObStEr: true
rObStEr: and they all suck
rObStEr: gah
sunnyfnday: well, chin up
sunnyfnday: we both know you're better than those jackasses
rObStEr: honey thank you so much
rObStEr: you know what to say
sunnyfnday: yes
sunnyfnday: we'll beat them with hockey sticks
rObStEr: see ya later
rObStEr: it's poop time.
sunnyfnday: LMAO
rObStEr: is away at 5:26:39 PM.

Straight From the.. erm, Butcher's Fingers?

Far be it from me, and my (at best, forgetful, at worst, highly insane) mind, to remember exactly how I started going to this particular blog, but it's author really has some great things to say. Just thought I'd share. There is one post in particular which I thought really summed up my ideas on religion.

Oh yeah, the other stuff he blogs about is pretty interesting, too. He's like Pops, with less philosophy. Or less something. Either way, it's a good read, and I thought I'd share.

Pre-Employment Test

Aren't they fun? They can be a real ego-boost, I swear. Answering questions like the ones I did this morning is really a testiment to how far I've come since fifth grade. I've learned a lot about social structure and acceptable behavior, honestly. Also, I know which questions to never ever tell the truth on. Here's an example of the "test" that I took:

Please choose the option which you feel best explains your agreement to the following statements. 1 = Strongly Disagree, 2 = Disagree, 3 = Don't Know/Indifferent, 4 = Agree, 5 = Strongly Agree. Check the corresponding box on the worksheet provided. Do not mark the questionaire!

1. I feel frustrated when things don't go according to my plans.
2. I get emotional in stressful situations.
3. I work well in a team.
4. I love helping people.
5. I am a natural leader.
6. I torture small animals for pleasure.

This is actually sort of fun, if you don't spend too much time thinking about the questions. I tend to get caught up in simple things like linguistics. One other problem I have with these is a general trepidation over not knowing exactly how they read the answers. For example, I can theorize that in a certain light, answering that I Strongly do anything sort of makes me look like a jackass.

On the other hand, if I don't Strongly feel any answers, am I a complete pussy?

Perhaps I'm looking too closely into this. After all, we've all seen the sort of people who work at Kmart, haven't we? Frankly, I'm surprised some of my future co-workers know how to read. No, no, you're right, that's unfair. I'm surprised that some of my future co-workers understand the english language. That's much more accurate.

Actually, I'm thinking that I did ok. I think the main purpose of those tests is to confirm that I'm not a serial killer. I've only got slight mass-murderer tendancies, and I think they let teensy issues like that pass.

[I wrote this originally at 1:30 pm, and it got ate up by blogger. Please bear in mind that that post was infinitely more thoughtful and humorous. Thought I'd let you know that when I called back to talk to HR Bonnie, she said, "Oh, Sarah, you know what? I think I'm just going to go ahead and hire you.. is Wednesday too soon? You can fill out the paperwork then." (does little happy dance) So you know what that means? I get to be a pharmacy technician again! You know what else that means? Endless more posts about the job of a pharmacy technician! Yay!

Ok, you're right. But I have a job! Yay!]

Happy Birthday Kamden!

Wow, who would have guessed at 4:30 yesterday, while we were heading over to Mac's house for some wings, that when we came back home we'd have witnessed the miracle of birth? Sure, the odds got better when you knew Pam was waiting to pop, but all-in-all I guess I thought it'd take longer than it did. Great job, girl!

I guess we didn't so much "witness" it (thank the stars) as "stand outside in the hallway during" it. We're not complaining.

Baby was 2lbs, 13oz at ~7:40 last night. 24 inches long, too. Doctor said he's strong, a fighter, and that's awesome. He's going to be in the hospital until he's aproximately 4lbs--they want to make sure that he's breathing perfectly and eating with no troubles before they let him go--maybe he'll be there into Februrary. They're taking all precautions, he's in very good hands.

Congrats to Mac and Pam on the beautiful baby boy. Try not to spoil him too much, and for godssake let him learn to talk before you start teaching him to type!

retroCRUSH: The World's Greatest Pop Culture Place

retroCRUSH: The World's Greatest Pop Culture Place: "I'm a super TV theme song junkie and have always appreciated a good tune to set the mood of the show. Over the next few weeks we'll be paying tribute to The 100 Greatest TV Theme Songs. We've used over 2 years of reader feedback, and expert research to come up with a list that you're sure to love with many of your favorites guaranteed to be included. So keep coming back each day for more as we count 'em down to #1! You'll learn about the people behind the songs, and we'll be spreading the retro love and linking up a lot of cool sites that love these songs and shows as much as we do!"

HappyFunBall put up a link today, and one of the links on that page led me to this, which I thought my readers might enjoy.

