Okay, so this one will be short and sweet. I'd really rather take my time and yak about the past handful of days, but it won't be tonight. I'm getting ready to go spend a week at our home office and learn how to channel set stones. Sound difficult? You have no idea. But regardless of how well I do, (hopefully good) I'll have a blast just like I did last time.
I'll be flying back Friday and I'm sure I'll have enough stories to fill several blog entries. I'm sure some genius will try to bring deodorant in their carry-on luggage causing widespread panic, evacuations and rioting. Last time I went to a workshop at home office, we had this weirdo loser dude in our class who took great pride in the fact that he was lactose intolerant. Like he had overcome some great disability. I pity whoever had to sit next to him on his flight back.
And if my week sucks and I have nothing to write about, I'll just tell you about my recent experience at a gun show (uh, not my idea) and the drama from our most recent IHOP outing. In all my 26 years, I've never seen anyone get so upset about mayonaise. I think there must be pod people taking up residence around here or something.
20 August 2006
i'll take potpourri for 800, alex.
"A 48 hour ritual consisting of vegetating in a papasan chair, eating most of a chocolate cake, and spending vast amounts of time in front of TiVo."
BUZZ!
"What is...Amanda's weekend?"
Yeah, I know you're jealous. Don't hate.
No really, this weekend rocked. No leaving the house except for church and IHOP, no doing what anyone else wanted (much to Jonathan's chagrin), no visit to Wal-Mart. This weekend was pure greatness.
I moved my beloved papasan chair into the living room because I was not fully enjoying its cuddly dogbed-ness in our junk room. I plopped down in it and watched one of those uber-creepy documentaries about polygamy. I still do not know why women in these "plural marriages" seem to be required to have this trashy 80s hair with the foufy bangs atop a bad home perm. Maybe all four of that guy's wives add up to one hot one or something.
Perhaps watching those four women on TV cheerfully maintaining a house with a kazillion kids made me feel domestic. So I made this oreo cookie gooey cake bake thing I accidentally bought last week. And perhaps seeing their fat disgusting husband at the dinner table inspired me to eat most of it. Heh.
Day off work. Husband not home. Oh, the indescribable joy.
Jonathan eventually came home and we went from one extreme to the other. I don't even remember what we were watching on Comedy Central (probably something inappropriate for a nice girl like me) but we start getting bombarded with one of those GIRLS GONE WILD commercials. Okay, whatever. I'm not threatened or anything. A guy I knew in college had one of those videos and he popped it in while I was at his house one day. It was pathetic. No music or dialogue or anything. Just some 19 year-old hiking up her tube top with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. And then they show the same thing again in slow-mo. So that's how those creeps can sell them for $9.99 a pop. Anyway. This commerical is just about the worst I've seen. Even for cable! Sheesh! I will not describe most of what I saw since my mother reads this but EWWWWWW! And instead of using the traditional black bar to censor whatever body part is hanging out, they put up ORDER NOW!!! in big pink lettering. Oh and they somehow got some naked girls to float around in what appears to be zero gravity. Nice. After about five or so showings of that particular promo, I had to start changing the channel or leave the room. Call me a prude, I don't care.
I think there must be some connection between the "sister wives" I was learing about on A&E and the GGW chicks. Plural wives MUST have bad hair and drunk girls MUST stick their tongues out when they flash the camera. Hmmmmm. Perhaps some instinct buried deep in the female psyche. Maybe they should all get together and talk. We'd end up with POLYGAMISTS GONE WILD and COEDS GONE PLURAL.
Now I'd pay $9.99 to see that.
See? The weekend rocked. I can be ridiculous if I wanna.
Jonathan just read what I wrote and thought this weekend sucked big time because we didn't do anything "fun". He frequently calls me No Fun Amanda or Grump-Grump. Where there is fun, I seek it out and destroy it. Of course, he calls going to Cabela's or Bass Pro Shop fun. Or driving the truck to some BFE town out in the middle of nowhere fun. Or dragging me to a gun show fun. Well, I don't mind Cabela's if we're buying something, drives in the country are nice when gas ISN'T 2.89 a gallon, and gun shows are just lovely when I'm not present.
