What Was I Thinking?

There is a forum on NaNoWriMo entittled: NaNoWriMo Ate My Soul!

I feel very at home on that forum and have been spending a lot of time there (time I should be spending on my novel). 

Nevertheless, I love reading about other people who are in the same miserable boat as I am, watching the water, empty of words, fill my boat until I'm barely afloat.

I've seriously considered throwing in the towel.  Or, even worse, pretending to have written in order to keep up appearances.  After all, who would know?

But, no, I'm behind, plain and simple.  And every attempt to catch up has been thwarted.

I have been doing fairly well on my Art Every Day challenge.  So far, I've posted every day.  Some days what I've posted I would call "crap", but, hey, at least I posted.

Oh, well.

Fifteen more days to go until this crazy creative month is over.

We'll see what happens...

The Eye of Betrayal

On Sunday, I somehow scratched my right eye.


Now, I didn’t know this until Monday morning when I woke up with my eye screaming at me.

Ms. Right Eye was NOT a happy camper.

In fact, when I went to put in my contact, she threw a fit and refused to cooperate. She turned red-er and leaky-er (and gross-er). And then the skin around her (to show solidarity, I think) grew puffy and pink.

It was not a pretty sight! (Not that I could see it really well.)

So, that led to no work on Monday (which should have been “yay!” but because of the eye sitch was more of a “boo… my eye hurts… I’ll just sleep in sadness…”)

And it’s also made me wear my glasses this whole week.

And that fact has led me to this post, because you would think that switching from contacts to glasses would be no big deal, especially since it’s the same prescription.

But you would be wrong, my friends. Very wrong!

Here is a small list of things I’ve had to deal with as I’ve worn glasses this week to show you WHY I HATE GLASSES AND THINK THEY’RE DUMB (aside from giving me the gift of sight, which is awesome):

1) They make me feel like I’m walking slightly uphill (everywhere I go) (even when I know I’m going downhill).

2) They make things look smaller than I know they are.

3) They make things look farther away than I know they are.

4) They mess with my depth perception (see points 1, 2 and 3).

5) They make me hit myself in the face when blow-drying my hair (twice) (see points 3 and 4).

6) They limit my peripheral vision and make me have to turn my head (when I remember in time, which is never).

7) They make me get honked at while driving (see points 2, 3, 4, and especially 6).

8) They make me almost die while driving (see points 2, 3, 4, 6, and 7).

9) They make my eyes ache.

10) They give me a headache EVERY DAY!!! (see point 9).

11) They make me go home and sit in a stupor because I don’t know what to do with myself (see points 9 and 10).

12) They give me an excuse not to try to do anything after work because I can’t see properly, anyway (see points 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9, 10, and 11).

13) They make me go to sleep earlier than normal (and then lie there, pining for accurate vision) (see points 9, 10, 11, and 12)

14) They make me feel like a loser because I’ve done ABSOLUTELY nothing all week: no reading, no writing, no painting, no meeting with friends, no after work adventures, no nothing!


Tomorrow, Saturday, I’m going to try my contacts again because I have a lot of catching up to do (the next step on a new painting; writing for my writing group deadline on Monday; reading, sweet reading; etc.)

Please pray for me.

I mean it. Please!!!! Pretty please!!!!!!



I can’t handle my glasses anymore*.





*I know you’re thinking “Sounds like you need new glasses, Liz.” And you’re probably right. But, honestly, ever since I switched to wearing contacts 15+ years ago, wearing glasses always creates these side-effects for me. Always. It’s very disappointing, because fashion wise, there are such cute glasses!

Psst...

Hi.

I don't know how often I'll be posting on this blog in the next few months because most of my attention is on The Artist's Way journey I'm documenting on my other blog.

Frankly, it's consuming most of my "blogging" time.  And since I'm not a good multi-tasker, I keep forgetting that I have this blog.

So, check over there if this blog seems deserted.

P. S. But, I'll probably keep updating the books I'm reading on the sidebar of this blog.  (That is, when I remember I have this blog.)  So, there is that.

A Letter to Myself

First, let me preface by saying that I (sometimes) (often) (all the time) separate myself into different categories when thinking or speaking about myself. (And yes, I know this seems a bit loony.) For example, there’s Past Liz, Present Liz, and Future Liz; there’s Work-Week Liz, Weekend Liz, and Vacation Liz; there’s Business Liz, Leisure Liz, Party Liz, and Party-Avoidance Liz; and there’s Morning Liz, Day Liz, and Night Liz. Just to name a few…


Now, with that explanation out of the way, here’s a letter Morning Liz recently (as in today) composed for Night Liz:

Dear Night Liz,

I’ll be brief since you have the attention span of a gnat on dope.