Also, I have something to add to my "I-Want List". Dark Shadows. I want the series. Did anyone else used to watch that? I spent a whole summer (I believe it was 12, otherwise known as the "Bad-Perm Summer", also dubbed "I Scare My Friends") watching Dark Shadows and Bob Ross. Please buy me my (old) friends for Christmas.

Hint, Hint

Seriously, I can only think of a few things I really want for Christmas.

• Yarn
• Craft books
• Real books
• Big memory card for camera
• A pet
• Stuff to go with a pet

Really, that's about it. I get all crafty in winter, and a project to crochet would be cool, as would the yarn to go with it. We need a memory card for the honeymoon, so we can take stunning pictures of the dolphins swimming with us, and all sorts of other miraculous things. Obviously I want a pet. I can't think of one Christmas yet where I haven't (at least in secret) asked for some sort of pet. If I got one this year, it'd be the first time ever that I've gotten one.

Beyond the list, though, I've always totally loved getting something that isn't something that I've asked for. I love it when someone is out doing their shopping and sees something that spontaniously makes them think of me, and goes with the feeling and buys it. It really makes me happy to think that I'm on someone's mind like that. So bear that in mind, as well, when you're doing the holiday shopping. Alright, enough Christmas talk, I've got to find a job.

For Sale:

Want the best? Interested in proving, once and for all, you're better than all of your neighbors combined? Step right up, folks, and buy yourself one of these. It slices, it dices, there's a 72 hole golf course next door.

I think I figured out what I want for christmas.

My Friends

There are some things that a mind makes all to clear. Some parts of life seem to come to us without question, without fail. For some people, that clarity comes through religion, for others, through heroin. I'm not the person to tell you right from wrong. I'm not the messiah who will tell you the best way to get to the next stage in existance. I'm not even the person to tell you (or anyone, really!) which particular brand of dishwashing liquid will leave your dishes sparkling. I will, however, tell you the most major influence on my life. Like it or not.

I love my friends. That's a statement that most people can say, without fail. It's a given, really, up there with 'My mom is annoying', or 'Cat piss stinks'. Most people will tell you that it's a proven statement. I don't think that most people can tell you what I'm about to, however.

I love my friends unconditionally. I love my friends whether they date someone horrid, or smell bad on Tuesdays, or (God forbid) we don't speak on a daily--or weekly, or monthly--basis. It's a point I've chosen to come to with my friends. I take circumstances into effect. I have enough faith in my own judgement to say that I've chosen the best people I know for friendship, and because of that, I always take into consideration the idea that they have christened Tuesdays as No-Bathing-Day, or that they know what's best for them (even if it's for a short period, and they choose someone god-awful) when they choose to date. It's a freedom that I give them, but don't assume that it's completely selfless. Because I expect the same from them, all the time.

I don't consider everyone I know to be friends. Far from it. There are many people around who would probably list me on their "friends list" if it came down to it; many people whom I would list as well. There are few, however, that I would put on a master, trust-them-with-your-life list, the kind of list that matters throughout a lifetime.

The people I count on my lifetime list (bear with me, I know I sound like the TV Guide Channel) don't always talk to me on a regular basis. There are a few who I only speak to once a year. One particular friend hasn't been in contact for nearly 6 years. They are still my friends. They will always be my friends, and I'm forever grateful for the times that we have together. Perhaps more important are the times we spend apart. For I know that these particular friends won't vanish as soon as the well of conversation runs dry. They aren't the sort of people to assume that I dislike them, the minute the emails end. We have reached an unspoken agreement. One which I will always cherish. "We don't need to talk on a regular basis to know that we care about each other". Isn't that beautiful?

A few of my best friends are people whom I've never even met, how's that for crazy? The point is, the more a friend requires of me, in order to maintain friendship, the less likely I am to keep up on it. A friendship is more than a contract of needs, it's an arrangement based upon mutual understanding and genuine goodwill. Is there anything more that needs to be asked of a person, anything more you would require of your friends?

In Lieu of Brighter Prospects

Here is an idea of the places I wouldn't mind working at:

• Pet Store
• Vet Clinic
• Pharmacy
• Bookstore
• Library
• Clothing Store (I guess...)
• Coffee Shop
• Certain Resteraunts (Buffalo Wild Wings?)

I know it's not the greatest, but it's the list I've compiled of things that I:

• Can do
• Wouldn't mind doing
• Enjoy myself doing
• Won't be heartbroken to leave (if necessary) on short notice

Can anyone think of a spectacular job opportunity in Springfield, Missouri that I haven't mentioned? Please, please, all input is appreciated.