I don't know what he's whining about. Mmmmmmm...don't care. He's off every weekend and I'm not, so I'm not exactly sympathetic. I think I'll go enjoy the remainder of my day off by hogging all the covers on the bed and trying to avoid that XXX commercial. Wish me luck.
BUZZ!
"What is...Amanda's weekend?"
Yeah, I know you're jealous. Don't hate.
No really, this weekend rocked. No leaving the house except for church and IHOP, no doing what anyone else wanted (much to Jonathan's chagrin), no visit to Wal-Mart. This weekend was pure greatness.
I moved my beloved papasan chair into the living room because I was not fully enjoying its cuddly dogbed-ness in our junk room. I plopped down in it and watched one of those uber-creepy documentaries about polygamy. I still do not know why women in these "plural marriages" seem to be required to have this trashy 80s hair with the foufy bangs atop a bad home perm. Maybe all four of that guy's wives add up to one hot one or something.
Perhaps watching those four women on TV cheerfully maintaining a house with a kazillion kids made me feel domestic. So I made this oreo cookie gooey cake bake thing I accidentally bought last week. And perhaps seeing their fat disgusting husband at the dinner table inspired me to eat most of it. Heh.
Day off work. Husband not home. Oh, the indescribable joy.
Jonathan eventually came home and we went from one extreme to the other. I don't even remember what we were watching on Comedy Central (probably something inappropriate for a nice girl like me) but we start getting bombarded with one of those GIRLS GONE WILD commercials. Okay, whatever. I'm not threatened or anything. A guy I knew in college had one of those videos and he popped it in while I was at his house one day. It was pathetic. No music or dialogue or anything. Just some 19 year-old hiking up her tube top with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. And then they show the same thing again in slow-mo. So that's how those creeps can sell them for $9.99 a pop. Anyway. This commerical is just about the worst I've seen. Even for cable! Sheesh! I will not describe most of what I saw since my mother reads this but EWWWWWW! And instead of using the traditional black bar to censor whatever body part is hanging out, they put up ORDER NOW!!! in big pink lettering. Oh and they somehow got some naked girls to float around in what appears to be zero gravity. Nice. After about five or so showings of that particular promo, I had to start changing the channel or leave the room. Call me a prude, I don't care.
I think there must be some connection between the "sister wives" I was learing about on A&E and the GGW chicks. Plural wives MUST have bad hair and drunk girls MUST stick their tongues out when they flash the camera. Hmmmmm. Perhaps some instinct buried deep in the female psyche. Maybe they should all get together and talk. We'd end up with POLYGAMISTS GONE WILD and COEDS GONE PLURAL.
Now I'd pay $9.99 to see that.
See? The weekend rocked. I can be ridiculous if I wanna.
Jonathan just read what I wrote and thought this weekend sucked big time because we didn't do anything "fun". He frequently calls me No Fun Amanda or Grump-Grump. Where there is fun, I seek it out and destroy it. Of course, he calls going to Cabela's or Bass Pro Shop fun. Or driving the truck to some BFE town out in the middle of nowhere fun. Or dragging me to a gun show fun. Well, I don't mind Cabela's if we're buying something, drives in the country are nice when gas ISN'T 2.89 a gallon, and gun shows are just lovely when I'm not present.
I don't know what he's whining about. Mmmmmmm...don't care. He's off every weekend and I'm not, so I'm not exactly sympathetic. I think I'll go enjoy the remainder of my day off by hogging all the covers on the bed and trying to avoid that XXX commercial. Wish me luck.