You’re killing me! Really. You are.

Do you have any regard for how early I have to get up?

Do you think I like rushing around in the morning because I hit snooze one too many times?

Do you know what it’s like to wake up already exhausted?

Of course you don’t! You leave that all for me to deal with.

And I’m really starting to hate you for it. A deep, passionate, loathsome hate.

So please, I beg of you, keep this in mind tonight when you think of starting French lessons at 10:00pm, or that 11:45pm is the perfect time to begin a puzzle.

If you don’t, I’ve already talked to Mid-Afternoon Liz, and she’s fully prepared to take a sleeping pill or two in order to avoid you all together.

Heed my warning!

Curtly,

Morning Liz

P.S. Don’t be surprised if you get a letter from Day Liz. She also has a bone to pick with you.

Calling London

[I wrote this post about a week ago, and then promptly forgot about it. But, since I’m still ruminating over my discomfiture, I decided to post it.]


So, if you know me, you know I hate calling people.

It’s not that I’m afraid they’ll answer. I WANT them the answer.

What causes me distress (and possibly night terrors) is the fear that they won’t answer, which then means I’ll have to leave them a message. (Or hang up, as I’ve been known to do. Sorry.)

You see, I leave THE WORST MESSAGES IN THE WORLD! (And by worst, I mean messages that embarrass me.)

For some reason, as soon as I hear the BEEEEEEEP, I become the most long-winded, rambling, idiotic person on earth. And before I know it, instead of asking what I called for, like, “What time does the movie start?” I have opined on the state of the union, mentioned that the last mixtape I made had the song “Together Forever” on it, revealed how I wish my five-year plan included being a busker, and questioned the validity of calling something that squirts out of a can “cheese.”

Needless to say, anytime I have to make a phone call to someone who doesn’t know me (and won’t find my three-minute pontifications endearing), I write down what to say in case I must leave a message.

This is what I should have done when I recently called my favorite bookstore, Slightly Foxed Books,* in London (I have never been to this bookshop, but fantasize about it in inappropriate quantities).

Smartly, I did come up with things that IABSOLUTELYMUSTNOTMENTION, such as:

1) Some of my English ancestors came over as indentured servants and maybe that’s why I abhor participating in manual labor,

2) How it was okay that they (the English) lost the war (Revolutionary), because it all worked out in the end with multiple holidays to celebrate for all, and

3) That I easily fall into an English accent whenever I watch (or think about) Pride and Prejudice, or North and South, and would they like to hear it, and could they give me tips on making it more believable?

Connected to this, I also warned myself that I should NOT use an English accent while leaving the message (wanted to), and that I should also NOT include any English-y words that I love but that we don’t really use in America, like: barrister, nutter, posh, gobsmacked , daft, petrol, knackered, and lorry etc.

Thankfully, I did not say/do any of these things.

But, here’s what I did say (to the best of my recollection (which is pretty good since I’ve been obsessing about it ever since)) after I heard their “Leave a message” message (which was said in the most beautiful Female English accent and sounded very posh):

“Oh my gosh, I got through! I’m calling London! Hi! I’m Liz! Elizabeth Wolfe! From America! The U. S. A.! I ordered books from you! And I was told to call and leave a message authorizing payment! So, I’m calling! My name is Elizabeth Wolfe! W. O. L. F. E.! I don’t know my order number! Dang it! Where’s my paper!? [Long pause while looking for receipt] Okay! I ordered three books! The names are… [Long pause while finding the names of the books only to realize that I wasn’t sure how to pronounce the first title (I couldn’t remember if the “s” in Libris, as in “Ex Libris” was silent. (It’s not.)) So not wanting to sound stupid (too late) I say the following…] Well, they’re books! [Insert embarrassing giggle] Of course they’re books! You’re a bookstore! [Awkward snort] I’m sorry! I’m flabbergasted!**** Again, my name is Elizabeth Wolfe! I think I already mentioned that! And my number is [gave them my number faster than the speed of light]. Thank you for all that you do! I love your book review!”

When I got off the phone, I immediately went and told my sisters that I shamed America.