Robby-of-the-Day

rObStEr: i have a cold
sunnyfnday: aww
rObStEr: i can't breathe
rObStEr: i called into work
sunnyfnday: if i were there, we'd sit on the couch and fight for room and call each other names and watch the little mermaid and snuggle
rObStEr : lol
rObStEr : it's so true
rObStEr : :-(
rObStEr : why do i miss you more when i know you're gone
sunnyfnday: poor buddy
sunnyfnday: cause
sunnyfnday: my shining beacon of light is gone further than the borders of wisconsin
sunnyfnday: that's why
rObStEr : i'll give you a beacon
sunnyfnday: HAHAHA
rObStEr: beacon your face
rObStEr : :-)
sunnyfnday: lol
rObStEr: mmmm... bacon...
sunnyfnday: mmm..lmao
rObStEr: lol

Poor bird didn't stand a chance..

The carcass.

A pre-dinner smoke..

A little pre-dinner refreshment.

Look at that ham. Isn't that the most gorgeous ham you've ever seen?

Some of the tasty dishes in the oven.

Grade School Songs

I remember singing quite a few. It might have been because I went to a Catholic school (one of a million Sacred Hearts, I'm sure), but I don't think so. Last night, I remembered a great one, one we even danced to, in second grade. I think it was the Spring Program, or some more creative name. We stood on the stage of the gymnasium, with yellow circles taped to our hips, and gyrated to:

"Oh, Banana-nana-nana-nana, Nana-nana-nana-nana, Nana-nana-nana-nana SLUG!!"

Musical genius, that one. In kindergarten, there was a song about a triceratops that I remember the tune to from time to time, and there are some (unfortunate) pictures of a Christmas pagent, in which we all dressed up as elfs--complete with pointed paper hats--and dragged our parents out to dance with us.

I remembered the slug song last night because I've come to discover that in Missouri, there actually are slugs. Many, many slugs. They live all around our apartment complex, and they're sort of fun to watch. For someone very unladylike, they might be fun to play with. As we all know, I've never fit that description, and I find them fascinating.

When I was little, there were a few slugs I got to play with, but that was a rarity, and they were little tiny things that I found in the garden. Here, it seems that they're in a much more slug-friendly climate, and they grow much bigger. The ones from my childhood were maybe an inch long; some of these are longer than my little finger. It's great!

Seems like the wonders of Missouri will never cease. Hopefully I'll get a chance to take some pictures (bear with my tomboyishness for a little while, will you?). I hope they'll stick around, so I can play with them again, it's a bit colder here today, it actually snowed for a bit. Tomorrow it's supposed to be 80 degrees again, which just goes to prove that they're right. If you don't like the weather here, wait 2o minutes, it's likely to change.

Do any of you remember the strange things they made you sing about in grade school? What were they?

Fluffy bunny cute happy kittens

This has got to be the most embarassing story I've read about my home state in a while. I say "in a while" only because of this guy and this other guy, neither of whom is winning our state any grand awards for honor.

The only bright spot (and it's more of a faint glow, really) is that they describe the guy as coming from "the Minneapolis area", and we all know that they're crazier by far than most Wisconsinites.

Side note, I was told by my mom to check the news, because there was something bad that had happened. Naturally, I assumed it wasn't too serious, and ignored her. I could not, however, ignore the conversation happening in the gas station about Wisconsin. According to the counter girl, the guy from Wisconsin went crazy, fighting over a tree-stand, and shot another guy. He then proceded to shoot a bunch of other people who ran to the aid of the first guy. That's gas station news, though, and gas-station-news from two states away. If you want the real story, click the first link. Or you could click here, or here. You could click on all three, if you really want carnage.

On the other hand, if you want something a little lighter, click here, which is what I got when I googled "fluffy bunny cute happy kittens". Enjoy.

This is a whirly-gig (yes, correct terminology) that my dad took when I was little - the school was throwing it away.

Even Mac tried the steak-floaty-beer. Ew.

I know it's on B's blog, too, but the steak-dunking was too alarming to let slide without a double-post.

I was slightly alarmed at their methods of drinking beer.

Here's me and Sam a few days later, after the redheadedness took effect.. that's B over there, too absorbed in the game to notice his hot fiancee.

Here is me blonde and looking nuts at my new place.. Bruce's old place.

... But It's Not.

I hate it when I come in here, wanting to put something down, some great thought I just had, and I get side-tracked commenting on other people's stuff, and end up looking like a doofus on a section of a couch, trying to get back my monumental, lightbulby thought that made me come in here.

On a side note, I think that my posts are a lot like snot. Bear with me, it can't get much worse than that. And a little portion of it actually does make sense, I promise.