17 August 2006
like Lily Tomlin in her rocking chair
Today marks four consecutive days at work in which I have successfully managed the repair shop. I guess you could say that I am both surprised and not surprised. It is a really gratifying feeling to go to work every day and know that you are doing a good job. I'm honestly not trying to glorify myself in any way, it's just that when you do something well, you know it without having someone else tell you so. I remember during my last semester of college making this really cool mixed media piece featuring three detailed drawings of a brown paper bag being crushed. That piece said exactly what I wanted it to say and it felt so good to get it out of my system. My professor loved it, just like I knew she would. That's sort of how I've been feeling the past few days.
I helped to avert a potentially disastrous situation with one of the store's big customers. It was a bracelet that I couldn't repair and we had to have a more experienced jeweler from a nearby shop come in and do the work. I felt sort of crummy about that, but I can't expect myself to be everything to everyone when I've been classified as a jeweler for less than a year. Just like in my home and as a wife, I expect myself to be able to do everything and end up feeling like a failure when I reach my limitations.
I'm learning that in management, you have to delegate the work to others so you can get all the other junk done that always seems to go unnoticed and unappreciated. Shop managers spend an amazing amount of time pushing around paperwork, putting out fires in the stores that are assigned to us, and just trying to keep the peace in general. Oh yeah, and answering the same stupid questions over and over and over. "No, I'm sorry, we can't work on that...because it's not gold...we don't work on jewelry that comes out of crane machines". And it goes on and on like that.
Despite the fact that doing the administrative stuff keeps me away from the bench much of the time, I sort of don't mind. I am enjoying being the one that people go to, the one they count on to make sure everything and everyone gets taken care of. When I left the sales department, I rejoiced in the fact that I wouldn't have to deal with as many customers and I could just sit at my bench all day and just focus on the tasks to be done. But I sort of missed talking to folks, and now I am much more willing to say hello and offer to help someone. As far as I can tell, people respond well to me and like the fact that one of the jewelers will take the time to acknowledge them and answer their questions. Generally speaking, jewelers are stuffed somewhere in the back of a store and only come out to eat lunch or have a smoke. Me and the other guys at my shop try to rise above that.
Well I have three or four more days to keep everything running smoothly before the boss man returns. I'm kind of getting used to doing his job, so I'll miss being everyone's go-to-gal and carrying around the big set of keys. But ole Rob is a pretty cool guy and someone I consider to be a close friend, not just my employer. He has taught me pretty much everything I know about being a jeweler and a shop manager, so it think he'll be proud of his little "grasshoppper".
"Ah, gwasshoppah...you run shop good...you no melt the jewrey...you no piss peopa off...we give you...big promotion!"
Maybe someday.
I helped to avert a potentially disastrous situation with one of the store's big customers. It was a bracelet that I couldn't repair and we had to have a more experienced jeweler from a nearby shop come in and do the work. I felt sort of crummy about that, but I can't expect myself to be everything to everyone when I've been classified as a jeweler for less than a year. Just like in my home and as a wife, I expect myself to be able to do everything and end up feeling like a failure when I reach my limitations.
I'm learning that in management, you have to delegate the work to others so you can get all the other junk done that always seems to go unnoticed and unappreciated. Shop managers spend an amazing amount of time pushing around paperwork, putting out fires in the stores that are assigned to us, and just trying to keep the peace in general. Oh yeah, and answering the same stupid questions over and over and over. "No, I'm sorry, we can't work on that...because it's not gold...we don't work on jewelry that comes out of crane machines". And it goes on and on like that.
Despite the fact that doing the administrative stuff keeps me away from the bench much of the time, I sort of don't mind. I am enjoying being the one that people go to, the one they count on to make sure everything and everyone gets taken care of. When I left the sales department, I rejoiced in the fact that I wouldn't have to deal with as many customers and I could just sit at my bench all day and just focus on the tasks to be done. But I sort of missed talking to folks, and now I am much more willing to say hello and offer to help someone. As far as I can tell, people respond well to me and like the fact that one of the jewelers will take the time to acknowledge them and answer their questions. Generally speaking, jewelers are stuffed somewhere in the back of a store and only come out to eat lunch or have a smoke. Me and the other guys at my shop try to rise above that.