And in case you’re wondering, the exclamation points are intentional because I feel like I spoke in excited tones the entire message.

Also, in case you’re wondering, do you know how much it costs to call London? I do. The first minute cost me $3.10, and the next two minutes cost $5.78. Three-minute rambling call = $8.88

Lesson learned.

Always write down your messages Liz! Elizabeth Wolfe! From America! The U. S. A.!

[Sigh.]





*Why is this my favorite bookstore (aside from the fact that I’m an Anglophile)? Because they publish a fabulous, and I mean FABULOUS, quarterly magazine. Anyone who puts out such a wonderful book review can only be awesome, and worthy of my esteem.**

** When I finally go to England [gazing at the heavens in silent prayer and oblations], Slightly Foxed is on my list of MUSTS, right under Stonehenge. ***

***If you ever go to London, and visit Slightly Foxed Books, please only tell me that it’s wonderful and magical and dazzling! Don’t tell me that it’s just a regular bookstore, with regular books, and regular people. I’ll be crushed. Let me have my fantasies.





****In the back of my mind, I feel like I said the word lambasted, instead of flabbergasted. But, since I meant to say flummoxed, instead of flabbergasted in the first place, I’m just pretending that the whole thing didn’t happen.

A Creative Endeavor

Let me ask you a question:

How creative is your life?

Very? Not very? Huh?


Now, let me ask you a slightly different question:

How creative are YOU in your life?

A little? A lot? What?


Okay, let me ask you a third question:

Would you like more, and to be more, of it? (Creative, that is.)

Yes? No? Maybe?


Now, let me tell you why I’m asking.

Before I started Grad school two years ago, I was dabbling in creative things. I was working on my mixed media art, I was taking online art workshops, I had started a blog about my poetry/fiction writing, and I was frequenting dozens of creative blogs for inspiration and community.

But, then, I started school.

And with that, everything else “superfluous” took a back seat (or in some cases, was dropped off at my parent’s house, never to be seen again.)

That’s how it remained from August of 2009 through June of 2011 when I graduated. (Hooray!)

But instead of falling back into my creative endeavors, I did the opposite.

Now, yes, a break was needed. So, I told myself that it was perfectly fine to take a few weeks to decompress from the stress of it all. (And by decompress, I mean sit around doing nothing but watching TV in my pajamas. (And I may or may not have put on said pajamas as soon as I got home from work. (What?)))

After about a month, though, I realized that while I felt much more relaxed due to my nightly three-hour pajama-wearing TV time, I was slowly turning into a lifeless person with nothing to talk about but what so-in-so did on such-and-such TV show*. I had nothing to say about my actual life. (Except that work was fine, but busy.)

With that startling (and depressing) realization, I’ve been on a search for other things to occupy my time, and actually help me to improve my skills and interests as a person.

Now, don’t get me wrong, TV has taught me a few things that have added to my life, but by its nature, TV is passive. I observe. I don’t engage. But what I realized I was longing for was improvement by doing, by taking action, by living!

After this epiphany, I started setting parameters (because that’s how I am). I wanted to do something that wasn’t too hard, wasn’t too time-consuming (I still have shows to keep up with, after all), and didn’t cost a lot of money.

But, I wanted whatever it was to push me out of my comfort zone, challenge me creatively, and increase my daily joy.

All of this has been marinating in my head for the past month, and it wasn’t until last Monday night as I was contemplating my situation (which might have been while wearing my pajamas and during the commercial break of a well-known gossip show), I looked over to my bookcase and something caught my eye.


Eureka!



TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW BECAUSE THIS POST IS ALREADY WAY TOO LONG…





*Part of my TV viewing was shows on the Documentary Channel. Do you have this? It’s fabulous! Next time you see me, ask me about some of the documentaries I’ve watched. I will regale you with stories about fascinating people: like people who stare at the sun for energy, or the boy who looked for his invisible girlfriend, or the Mountain Talk folk, or what luminaries of our time have to say about forgiveness, or… **

**On second thought, you may not want to ask me. I’ve counted up and in the last three months I’ve watched 27 documentaries. It might be best to keep that door shut.

Guilty or Not Guilty

A couple of months ago, I did my civic duty and sat on a jury for two weeks. It was a criminal case, and it was my first experience as a juror. I can’t tell you all the details yet (most of which are boring) because we were given a court order to not discuss or sell the rights to the story for 90 days after the verdict (really, truly). But, as soon as that time is up, I’m planning on writing a proposal to the Lifetime “Television for Women” network*. (They probably won’t want it as the case was about fraud, and therefore, mind-numbingly dull).