When I'm sick, my body makes a lot of snot. It seems to work itself healthy again by producing vast quantities of mucous. The same holds true for my head, when it comes to my participation in my own blog. When my head feels crazy, it seems to get rid of some of the lunacy by giving it shape, hence your reading pleasure. More insanity = more reading pleasure. Great, huh?

Ok, you caught me, I just wanted to compare something to snot. Anything. Creativity works a little better than my bank for things to compare, that's all.

Between the Lines

I've just found a strangely perverse pleasure in one of my everyday activities. I'm a reader, I do it for fun, for leisure, and for complete pleasure. I've been reading an old read of mine--one I have read before, once, but probably 6 years ago, give or take a few months--and I have come across a great game of mine, one I've been playing for as long as I've been re-reading novels, but without knowing it was a game until today.

Since before I can remember enjoying books, I've turned the pages down. I dog-ear my books without my own knowlege--at the finish of any, there are at least 30 turned-down pages, folded back to the original state, but never quite the same--and I know I'm not the only person who does so. It's a natural phenomenon, one requiring no apology or explanation - the easiest possible way to mark one's page. I've tried other methods, and fallen short of the ease and comfort of the habit I've earned. It's how I do things, other users be damned. Thing is, until tonight, I never realized that the user might not feel damned.

I turned down a specific page tonight, on a trip to the bathroom, and realized that it'd been turned down previously. By myself. The passage after which I turned was:

"Very interesting," John said. "Very intersting indeed." He took a mozzarella stick from its grease-stained bag, broke it open, and looked with a kind of fascinated horror at the clotted white gunk inside. "People up here eat this?" he asked.

"People in New York eat fish bladders," I said. "Raw."

"Touche." He dipped a piece into the plastic container of spaghetti sauce (in this context it is called "cheese-dip" in western Maine), then ate it.

"Well?" I asked.

"Not bad. They ought to be a lot hotter, though."

Yes, he was right about that. Eating cold mozzarella sticks is a little like eating cold snot, an observation I thought I would keep to myself on this beautiful midsummer Friday.

A wonderful thing finally connected in my mind, when I turned that previously-turned page.. I'd done it before. It was a beautiful thought, and I remembered the strange pleasure I'd felt in re-reading books in years before--a great sense of having done this before, at this same exact point. It had a sense of cyclical wonderment that I'd never been able to put a finger on before. Amazing is the best word I can think of for it, and that's not really enough to give the form to it that it deserves. Does anyone else know the feeling? That "I've-peed-at-this-same-passage-before" feeling? I hope so. The emotions go as far back as my first library card, when it wasn't me who had peed (or gotten a refill, or stopped to discuss an idea with their classmates) at the same time as I did. It's connectedness, with the world.. or at least one other person. Maybe it's better when the other person is yourself, six years previous, but maybe not. Maybe it's the best when someone you will never know is the person turning down the page before you do. Maybe it's the most perfect then.

I closed the night of reading off with this passage, which I thought I'd also share. It's only a few pages later, but it's equally as good:

Matties old Scout was parked in one of the slant spaces behind the war memorial, which in Castle Rock is a World War I soldier with a generous helping of birdshit on his pie-dish helmet. A brand-new Taurus with a Hertz decal above the inspection sticker was parked next to it. John tossed his briefcase--reassuringly thin and not very ostentatious--into the back seat.

"If I can make it back on Tuesday, I'll call you," he told Mattie. "If I'm able to get an appointment with your father-in-law through this man Osgood, I will also call you."

"I'll buy the Italian sandwiches," Mattie said.

He smiled, then grasped her arm in one hand and mine in the other. He looked like a newly ordained minister getting ready to marry his first couple.

It's a great passage too, but I really put it in there to give you guys clues. The author should be totally obvious by now, but the first person to guess the title of the book will win a hug--after they fly me to wherever they live, of course--and also my unending adoration. That is, if they haven't already earned it.

Clean Plate Kid

Have you ever been in the middle of a project, be in new or long-standing, and been touching it up, cleaning it up, fixing the edges a bit, or making the whole thing look a little more.. coiffed? Have you ever done a little too much, and tried to fix it, only to make it look a little.. lop-sided? Did you ever just take a look at it, decide it was too much trouble, and just start fresh, from scratch, decide you need a clean slate from which to start? I have. Just now, in the shower.

I can only hope my fiance appreciates it, even just a little bit.

In a Handbasket

I'm getting old.

Most of the blogs I read are dark-on-light, which I appreciate beyond belief. However, some have turned into (or always been) light-on-dark, and my freaking eyes won't let me read them anymore. I just can't. I feel a migraine coming on every time I try. Is it age? Does anyone else have this problem?