Well I have three or four more days to keep everything running smoothly before the boss man returns. I'm kind of getting used to doing his job, so I'll miss being everyone's go-to-gal and carrying around the big set of keys. But ole Rob is a pretty cool guy and someone I consider to be a close friend, not just my employer. He has taught me pretty much everything I know about being a jeweler and a shop manager, so it think he'll be proud of his little "grasshoppper".
"Ah, gwasshoppah...you run shop good...you no melt the jewrey...you no piss peopa off...we give you...big promotion!"
Maybe someday.
13 August 2006
brace for a mild impact
Coming out of the closet is always difficult, but it is such a freeing experience.
My name is Amanda and I'm a Trekkie.
Well actually, most of you already know this fact all too well but it's healthy to just put it out there, you know? And yes, I still love Wesley Crusher just as much as I did when I was in the seventh grade and yes, Jonathan knows this and has accepted it.
I sat down to write this evening with not much to contribute to the blog community. I tend guilt trip myself--a remarkable ability I got from both sides of my family--when I go more than two or so days without writing. The results? A handful of ho-hum paragraphs about nothing or some random list of things I either like or dislike. I think this entry is going to be one of those. So like Captain Picard says, brace for impact. A very, very mild one. If you fall asleep, I won't be offended. Just leave me some comments and I'll feel special, okay?
Here's the bulk of what's been on my mind the past day or two.
I love Texas as much as the next person but dang! We need some rain down here!
I took a couple of photos of my front yard the other day and you can put your fist in the cracks in the dirt. One day one of us will go get the mail and come back with a broken ankle thanks to one of those chasms.
My friend Amy from church had a baby last week. Heh, so yeah, Jonathan doesn't do babies. We went to visit her this morning after worship to see her, the baby, and her beautiful new house. He flat refused to hold that baby. Hilarious. Didn't lay a finger on him. Now my maternal instincts are either in some kind of vegetative state or completely nonexistent, but I could hold him for five minutes or so and appreciate his full head of hair and all-around squishiness. When another close friend had a child, we were in the hospital room with her within an hour of the birth. She told me later that she didn't remember much about that time, but the look of sheer terror on my husband's face managed to stay with her in spite of the drugs. He couldn't even look her in the eye, considering what had just transpired moments before. So needless to say, we'll be sticking with the cat for a bit longer.
Right now that ball of fur is sleeping atop my bookcase next to the computer. No, not Jonathan, the cat. He jumps from the monitor to the top of the shelf, no problem. Getting down requires some passionate meowing on his part and having us rescue him. It's funny, the thought of cuddling next to my cat, petting him, talking stupid lovey-dovey to him is quite natural and normal. But an actual baby? I don't get it. Those of you reading this who are parents must think I'm a total nut. I'm okay with that, really. Holly understands, so that's all that matters. But on the flip side, I'd rather deal with poo filled diapers as opposed to what Oliver leaves for me in his litterbox. That smell is ungodly.
My boss is going on vacation this week so it is my job to avoid destroying the shop over the next ten days. I usually do just fine as without him, but it's still somewhat stressful. If it was my shop, I would just take credit for my own mistakes and move on knowing that whatever was chipped or melted or exploded will come out of my pocket and not someone else's. In spite of my worries, I am looking forward to becoming a manager in the months to come (Lord willing) but the biggest challenge will be dealing with myself. Number one, I'm a 26 year old who could easily pass for 18. Some folks don't want to trust someone so young and seemingly inexperienced with their jewelry. So I have to work hard to look older and act older. I always tell people that I wish there was some button on my body that I could push to turn my personality off. Not permanently, I really like the person I've become. But one of those "EASY" buttons that would make me speak slower, curb my urge to be cute and funny, and avoid overusage of the word "like" for about five minutes or so would be just lovely. This week will be my opportunity to do just that, minus that magical red button.
Tis past my bedtime and I have bored you all enough for one evening. I have no doubt that someone at work (hopefully not me) will do something stupid enough to merit a blog tomorrow. Goodnight, all.