I learned many things from my time in court: about humanity, about justice, and most importantly, about the need for proper footwear.

I compiled a baker’s dozen list for you all, so you can be better prepared for when it’s your turn.

Things I Learned from Sitting on a Jury:

1. They (the court system) let just about anyone sit on a jury.
2. This is terrifying.
3. There were a number of questionable (in intelligence and morality) people on my jury.
4. I do not ever want to be judged by a jury (see #1 and #3).
5. You should not wear flip flops while sitting on a jury.
6. Unless you have a back-up pair of flip flops to change in to when your original pair rips while walking into the courthouse.
7. Or, you should have duct tape in your car (like your dad told you) so that you can make flip flop repairs.
8. The Court security team and scanning process do not flag people who carry an entire roll of duct tape in their purse.
9. This scares me.
10. There are moments when hearing the law read is so boring you lose the will to live.
11. You can really practice your doodling skills while sitting on a jury (and, of course, still pay attention).
12. Judging someone and sending them to jail for a long time is not as fun as it looks on TV.
13. There are a lot of cute police officers.

Heed my advice, folks. (Especially about proper footwear.)






*The title of the made-for-TV movie based on this case would be “A Man of Many Names, but One Love”.

For Hannah

So, on my last post, Hannah left the most hilarious comment that I decided to use her 4 blog post suggestions.

Here are my responses (in bold):

1) Sometimes when the moon is full and the sky is clear I like to drink a hot chocolate (the spicy Mexican kind) and remember the time I used to not like the spicy Mexican hot chocolate. The year was 2010, I remember it well mostly because it was last year, and I have a fairly good short-term memory, but also because that was when Mark Paul Gosselaar adopted a feathered-haired pastafarian child from Nauru with the help of UNICEF. (Though, I may have him confused with someone else doing something else.) Inspired by this, I embarked on my own adventure to adopt a feathered hairstyle, and then decided to cover up my folly with a pastafarian strainer “hat,” which I went to purchase at Walmart (sponsored by UNICEF). There I witnessed a murder (of human courtesy) in the aisle of a clearance sale over some plastic jewels a young man had stolen by dropping them down the back of his grandmother’s sweatervest, and the ruckus of said murder (of human courtesy) ruined, even further, my poor execution of Farah’s iconic hairstyle. During my harrowing/other-worldly/soul-withering experience, I learned the important life lesson of dance, namely, that it should not be done in the aisle of a clearance sale at Walmart. I laughed, I cried, I contemplated the meaning of life, but most important of all, I wrote it all down for Hannah.

2) If I had to choose between being Grace Kelly or Dolly Parton I would choose Grace Kelly. Obviously it's a tough choice, but ultimately I picked Dolly Parton, because although I initially picked Grace Kelly, who am I kidding! I don’t think I could pull off any of the Grace Kelly-type traits she’s known for, such as, repose, elegance, beauty, femininity, style, or, well, grace. So, I’ll have to go with Dolly Parton. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Dolly doesn’t have any of the same qualities as Grace Kelly, I’m sure she does. But, she can cover up anything she lacks with a banjo and sass. My favorite part about being Dolly Parton, would be gaining free access to her/my amusement park. Having been there, I can say there are A LOT of banjos and sass (and deep-fried goodies and wig shops and overalls and elderly folks).

3) My five favorite things right now are:

Angels

Bacon

Pompoms

Obscure references to Nicola Tesla

Suspenders

My five least favorite things right now are:

Mutton Chops (unless your Wolverine, natch)

Turning left

Obvious references to Nicola Tesla

Unhelpful people trying to be helpful, but making things worse, and then pretending like it wasn’t their fault, but you know that they know that it totally was

Weather

4) Here is a video of a young Irish girl playing the accordion the way I wish I could. I haven't made a video of me yet, because I’m not sure the world is ready for “When the Saints Come Marching In” dirge-style. It might make people chuck themselves off buildings in sadness/repulsion. As soon as I can pick up the tempo, I’ll video it. And then you can try not to be super jealous Hannah. In the meantime, watch the video and practice your jig in preparation of my upcoming performance. That's what I'm doing.