I would read MPH's blog, if it weren't for the light-on-dark. Marc is barely within my reading power now, and that's only because I've known him for a while and I force myself to check and read. Plus, he's funny and has very few spelling errors. I used to read that Fromage guy, but I can't anymore, the writing makes me all headachy. Is there something I can do? Is 24 the magical age where my eyes will go to hell? Are there reading glasses designed for people whose eyes malfunction the way mine do?

Someone help me. I need it.

This is where I used to type from. And B's finger. And my face, looking weird.

Feeding the Ducks is one of my favorite passtimes. Honestly.

When Lisa and I were in high school, I used to drive her home from work sometimes. This was on the way, and obviously, being an animal freak, I wanted to stop. She and I would feed the ducks/geese for hours, and she got in trouble for it once. Her mom thought we were off getting high or something. She wasn't allowed to get a ride home with me for a long time, and I only found out about a year ago that she hadn't been mad at me - just embarassed that her mom would think that. All that grief over feeding the freaking ducks. LOL

My Hometown Lake

The Incredible Drunken Duo!

I Love This Picture, I Really Look Sunny.

A Fine Day for Meeting the In-Laws.

Taxi

I made friends with a cab driver last night. We were waiting for our poor friend Cam at the airport. After about an hour, I went outside for a cigarette. The man started feeble conversation from 20 feet away, "If I'd a known this, I'da brought a jacket." That seems to be the way a lot of my conversations have started in Missouri. For some reason, I attract a little attention.

Last weekend, we walking into Barnes and Noble, and the same thing happened. An older man did a double take at me, and said something like, "That's what happens when a person gets old, I guess", and literally clutched his jacket around him. I was wearing a long skirt and a tank top.

I've been explaining to these people that I'm from Wisconsin. They get a knowing gleam in their eyes, because they think Wisconsin is constantly under 18 feet of snow. That might not be the case, but when it's 71 degrees in mid-November, I personally don't feel the need for a sweater/jacket combo.

It happened once before, too. When I was living in Minneapolis, taking german. Our class was small, and we all got along very well. I trudged into class, depositing my bag and my jacket on the back of my chair. Someone was looking at me, I could feel it.. I looked up, and caught him in the act. Jonathon was staring at my shirt. Literally. He stared for a few more seconds, as I stared at him, incredulous. Finally he shook his head a little bit, and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry.. it's just that I haven't seen a tank top in months."

From what I remember, I blushed furiously and tried not to look pleased. I've got a slight vanity problem.

Somebody Congradulate Me

I'm finally one of those girls that everyone wants at a party.

Cam and Bruce and I went out on Saturday night. We drank and laughed, Bruce went to Wendy's and brought me back a cheeseburger - It was great. I sang some karaoke (doesn't happen, ever), and made some friends. We closed the bar, and I realized that that's what I love about closing a karaoke bar - by the end of the night, everyone is joining in a group sing-along.

We went to Cam's new 'plex. I know this because I remember them telling me that's where we were. It seems nice. I think it's nice. I fell asleep on the couch a few minutes after we got there. I woke up on the same couch a few hours later, Bruce was waking me up. I was a little displeased.

Eventually things came together in my mind, and we left for our apartment. We talked about it in the morning, though, and decided that I'm the best girl ever.

Cam, I wanted to tell you this now, so that you don't give someone else the title - I'm the first girl to be naked in your new house. Ha!

I, in my drunken wisdom on Saturday night after everyone was asleep, decided that I would really give my fiance a treat, and come back from the bathroom in the nude. Yes, I really did that [Honestly. This weekend? Let me talk to Bruce, not sure if he's got any plans.]. Very sneaky, I know.

When he realized what was going on, the bestest guy in the whole world woke me up and tried to get the location of my clothes out of me. Unfortunately, I was in complete denial, trying to convince him that I was not, in fact, naked, and please, just go back to sleep. We managed to make it home fully clothed - minus my shoes and purse - hopefully without Cam's knowlege. I know that to get back on the couch, I had to practically jump right over him. Yeah, I know, that's a pretty picture. I can't stop laughing.

Wearing Their Hearts on Their.. Trunk?

For those of you fortunate enough to be outside of the spectrum of this particular vehicular trend, I'll enlighten you a bit. The cars without a sticker ribbon adorning them are becoming fewer and farther between. In the Patch, it seems to have taken over 8/10ths of the cars on the streets.

These ribbon/stickers (I'll be calling them rickers, because it sounds like a terrible disease, and that's how I view them - a cancer) are being sold under the guise of supporting funding-for-breast-cancer/our-troops/veterans(?). They are huge. They are being sold at Walmart. That's strike #1.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the support of all of the above. I think that it's great that so many people care about these causes. It's really being showcased in the number of god-awful-ugly stickers accosting my eyeballs the last few weeks. Heartwrenching, really. Gagworthy, mostly.