My name is Amanda and I'm a Trekkie.
Well actually, most of you already know this fact all too well but it's healthy to just put it out there, you know? And yes, I still love Wesley Crusher just as much as I did when I was in the seventh grade and yes, Jonathan knows this and has accepted it.
I sat down to write this evening with not much to contribute to the blog community. I tend guilt trip myself--a remarkable ability I got from both sides of my family--when I go more than two or so days without writing. The results? A handful of ho-hum paragraphs about nothing or some random list of things I either like or dislike. I think this entry is going to be one of those. So like Captain Picard says, brace for impact. A very, very mild one. If you fall asleep, I won't be offended. Just leave me some comments and I'll feel special, okay?
Here's the bulk of what's been on my mind the past day or two.
I love Texas as much as the next person but dang! We need some rain down here!
I took a couple of photos of my front yard the other day and you can put your fist in the cracks in the dirt. One day one of us will go get the mail and come back with a broken ankle thanks to one of those chasms.
My friend Amy from church had a baby last week. Heh, so yeah, Jonathan doesn't do babies. We went to visit her this morning after worship to see her, the baby, and her beautiful new house. He flat refused to hold that baby. Hilarious. Didn't lay a finger on him. Now my maternal instincts are either in some kind of vegetative state or completely nonexistent, but I could hold him for five minutes or so and appreciate his full head of hair and all-around squishiness. When another close friend had a child, we were in the hospital room with her within an hour of the birth. She told me later that she didn't remember much about that time, but the look of sheer terror on my husband's face managed to stay with her in spite of the drugs. He couldn't even look her in the eye, considering what had just transpired moments before. So needless to say, we'll be sticking with the cat for a bit longer.
Right now that ball of fur is sleeping atop my bookcase next to the computer. No, not Jonathan, the cat. He jumps from the monitor to the top of the shelf, no problem. Getting down requires some passionate meowing on his part and having us rescue him. It's funny, the thought of cuddling next to my cat, petting him, talking stupid lovey-dovey to him is quite natural and normal. But an actual baby? I don't get it. Those of you reading this who are parents must think I'm a total nut. I'm okay with that, really. Holly understands, so that's all that matters. But on the flip side, I'd rather deal with poo filled diapers as opposed to what Oliver leaves for me in his litterbox. That smell is ungodly.
My boss is going on vacation this week so it is my job to avoid destroying the shop over the next ten days. I usually do just fine as without him, but it's still somewhat stressful. If it was my shop, I would just take credit for my own mistakes and move on knowing that whatever was chipped or melted or exploded will come out of my pocket and not someone else's. In spite of my worries, I am looking forward to becoming a manager in the months to come (Lord willing) but the biggest challenge will be dealing with myself. Number one, I'm a 26 year old who could easily pass for 18. Some folks don't want to trust someone so young and seemingly inexperienced with their jewelry. So I have to work hard to look older and act older. I always tell people that I wish there was some button on my body that I could push to turn my personality off. Not permanently, I really like the person I've become. But one of those "EASY" buttons that would make me speak slower, curb my urge to be cute and funny, and avoid overusage of the word "like" for about five minutes or so would be just lovely. This week will be my opportunity to do just that, minus that magical red button.
Tis past my bedtime and I have bored you all enough for one evening. I have no doubt that someone at work (hopefully not me) will do something stupid enough to merit a blog tomorrow. Goodnight, all.
10 August 2006
my apologies to Holly and other literary folk
I really am starting to get a great deal of enjoyment out of developing this blog page. I have found that throughout the day, I find myself translating my experiences into complete thoughts, as if I was writing about them as they occurred. When I was younger, I was a pretty darn good writer and enjoyed maintaining a column in the Panther Press, our high school's weekly, hard-hitting newspaper. My first semester at Murray State University quickly killed reading and writing for pleasure, a passion only to be resurrected in recent months.