Thanks for these blog post suggestions, Hannah! If anyone else has some for me, leave a comment. I’m desperate for inspiration…

Sister, You Know Me Well…

A brief conversation I had with my sister last night:

Me: (Entering the living room where Becca is watching TV) Well, I just had an impulse buy. You’ll never guess what it was…

Becca: Was it a musical instrument?

Me: Maybe

Becca: Was it an accordion?

Me: Yes…

Becca: Well, you can’t store it out here. We already had to find a space for your harp and your Bodhran.

Me: Fine, I’ll put the Concertina in my room by my Ukulele.

Was I alive in 2009?

So, to rally myself, and shake off the “my life is completely devoid of purpose and meaning” funk that I’ve been in the last six eight months, I’ve decided to post the TOP FIVE HIGHLIGHTS OF 2009 to make the year not seem like a waste.

Here they are, in no particular order*:


1. In January, my nephew, Liam, was born! I call him General Lee. Why? It’s not because I’m wishing the Confederates had one the war, or because I’m a big Dukes of Hazard fan, but because he reminds me of the Little Rascals kid, Spanky, who was in a movie called “General Spanky.”** (They both have chubby cheeks on a big round face.) Adorable!***

Take a look for yourself!

Spanky Liam


2. Got my yellow belt in Nunchucks! Granted, I sort of feel it was a pity belting, but I’ll take it! Nunchucks was a blast, and made me realize how much I love to make sound effects when I hit things! (This probably has something to do with being an Aunt to only nephews. I can make car revving sounds, ninja attack sounds, gun firing sounds, subsequent dying sounds, etc. with the best of ‘em!)

3. Went and saw the Dalai Lama. Really, it was quite an amazing experience. So many different people, so many monks, so many incense odors! He was quite funny and personable. And I even took orders to be a lay Buddhist monk.****

4. Started graduate school. It’s killing me, and I hate the homework, but, I do feel glad I have something new to share when people ask me what I’m up to. (Not that I go into detail about it. I mean, who wants to hear about “organizational theory”? No one. Not even me.)

5. Joined an art gallery. This was a major step for me. Just talking to other artists, (whose work actually hangs in a gallery), about my work (that is actually stacked in my closet) was hard. And to even be contemplating submitting it for a show makes me choke on phantom paint fumes.


Okay. So the year wasn’t as bad as I thought. Here’s hoping that 2010 gives me a TOP TEN! (And I hope the same thing for you to!)




*Well, actually they’re in date order. So, I lied.

**I tried to look for a clip of it on Youtube, because it’s a darling little movie. But, I’ve just learned that you really shouldn’t type in anything related to “spanky” on Youtube. Learn from my mistake!

***For next year, I’ll be able to add my new little nephew, Jackson, born just last week! Also, adorable!

****Technically, Becca pointed out that it was just to be a lay Buddhist, but, I liked the monk idea. Better robe options.

Friday Ventalation...

Q: Liz, what have you been doing the last few months?

A: Nothing.

Q: Liz, what are you going to be doing in the next 10 weeks?

A: 9 papers = 60 pages = 21,000 words

Reading 8 books on various forms of leadership and management (Yippy!)

Digesting and dissecting 37 scholarly articles

Preparing 2 half-hour oral presentations

Enduring 1 group project




Grad school is bad.
Liz very sad.
No fun to be had.

What’s Playing on Your Radio?

Having been requested to make a post, (even though I have absolutely nothing to say), I’ve decided to make a list of all the bands/singers I don’t like that everyone else on the planet does.

Now, before you read the list, a few disclaimers:

1) This list is not comprehensive. I dislike many more bands, but decided to just stick with 10 so I don’t completely alienate my friends.

2) There is probably at least ONE song from each that I DO like. I just can’t think of it right now.

3) I have no idea why I don’t like them. I just don’t. Maybe it’s me? Maybe it’s them? It’s a mystery.

4) This list is in no particular order. Just wrote it as they came to me.

5) Please still be my friend.

With that, here’s my list for “BANDS OR SINGERS THAT I DON’T LIKE AND WILL CHANGE THE RADIO STATION ON IF THEIR SONGS ARE PLAYED”

1. Matchbox 20

2. Dave Matthews Band

3. Maroon 5

4. John Mayer

5. Jason Mraz

6. Red Hot Chili Peppers

7. Jack Johnson

8. Pearl Jam

9.Bon Jovi

10. Lenny Kravitz

There you go!*

Now, if this doesn’t prove that I have nothing to talk about…






*Please still be my friend.