They're for sale at Walmart, people. Share the wealth, give to charity, of course. It's a wonderful thing. But your need to plaster your concern all over your method of transportation makes me want to go balistic with a paint scraper.

Is everyone that full of themselves? If so, wouldn't an investment in a giant, portable marquee be more cost-efficent in the long run? You could program it to say different things, one for every month of the year. In Februrary, you could type in, "I love black people. I know some black people, and they say I'm cool. I am a charitable person, as well. I plan to watch at least 1 hour of The History Channel this month. Doesn't that make you like me more?"

On second thought, I'm pretty sure that most of the proceeds are going to Sam Walton's prodigy. And we all know that they can really use the charity.

Question to Ponder:

Which would you prefer, if you had to choose?

• Caller ID
• Voicemail/Answering Machine

The differences are huge, when it comes down to it. One of them lets you be totally neurotic, and log all of the incoming calls you get, no matter how mundane (eg: MCI, Friend #1, Friend #29, etc.), and the other lets you filter the call-backs (if someone didn't have enough to talk about to actually leave a message, what's the point in giving them a call back?).

Fortunately, there is an element of screenage available with either option. I'm an avid (if somewhat ashamed) call-screener. I like to know who I'm talking to before I answer the phone. The answering machine makes you wait out the ringing, which is a minus, but the caller ID is a pay-as-you-go function, and I'm more inclined to a one-time-only fee.

If you had to choose, which one would you pick?

Insects

There are some strange differences that a person will notice when they move 700 miles south. Until a couple months ago, this was as far south as I'd ever been. The weather was smoldering, the people talked funny (some of them, mind you), to name a few. These are all things I'd been prepared for, at least a little bit.

One thing I wasn't prepared for was the difference in the local wildlife. By that I mean bugs. It's not so noticable, if you don't look for it, and I'm sure that Wisconsin makes up for their lack of bugs in their frozen-tundra-esque winters, but I've seen it. It's not so much that they're grosser than our bugs, just that they're bigger.

For example, our fruit flys are the size of a teensy dot. The fruit flies I've seen here are the size of 10 teensy dots. I guess it's the little things that endear you to a place. I'm not joking - I like it better this way, they're easier to spot.

Georgie Porgie

I'm on vacation, of sorts. Spending a lot of time reading, some time sleeping, and even less actually doing productive things in (my) Bruces apartment. I'm feeling guilty about it, even though I know that he would think it's a silly thing to feel guilty over.

I don't want to seem useless. I need to find a job, even if it's a few hours a week. I need to do something. I still feel like I'm on vacation, no matter how much I try to think of this as my home. It's not Bruce, it's me. I can't seem to shake the feeling that this is all a very elaborate dream. All of it, not just the so-good-it's-unholy bits.

So many people to meet, so much to do. I'm looking forward to it all, and yet it's scary. Weird to think that I'm meeting new, important people every single day when I'm still at this stage - the stage where nothing seems real.

The most real it feels is when he's here with me, or when I'm there with him. There are more efficient ways to say that, I know, but I've just woken up from a nap, and I couldn't care less. Well, maybe a little less. I suppose.

From Pops, I got a pretty hillarious link: fuckthesouth.com. Sorry for the dumpy post leading up to the hillarious climax. No, wait, I'm not sorry. I likes to keeps ya on your toes.

A Horse of a Different Color

All summer long, I managed to pull off the blond look. It settled well, surprisingly, a few people were surprised that it wasn't my natural color. After a few months of letting it become more and more apparent that that isn't the case (can we say "roots"?), I've decided upon a winter color.

I'm uneasy about the switch, because although I've done red in the past, it's been a while, and I'm not sure how deluded I was when I thought it looked good on me. There's also a troubling little icon on the box I bought that says "Warm". Troubling because the blond I've been sporting was apparently a "Cool". Whatever that means.

I remember some tidbits from the afore-mentioned girlie magazines, scenarios involving both a white shirt and an off-white shirt, and complicated experiments. However, having never actually owned both a white and an off-white shirt at the same time (barring discolorations due to poor laundry decisions - and I'm pretty sure that by "off-white", they don't mean "accidentally-pink"), I was never able to decipher which color grouping I fell under.

Hopefully, my common sense is correct, and the stupid magazines are full of shit. Cross your fingers for me. Hell, cross them for yourselves, because I've got access to a competent digital camera nowadays. And as we all know, I am my favorite subject.

In Which I Ramble Without Real Intent

I have always felt a need to change my appearance. Alter myself somehow, to fit what I feel on the inside. When I was younger, and more insecure, it felt like a mask. When I was 12, I wanted to rid myself of anything that made me - in my own eyes - less desireable, less than the girl that everyone would find acceptable.