My main explanation for being so gratified by this blog page is the fact that I have this desperate, primal urge to be understood. I began to realize this toward the end of my college career, as I began to assemble my senior art exhibition. Some of you may remember that many of my pieces contained words, often encrypted into other languages. It wasn't enough just to create a work of art and let it speak for itself; for some reason, I couldn't trust that my audience could understand precisely what I meant by it. I felt compelled to spell it out for them. I can not abide the thought of someone misunderstanding me.
The other thing I enjoy is letting my family and old friends keep up with me. Much of what I write about is the mundane: some ridiculous customer at the store, the latest miracle or sin committed by the cat, my long list of failures as a homemaker. It's not necessarily the most exciting autobiography out there, but it's mine nonetheless. Those who are closest to me enjoy reading about these things (for their sakes, I sure hope they do!). These boring, day-to-day experiences are the things that they are missing out on, now that I'm grown up and gone. They are also the things that I appreciate most about my visits home; my grandmother's sweet corn or my mother-in-law's unexpected appreciation for Janis Joplin, my thoughts dwell on these little things when I'm gone. So I hope that those who miss me feel like I not quite so far away when they read this.
As I write, much of what I learned in school begins to come back to me. I do honestly try to change up my sentence structure and not be repetitive with my word usage. But I still start my sentences with prepsitions frequently. And I don't always use complete thoughts. I constantly have to evaluate whether or not to use a comma; I freely admit that I tend to get a bit "happy" with them.
Try not to judge my writing style too harshly. I haven't had a real grammar lesson since the eighth grade. I didn't know what a gerund is then and I certainly don't now. So just sit back in your office chair, go click on my page's address (because I know you all have it saved in your favorites), and enjoy the not-so bumpy ride. Yeah, that's a good way of describing it. It's like the "It's a Small World" kiddie ride at Disneyworld. Except without the fifteen agonizing minutes of the same stupid song sung in every blasted language by those evil robot muppet things!!!!!!
*Sigh*
I hate friggin' Disneyworld. But I'll save that particular rant for another day.
My main explanation for being so gratified by this blog page is the fact that I have this desperate, primal urge to be understood. I began to realize this toward the end of my college career, as I began to assemble my senior art exhibition. Some of you may remember that many of my pieces contained words, often encrypted into other languages. It wasn't enough just to create a work of art and let it speak for itself; for some reason, I couldn't trust that my audience could understand precisely what I meant by it. I felt compelled to spell it out for them. I can not abide the thought of someone misunderstanding me.
The other thing I enjoy is letting my family and old friends keep up with me. Much of what I write about is the mundane: some ridiculous customer at the store, the latest miracle or sin committed by the cat, my long list of failures as a homemaker. It's not necessarily the most exciting autobiography out there, but it's mine nonetheless. Those who are closest to me enjoy reading about these things (for their sakes, I sure hope they do!). These boring, day-to-day experiences are the things that they are missing out on, now that I'm grown up and gone. They are also the things that I appreciate most about my visits home; my grandmother's sweet corn or my mother-in-law's unexpected appreciation for Janis Joplin, my thoughts dwell on these little things when I'm gone. So I hope that those who miss me feel like I not quite so far away when they read this.
As I write, much of what I learned in school begins to come back to me. I do honestly try to change up my sentence structure and not be repetitive with my word usage. But I still start my sentences with prepsitions frequently. And I don't always use complete thoughts. I constantly have to evaluate whether or not to use a comma; I freely admit that I tend to get a bit "happy" with them.
Try not to judge my writing style too harshly. I haven't had a real grammar lesson since the eighth grade. I didn't know what a gerund is then and I certainly don't now. So just sit back in your office chair, go click on my page's address (because I know you all have it saved in your favorites), and enjoy the not-so bumpy ride. Yeah, that's a good way of describing it. It's like the "It's a Small World" kiddie ride at Disneyworld. Except without the fifteen agonizing minutes of the same stupid song sung in every blasted language by those evil robot muppet things!!!!!!
*Sigh*
I hate friggin' Disneyworld. But I'll save that particular rant for another day.