Liz? Are you there?

No, I'm not.



I'm feeling done with the whole blog thing. And Facebook*. And Myspace**. Etc.



I'm only having small thoughts, now. Enough for a Twitter*** post or two.



And even that's a stretch...

*I've never really participated in this.

**Or this.

*** And I have very particular thoughts on what should be a Twitter post. Is it funny? Weird? Witty? Insightful? Strange? Then post about it.

Q: How Big is a Mini Fridge?

A: Not as big as Mary Poppins’ purse. (Despite what my co-workers think.)

____________

So, at my office we have a mini fridge. You know, to hold our lunch. Or maybe an afternoon snack.

But, some of my co-workers get confused by this, and think that it’s for their entire weekly groceries. I mean, why hassle making a sandwich to bring to work, if you can store everything needed to make a sandwich at the office?

This irritates me greatly.

All I want to do is place my DAILY lunch in the fridge, and I have to smash it in there because a co-worker bozo has decided to store an entire glazed ham.

Don’t believe me?

Here are just some of the things I’ve found in the fridge*, hogging up precious space:


1. A gallon of milk
2. 3 heads of lettuce
3. 12 pack of burritos
4. 8 apples
5. A week’s worth of frozen meals
6. A loaf of bread
7. A whole Rotisserie chicken
8. A watermelon
9. A gallon of orange juice
10. 5 lbs. of pasta salad




I tell you, if tomorrow comes, and I can't fit in my PB&J, I’m going to have a Nervy B.**!!!




*Not that I’m keeping track, or anything, out of bitterness…

**Nervous breakdown. Any Georgia fans out there?

Part Three: How Dumb is Dumb?

So, Thursday morning, as I’m “busy” at the office (Actually, I really was busy. I’m having to do TWO JOBS(!) because my “trainee” of a year(!) is way behind. But, that’s another post…), I get a call from Bank Robbing Bec.

Here’s what happened:

As soon as she met the detectives, they realized that she couldn’t possibly be the woman they have on surveillance. The real Becca is shorter, chubbier (but still cute, Hi Becca!), and wears glasses. (Detective M. said this is why it’s important to always have an updated license photo, because when they questioned a witness of the robbery, and showed him Bec’s picture, he said that it could have been her. (Becca’s license still has her picture from high school!))

Since they had already driven all the way out to see her (remember, they’re from the O.C.) they had her and Cash look at the pictures to see if they recognized the woman. (They didn’t.) And then they told them what happened.

Apparently, after the woman robbed an Office Store employee, she decided it would be a good idea to use the stolen credit cards in the EXACT SAME STORE THAT SHE STOLE THEM FROM!!!! I mean, how stupid can you be!!! And so when she went to the counter, the guy at the register looked at the credit card, read the name of his co-worker, got suspicious (Duh!), asked for her license, and wrote down the information (Becca’s!).

At this point, the woman realized he was on to her (“What? Really? You mean he figured out I wasn’t his co-worker?” Dumb!) and ran. She then proceed to a local liquor store and spent a couple hundred dollars on the awesome(?) stuff all liquor stores have. (Would a liquor store be your first choice to use stolen credit cards? Mine neither. Although, it does explain her stupidness…alcohol may be involved??)

------------------------------------

In the end, Bank Robbing Bec was cleared of all wrong doing, and was admonished to contact a couple of credit agencies to report that her identity might have been stolen.

The mysterious and dim-witted thief is still on the lam, probably getting ready to rob a McDonald’s and then buy a couple of Big Macs.

And my nunchucks still have their strings. (Although, I did put a pair of scissors in my night stand, because if this has taught me anything, it’s to always be ready for a police investigation.)

Part Two: Will the Real Rebecca Please Stand Up…

Meanwhile, I get home from work and see Cash cleaning up our apartment. And not the usual dusting of tchotchkes and fluffing of pillows. Oh, no! She’s hiding stacks of unopened computer paper, piles of new pens, and other office-type supplies while wheeling suitcases into her bedroom.

Yes, friends. You heard me correctly!

Our apartment has been covered in office supplies that I was told came from a “friend” of my mom’s, but now I’m not so sure…maybe that was just a cover story…maybe Becca really DID rob the Office Store…and she and Cash left their suitcases (from their trip LAST MONTH to Asia) in the living room this whole time (despite my protests, I might add) because they KNEW they were going to have to go on the lam with boxes of paper clips!!!!!!!