I have a confession to make. Since the age of 9, I have been reading girlie magazines. Not the kind with naked people in them, mind you - excepting infrequent ads portraying perfect, hairless bodies with arms hiding the notorious portions of themselves - the kind that told me what to wear, what to say, who to talk to.

The unspoken theme in all of these magazines was one of warning. There were so many rules to abide by, in order to be the perfect girl. I can't believe how many of them still apply in my daily life. I find myself thinking about what I should be wearing, what I should(n't) be eating, and how much more I should be caring about what I look like less and less frequently, but it's still there. You see, even though I've moved beyond the boundaries of honestly caring what They think of me, I still have the guilt over not being perfect.

Perfect being, of course, blond, leggy, tall, skeletal, and boy-crazy. The only one I've seemed to master is the last, and that's always been pretty limited. I can't seem to be crazy over more than one guy at any given time. It's also a huge relief to find out that the guy who makes me the craziest wants to marry me. The added bonus is that he doesn't seem to think I'm all that insane.

I'm not looking to be that "perfect" girl anymore. The only reason I worry about it is because I want to be the best me I can be - both for me and for my fiance. I want him to be able to be proud of me. I know it's silly, as he already (inexplicably) is, but still, the thought is there.

I think I'm going to end this post and move on to the subject I really wanted to talk about. My hair.

Springpatch

I think people are nicer here. It might just be the change of scenery, or the fact that I probably stick out like a sore Wisconsinite thumb, but everyone is treating me very well. Things seem, for the most part, more relaxed. That might be my employment status talking.

Either way, we've had a great weekend. It's been a little draining - what with all the repetitive motion, the grunting, the heaving, and the aching body parts - but it's been well worth it. Who ever said moving was easy?

It's so incredible, waking up next to him. Waking up next to him, and not having to do a mental countdown - 3 more days of waking up with him.. 2 more mornings of this.. etc. Now I wake up and think, "God, I have to listen to this guy for the rest of my life?"

All kidding aside, it's been fantastic. It's already feeling more and more like home. My stuff is here (albeit unpacked), my books on the shelves, my Buffy in the DVD player.. it's great. Bruce has been wonderful - but then, who would expect anything less of the guy I picked? ;)

You can read what he thinks of having me here,here. I've got some groceries and other miscellanious shit to unpack.

Also, I'm making lunch for him - trying to maintain that aura of "bestest fiancee ever" for as long as I can until the screaming banshee within me bolsters through. Wish me luck.

Tell Me:

Can someone, somewhere, please give me a logical explanation as to why so many people are against gay marriage?

I'm serious.

Don't give me bible-thumping here, give me pure cold facts as to why this is a bad idea. Tell me why gay marriages are any worse than the 2/3 of straight marriages that end in divorce. Tell me why two people should not be legally recognized as being in love. Inform me, please, why SEX has anything to do with marriage at all.

Don't we all know how things go? Sitcoms tell the whole story, in black and white. Marriage is (apparently) 90% sex for the first year. After that year, we (of heterosexual tendancies) would almost rather sleep in seperate beds. Heterosexual couples have no obstacles - don't you think maybe that the ease of it might be a part of the problem?

If the heterosexual population is going to make a farce of the whole institution that is marriage, who are we (as a group) to deny people of other sexual tendancies from being a part of that same farce?

And who's to say that they will? Personally, all of the gay people that I've known have been extremely conscientious of their partners, and whom they choose to be with. This might change slightly (hopefully) as the years go by, as others become more open to the idea of same-sex relationships, but in the meantime, I have to say that most of the gay people I know put much more serious time and thought into their relationships than do the straight ones.

That doesn't include me, obviously.

My question, I suppose, words best as such: Who are you to decide upon the fate of someone else's happiness?

Yes, I'm a Stupid Ass

Hrmph.

Apparently the alarm clock needs to be set for AM, not PM, in order for it to go off at the designated 7:10 AM.

Bastards.

Somewhere inside my brain is a spiderweb. The web is made of tiny threads, almost invisible to the naked eye. My brain spins these threads to catch information. It's a highly efficient process. My brain connects all sorts of facts; orchestrated to perfection, the thrum(s) of said facts join in harmony, my thoughts being the resounding tune. The tune changes, from day to day, and grows, with my knowlege. It expands and contracts according to my mood. It flows with a grace that no man has yet been able to fully explain. My conciousness is the harmony that resounds within me.

[And sometimes, a big-ass dragonfly of a thought fucks up the whole beautiful process, leaving me incapable of decyphering what that glowing green dot next to "PM" is supposed to mean.]

I Say Hello

I was going to post a big, melodramatic post about all of the things I'm going to miss in the next 5 months, and then my internet crapped out on me.