07 August 2006
fo' shizzle
I think I'm sort of an adult now.
One may find this statement somewhat odd coming from an educated, career-minded individual of 26 but honestly, it's a bit of an epiphany for me. For so long, I've felt more like a goofy 19 year-old, still trying to figure out what she wants, incredibly naive about the world that awaits her. I really don't know why I feel this way sometimes; I was always fairly mature for my age and managed to avoid many of the idiotic mistakes many in my generation made. Age 26 has found me quicker than I anticipated, so I guess I'm still sort of in shock. I remember when 23 seemed ancient and untouchable. My best friend since forever started dating a 23 year-old while we were in high school and we could barely wrap our little minds around the concept of being that age. College was our next obstacle in life, and 23 was beyond even that. Of course, that all changed when we turned 23 and we were able to realize just how not old that was.
Lately I've been doing better at work; my craftsmanship is slowly improving, I'm taking on more advanced jewelry work, and I'm learning how to manage a shop, relying less and less on others. I suppose that's the catylst for me feeling this way. The other reason is sort of stupid, but it's a big deal--too big a deal, really--to me. Over time, I have managed to convince myself that I am mostly worthless in when it comes to the culinary arts. This really isn't true, it's just me being unrealistic once again. I won't go into this too much; I've already blogged/whined on this subject recently. However, the past handful of days have given me some much needed hope. My sister compiled a scrapbook of favorite recipes from my family and gave me a copy as a belated birthday gift. I tried a recipe for a corn casserole (with some trepidation) and it actually came out good! Not just merely edible ("it'll make a turd" as my friend Trevor puts it), but enjoyable. This is a foreign concept for me when I experiment in the kitchen. And yesterday? I put some taco meat and cheddar cheese in wonton wrappers and fried the little buggers up! And it was a bit of alright, too!
Now that I have conquered my bench and my kitchen, maybe I can learn to keep them both clean and in order!
(crickets chirping)
Okay, well maybe someday.
Couple all that with the fact that I have begun to lose touch with the current batch of 16 to 22 year-olds. When I see something good, I still refer to it as "the bomb". The concept of "mugness" (remember our discussions on this, Holly?), however undefined, is still more understandable than "fo shizzle my nizzle". I recently learned that the word "crunk" refers to someone who is acting crazy. That's what the class of 98 would call "crazier'n a mug!!!" This new generation is probably looking at me in the same way I look the fool still saying "radical, dude!" and "tubular".
In spite of all that, I'm enjoying the distinction of being 26. Not too young, but far from going downhill. I just don't like thinking about turning 27 in March. That's a little closer to 30 than I like.
One may find this statement somewhat odd coming from an educated, career-minded individual of 26 but honestly, it's a bit of an epiphany for me. For so long, I've felt more like a goofy 19 year-old, still trying to figure out what she wants, incredibly naive about the world that awaits her. I really don't know why I feel this way sometimes; I was always fairly mature for my age and managed to avoid many of the idiotic mistakes many in my generation made. Age 26 has found me quicker than I anticipated, so I guess I'm still sort of in shock. I remember when 23 seemed ancient and untouchable. My best friend since forever started dating a 23 year-old while we were in high school and we could barely wrap our little minds around the concept of being that age. College was our next obstacle in life, and 23 was beyond even that. Of course, that all changed when we turned 23 and we were able to realize just how not old that was.
Lately I've been doing better at work; my craftsmanship is slowly improving, I'm taking on more advanced jewelry work, and I'm learning how to manage a shop, relying less and less on others. I suppose that's the catylst for me feeling this way. The other reason is sort of stupid, but it's a big deal--too big a deal, really--to me. Over time, I have managed to convince myself that I am mostly worthless in when it comes to the culinary arts. This really isn't true, it's just me being unrealistic once again. I won't go into this too much; I've already blogged/whined on this subject recently. However, the past handful of days have given me some much needed hope. My sister compiled a scrapbook of favorite recipes from my family and gave me a copy as a belated birthday gift. I tried a recipe for a corn casserole (with some trepidation) and it actually came out good! Not just merely edible ("it'll make a turd" as my friend Trevor puts it), but enjoyable. This is a foreign concept for me when I experiment in the kitchen. And yesterday? I put some taco meat and cheddar cheese in wonton wrappers and fried the little buggers up! And it was a bit of alright, too!