When I question Cash about why she’s trying to hide the evidence (while secretly assuming she’s Becca’s accomplice), she tells me that, OF COURSE!, it would look strange to the police officers coming to question Bec about a robbery of an Office Store to have paper supplies everywhere along with suitcases waiting by the door! And so she has to get rid of the stash.

By the time Becca gets home, the apartment looks like a crime-free zone. And it’s then that she tells us about her brief conversation with Detective M.

Basically, he wants to some to see her tomorrow (Thurs.) morning to show her the surveillance photos they have and see if she could “identify” (aka: BE) the woman in question. Because the suspect had her exact same name, AND her exact same driver’s license number.

Hmm…

And we also found out that the thief didn’t steal supplies, she stole credit cards and checks from an Office Store employee. (This causes me relief. The office supplies in my apartment DID come from my mom’s friend! (Or did they? (No, they did.)))

Anyway, the rest of the evening was spent in conversation about what we would do if Becca’s taken to the slammer. Who would get her extensive Asian video collection? Who would handle our trip planning? You know, important questions like that!

I end up going to bed bummed that I have to go to work the next day and miss all the action. Cash will be there for moral support (since she’s between gainful employment right now) and will get to witness the conversation (aka: interrogation).


Part Three, tomorrow!

To Cut, or Not to Cut my Nunchuck Strings…

So, as some of you may know, I am a certificated nunchucker. Totally professional about it and everything! (What? I’m serious!)

And now that I’ve advanced to the wood nunchucks (with bruises to prove it), I’ve become a renegade! (The law frowns upon wood nunchucks in California.)

Our (Rachel, Katie, Heather and yours truly) Sensei has joked by saying that if our homes are ever raided by the police, we should have scissors close by to cut the strings so we’re not brought up on felony (I’m not kidding!) charges.

And we would laugh and laugh! As if we would ever have the Po-Po in our homes because of criminal behavior! (Sure, we might if we were robbed or something, but not because we’re law breakers. Ha!)

Well, yesterday my friends, I almost had to cut my strings!*

You see, yesterday my apartment had two detectives (from the O.C.) in it to question one of my roommates (aka: sister Rebecca) about a robbery of which she was the SUSPECT!


::PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT AND MENTAL ABSORBTION::


Wednesday, my parents had received a call from Detective M. asking if Becca (or Bank Robbing Bec, as I now call her) “has ever been convicted of a felony, because she sort of could be now, and could you please have her give me a call. Here’s the case number...”

(The detective called my parents instead of Becca directly because as part of her flouting authority, she never updated her driver’s license after moving out. Oh, what a tangled web we weave!)

You can imagine the affect this had on the parental units. (I’ll take “Panic” for 200 hundred, Alex!)

Immediately after hanging up with the police, my parents frantically call B. R. Bec at work, but couldn’t get a hold of her. So, they call my sister Cash (whose nickname is just coincidental…or is it?) who tries to call, but still no luck! So, Cash calls me, (because Bec and I work at the same university), and tells me briefly of the situation and what course of action I need to take: “Becca needs to call the police because she’s the suspect in a robbery of an Office Store**! Run over to her office a get her!!!!!!”

But, since I’m getting ready to leave, and don’t want to walk in the opposite direction to get Becca because I'm lazy, I decide it would be faster to call one of her co-workers, tell her it’s an emergency (without mentioning “jail time” )and “could she please interrupt Becca’s counseling session and put her on the phone!”

I then tell Bank Robbing Bec what I know. She’s stunned. (Or is she?) And eventually calls my parents to get the information.


STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO OF THE CASE OF MISSING POST IT NOTES...



*Instead, I opted to hide my nunchucks in my dirty laundry basket under a pile of my unmentionables.

**Since this is an ongoing investigation, I’m not giving the actual name of the store. I don’t want to have a reason for the police to come back and confiscate my nunchucks!

A Question that has the power to change our lives…

1) If you knew you could not fail, what dream of yours would you make come true?

I’ve been thinking about this question for weeks now. Fear of failure stops us from so much in our life, and it’s something I’m working on overcoming.

Now, I have a great life, don’t get me wrong. And over the last year I’ve incorporated a lot more of what I love (and used to fear) into my day-to-day. But, I want more!

So, I’ve been asking myself, if failure wasn’t going to happen, what would I do?