To be fair, it didn't so much crap out, as find a bunch of new adware that it wanted to delete, and I okayed it.

334 New Critical Objects.

You folks wonder why I'm not posting as much recently. It's because all of my computer was bogged down by shit like Bargain Buddy. Never in my life have I so wanted to strangle a "buddy" [Barring the times that my "buddy" slept with my boyfriend, or got that freaking song in my head. You know the one. "My Buddy (My Buddy!), My Buddy (My Buddy!).. Wherever I go, Heeeee goes! My Buddy (My Buddy), My Buddy! My Buddy and Meeeee!"]. In any case, those ads suck. They suck major ass.

I've got most of it taken care of now, though, as evidenced by the fact that this page loaded in less than 10 minutes. Dial-up. Yes, I do live in the stone age, do you wanna make something of it?

In any case, most of you will be incredibly relieved to note that I didn't waste my time whining about how hard it is to move. Nor did I spend eons discussing with you the probability that some of my favorite customers are going to totally die within the 5 months that I will be out of the state. And I graciously accept the thanks of those of you who did not want to hear about how I might have single-handedly saved the Kmart corporation, through my work in store #3769. It was nothing, really.

I can say that because all of my whining was (by the grace of all that is holy) eaten up by the internet before I had the chance to Save as Draft.

Instead you, faithful reader (and I mean that literally, as my readers have dwindled to 1 lately), get to hear about all the fantastic stuff I am looking forward to doing in the next 5 months.

Here is where I would post a bunch of stuff about all the wonderful things I will be doing, were I not lazy. I'll boil it down to one thing, the most important thing: I'm starting the rest of my life. Luckily for me, that life includes both "waking up next to" and "falling asleep next to" the one person who I was meant to be with forever.

Civic Duty

For some reason, I got slightly high off of performing it today.

I registered to vote back in July, at a tailgating party in Milwaukee. I gave a girl my information, and was shocked at how easy it all seemed. She told me that I'd have to bring my ID with me on November 2nd, and I'd be able to vote. It seemed really strange, for some reason I thought there would be more steps. Like at the DMV. I thought there would be a mountain of paperwork to sort through. Nope, turns out all I have to do is tell them that I live at an address, and all of a sudden, I'm a voter.

I'm used to the song and dance, I suppose. I'm used to things being so electronified that they almost cease to work. I was shocked to see my name in the little booklet, actually. The little old ladies found it with almost no problem. Very nice ladies, by the way.

The machine was one of those contraptions that they made such a big stink out of last go-round. One of the women showed me what to do, which levers to push what way, and I went in. When it's all right there in your face, when it's just you and a giant Wizard of Oz-esque switchboard, it's almost too simple. Despite that, things closed down in my brain. I suddenly realized the need for the huge amount of campaigning. I was caught in there with no memory at all of anything either one of the cantidates claimed to stand for. There's all this stuff that they force-feed you, and over the course of the last year, I thought that if I heard one more cantidate say one more word, my head would explode. At the same time, though, when I was actually in the booth, it all faded away and seemed rather useless. I pondered for a minute. Feingold was a no-brainer, of course. Anyone who actually read the Patriot Act before voting (against it) deserves being a senator. Period.

As for the other guys, I almost couldn't decide. So many issues, so many policies, so many.. well, everything. Alone with the switches, it all seemed really trivial. It was a game of picking out the name that looked the most attractive. I'm sure we can all agree that it was just a matter of time before I came to my senses and voted for Bush.

She looks crazy because she was drunk, but here's Lisa. 

November 2nd

I have to:

1. Go to the DMV with appropriate paperwork, get title switched to my name, get temporary plates.
2. Do laundry, pack the majority of my clothes - the stuff I'm bringing, I mean.
3. Get oil for oil change, dad will do it for me.
4. Fill out change of address form for post office.
5. Figure out how to tell the greatest person in the world what they mean to me.

Oh, and so no one kicks my ass:

VOTE.

Late

I hate waking up and looking at the alarm clock, only to realize that inspite of not being an idiot, and knowing how to set it, you're late. I hate that I was clever enough to not change the time, and still set it for the appropriate hour, and it still didn't work. I hate that I vaguely remember it going off the first time, not wanting to wake yet, and hitting snooze. Thanks, Alarm Cock, that was one hell of a fucking snooze.

On the plus side, in all of the responsibility I've learned, I haven't lost the ability to get ready in 10 minutes.

Oh, piss on it, I'm still cranky.

I look insane, but that's only because I'm still drunk. 

My favorite: eggs benedict. 

I bought us some orange sodas, because they looked yummy. Looks can be decieving. 

Mmm, omelet