Now that I have conquered my bench and my kitchen, maybe I can learn to keep them both clean and in order!
(crickets chirping)
Okay, well maybe someday.
Couple all that with the fact that I have begun to lose touch with the current batch of 16 to 22 year-olds. When I see something good, I still refer to it as "the bomb". The concept of "mugness" (remember our discussions on this, Holly?), however undefined, is still more understandable than "fo shizzle my nizzle". I recently learned that the word "crunk" refers to someone who is acting crazy. That's what the class of 98 would call "crazier'n a mug!!!" This new generation is probably looking at me in the same way I look the fool still saying "radical, dude!" and "tubular".
In spite of all that, I'm enjoying the distinction of being 26. Not too young, but far from going downhill. I just don't like thinking about turning 27 in March. That's a little closer to 30 than I like.
04 August 2006
good dog.
It’s been several days since I’ve blogged---I usually don’t go this long without writing--but with this, I thought I’d wait a few days before I posted anything.
Jonathan’s family dog died suddenly on Sunday afternoon. No prolonged illness, no unfortunate accident. He just slipped away for reasons unknown. We are all baffled by this since he was only six years old and was running, sniffing, and playing normally just a few hours before.
Jonathan’s family dog died suddenly on Sunday afternoon. No prolonged illness, no unfortunate accident. He just slipped away for reasons unknown. We are all baffled by this since he was only six years old and was running, sniffing, and playing normally just a few hours before.
Henry, March 2006
My husband called me with this shocking and sad information while I was at work Monday morning. I was well on my way to a horrible day anyway since it was my first day back from vacation. That shift is always the worst. Anyone who saw me on the phone at that moment probably would have thought at worst, a beloved grandparent had died or at best, my little gray kitten. Not the hunting dog owned by my mother and father-in-law. I mean, he wasn’t even my dog. But whenever I was there, it felt like he was. I can not imagine how upset Jonathan’s folks are, so I won’t even try. They couldn’t even bring themselves to call us with the news until almost a day after the fact.
Henry. I didn’t much care for the name when they got him, but over time, it seemed to fit. We began to refer to any weimaraner as a “Henry Dog”. He was spoiled immediately. Weimaraners have big, clumsy feet when they are pups and their ears overpower their little gray heads; Jonathan calls this the “ear-to-snout ratio”. Adorable. Guess that’s why you see them photographed frequently.
Oh, he loved riding on the 4-wheeler, March 2005
Part of why Henry’s passing is so sad and painful is because he was such an important part of the culture of my husband’s family. When I was a senior in college, I had to make a slideshow of something that represented the concept of home to me and I chose Henry the dog. My parents sold my childhood home in 1999, so Jonathan’s house embodied that concept more than my folks’ new place. Why Henry? I guess you could say that he was the center of much of the action around there. He would sit at the back door trying desperately to look pathetic so someone would let him inside. He was big and powerful enough to catch a hummingbird in flight. He would howl--in perfect fifths, I’m told--while Jonathan played his trumpet in the living room. So I photographed him just being himself. I played that slideshow for my class to the tune of Frank Sinatra’s High Hopes. Henry always had high hopes of getting whatever it was that he wanted. Usually that would involve eating off the table, flopping on the couch or bed next to you, or just being a nuisance in general. Wherever he is now, I hope that’s what he doing.
That’s Henry in a nutshell. Or at least it’s my version. We all have stories about him we could tell, memories that won’t make us laugh for quite some time. I suppose we were all hoping that we’d have several more years of Henry memories to create, but that wasn’t meant to be. The past six years will have to do.
Lay down, Henry. Good boy.
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