And now, I’m asking you the same thing…

Think of the possibilities!

Would you quit your job and start your own business?

Would finally write that novel? Paint that picture? Publish that poem?

Would you move to a completely different country?

Would you leave an unhealthy relationship?

Sell everything you own and travel the world?

Tell your secret crush that you love them?

Would you cut and dye your hair?



We only have one life!

Don’t let fear rule it…

Do you think I could ask for time off?

Something happened on Monday that has taken me days to come to terms with, and to acknowledge that it ACTUALLY happened:

I got hit by a bird!

On my back!!

A real, live, bird!!!

I literally almost had a heart attack when it happened, and I swear I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder!

Here’s the story*:

I’m out for my daily walk around campus, which I love, because I’m able to enjoy the beauty of nature, college-kiddie watch (which sounds kind of creepy), and contemplate the meaning of life**.

As I was turning the corner past the football field and into the parking lot, I saw something swoop out of the corner of my eye, and then “THUMP” on my back.

My initial thought was “Stupid football boy, hitting an old lady with a ball!”***

But, when I turned around to pick up the ball (and yell out “Finders keepers!” to the offending fella), I saw to my horror, shock, and dismay, that it was not a ball, but, (shudder) a bird!

A little bird! A fledgling!****

When I saw the poor creature, I was overcome with compassion, gently picked it up and placed it in a nearby bush…okay, not really.

I screamed, and started shaking out my shirt to try to get the bird cooties off it, while looking around to see if anyone else had witnessed my attack. (No one had. Praise to the heavens! How embarrassing…)

Then I quickly ran into the bathroom of the science building to see if I had bird blood, feathers, or poop*****stuck to my shirt. (I didn’t. Which was a miracle. Because I totally would have thrown up.)

Once I calmed down, realized there wasn’t any permanent damage to my WHITE LACY shirt (although, there was to my soul) and got a drink of water, I went back outside to view the carnage.

Only…

The bird was gone!! He (or she) had survived!! And its parents******had come to collect him (or her).

And, I have to say, although I was slightly sad to not have proof of my assault, I was relieved to know it hadn’t died by hitting my back fat.

Overall, I’m still greatly upset by the whole thing. The rest of this week, I’ve kept my eyes scanning the heavens, and debated carrying my nunchucks as a visual threat to all others.

But, so far, no other wayward bird attacks.

I’ll keep you posted.



*Oh, how I wish you were here to hold my hand while I re-live this…

**Although, truth be told, on this particular walk I was trying to talk myself out of watching the new season of Tori and Dean. (Don’t judge!)

***My second thought was “Am I always going to get hit by a ball? I thought I left that behind in Junior High, and then High School, and then Community College! I mean, really?”

****Thank you Ornithology class! You didn’t cure my fear of birds, but you did give me the proper terminology to describe it. (P.S. A fledgling is a “toddler” bird learning to find food, water, shelter, and fly while not hitting people in the back, etc.)

*****Another tidbit learned in my bird class. Birds have no control over their sphincter. They poop indiscriminately.

****** Fledgling birds are always watched by their parents. They’re learning, after all.

My Inbox: Where email-chains come to die…

Anyone who knows me, knows that if you send me an email that then requires me to forward it on to 20 people or my arms will fall off (or God won’t love me anymore (or I won’t get eleventy billion dollars)), knows I WILL NOT pass it on and will take my chances that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll still have my appendages.

In fact, it takes all my effort not to reply to whoever sent me the email with a snarky comment about how dumb they are to think that God is trolling the internet to punish people who don’t forward an email containing scriptures and cats in Biblical costumes.

I mean, really, people.

This Monday morning, I had 3(!) such emails in my inbox. From co-workers. (Who clearly don’t know me.)

And all of the emails had a tagline of “If you agree with this email that [God is great*] [women are awesome**] [America is the bestest***], then forward this on to 6,000 people including the person who sent it to you!”

This is brings me to a dilemma.

Office politics suggest that I reply to the person who sent me the email. You know, so I seem chummy and all. But, then, said person thinks that I’m on the email-chain bandwagon (hurray!) and will send me every email that ever crosses her**** path.

And I just don’t think I can handle that. So, I’m going to have to be the lady who isn’t an email team player, and let the chips (or arms) fall where they may.

What else can I do?



*Agree!
**Agree!
***Agree!
****It’s almost always a “her”, isn’t it?