After lots of training, worrying, praying, I ran my first half marathon this morning. I was planning on just doing the Cowtown Half this winter, but the FWRC made its November race a half, so I figured I’d give it a shot. I ran 10 miles on my treadmill a few weeks ago and had a handful of fairly strong runs after that, so I figured I was prepared enough to at least finish the race, even if I had to take a few walking breaks.
I always say that the first three miles are the hardest for me. Whenever I do a long run on my treadmill, it’s the first handful of miles that seem to drag on and on. After that, I’m usually good to go.
This does not apply to the half marathon, just so you know.
It was a chilly morning, but not unbearable. The cold doesn’t really bother me much after I get about half a mile behind me and that held true today. I really had no idea how this was going to go down. Had I properly trained? Was this going to be much easier than I was telling myself it was going to be? Is this the stupidest idea I’ve ever had? The answers were something along the lines of sort of, hell no, and maybe.
Once the race started, most of the pack was way ahead of us. Fortunately, that is pretty much how every race starts out for me, so I’m accustomed to bringing up the rear. The first handful of miles went pretty smooth; I was enjoying some sweet jams on my iPod, John was there next to me humming along to Lady GaGa, and I was getting warmed up and actually enjoying the cool weather.
Somewhere around mile 4 or 5 my left ankle started bothering me. This was one of my fears about running this far. I usually end up with a sore ankle or knee or muscle and it’s a different one every time. We were taking it fairly easy, running 12 to 13-minute miles. All I could do was try to focus on controlling my breathing and attempt to think about anything but the pain. We both really wanted to run a consistent race and not have to resort to taking walk breaks. So far, so good.
I started struggling around mile 6, which didn’t do much for my state of mind. Some guy at a water station asked me if I was okay and was I going to keep going. Huh? Did I look that bad? Sheesh, that wasn’t much of a pick-me-up. Usually, the water stations give you half a cup of Gatorade and a half-hearted cheer. They’re usually manned by a pack of teenagers who look like they would rather be pretty much anywhere else. “…good job…*golf clap*...keep going...” I think Ben Stein could have done a better job of showing some enthusiasm.
When I got to about mile 7, the pain in my ankle either subsided or got drowned out by the screaming in my leg muscles. It was really all I could do not to stop and walk. Going up a hill did me in. I took a walk break at mile 8 or so, which was really disappointing. I know this is my first half marathon and its way farther than I’ve ever gone, but I so badly didn’t want to have to walk. The funny thing was, it didn’t really affect my time too greatly since I was running pretty slowly anyway. John just stayed with me, jogging at a comfortable pace. I felt kind of bad for him, I know he was capable of going a great deal faster than I was and I felt a little guilty for holding him back. But he just wanted to run the entire way (same here, *snort*) so he kept me going by singing loudly and yelling out whatever inspirational messages he could come up with. I asked him to let me lead for a while, since seeing him running just reminded me that I wasn’t. That actually helped a bit.
At this point, I think I am dying. My legs were going numb and I started to worry that I might fall. I could see the light…my ancestors beckoning me to come to them…your legs don’t hurt in heaven and we have a burrito here for you…
Oh and yeah, John started talking about food of all horrible things. I wasn’t hungry until he mentioned his increasing desire for a Philly cheesesteak. So now I had to contend with pain as well as hunger.
Miles ten through the end were about the same, me warding off the death angel and wondering what I was going to eat for lunch. You know, if I lived to see the end of this race. And where the crap is mile marker twelve? The eleventh mile seemed to go on forever and ever; I didn’t know whether to kiss mile marker twelve or puke on it. I chose to just soldier on.
I let John get about a minute ahead of me at this point. We were each on our own. There was no amount of encouragement I could get from him or anyone else that was going to help me; I had to finish this thing myself.
Crossing the finish line was a bit anticlimactic. I didn’t have Jonathan there to root for me and most of the other runners had finished long before and gone home. But I was happy to have completed it, regardless of the fact that I probably walked a mile or so of the race. I can’t let that fact take away the joy of the accomplishment. However, I know me all too well and it will take some time for me to feel that way, unfortunately.
I filled out my little card with my time on it (2 hours, 47 minutes and 58 seconds) and looped my finisher’s medal around my neck. John and I took some pictures and that was pretty much it.
I am really proud of my run today, especially considering I’ve only been running about six months. If you told me a year ago that I’d be running a half marathon today, I’d say you were crazy or lying. Or possibly both. But I did do it and I’m exceedingly happy. I hope that this was the first of many successful long-distance races.
Note: If you'd like to see pictures from this race and some of my other ones, just click on the title...it'll direct you to the album I've posted on facebook. It's way easier than trying to post the pics here.
22 November 2009
29 January 2009
hands
Boggess Video was the cool (and only) place to rent movies in Russellville back in BETA's glory days. In fact, I remember they still had to carry them long into the reign of VHS. It wasn't all that much different from the store depicted in the movie Clerks, except that Dante and Randal weren't there to insult customers or play hockey on the roof. The one thing I do clearly remember about going to Boggess was always passing by the aisle that had the Faces of Death series. I had this unexplained, primal urge to watch them, but I was too cowardly to so much as pick up one of those empty cardboard boxes, much less sit through hours of car accidents and animal cruelty. Twenty years have passed and I doubt much has changed. Earlier this week, I stumbled upon a documentary about Saddam Hussein on the NatGeo channel and I was curious enough to switch it on for some background noise while I got ready for bed.
I'm sure it was far less disturbing than Faces of Death, but it was enough to make me start thinking about the kind of world so many people live in and how my way of life in is such stark contrast to that of most others. I've spent the past couple of days pondering this and it's rather humbling, I must say.
I consider myself to be quite ordinary. Definitely not dull or lacking in talent or personality, just a 28 year-old woman trying to survive and leave some sort of positive mark on this world. But when you think about it, I live an extraordinary life. Some may call it chance or luck, I am more inclined to call it a blessing by a God who loves me more than I could ever understand.
Even with my contacts out and my mind still mulling over the day's events, I was more than a bit freaked out when they showed a man getting his hand cut off for speaking out against Saddam Hussein. As I continuted to watch, both captivated and repulsed, I was grateful that they froze the grainy videos of executions just short of a trigger being pulled or a sword coming down.
In the days since, I've been paying more attention to the routine things that I do and I'm finding them to be increasingly significant the more I think about it.
People in countries worldwide have the right to vote, but not all are women. Few of these women had the opportunity to vote for a woman, as I did. Not only can I vote, but I can openly support or oppose any candidate for any reason. I admit, I would get frustrated when I heard more about Sarah Palin's wardrobe than her voting record, but that's just part of living in a free country.
People everywhere go to work every day, but few have the choices in a career that I do and even fewer have access to my level of education. Part of me takes pride in doing what is generally considered to be a man's job, and doing it as well as or better than most.
People everywhere marry every day, but few have parents and in-laws who are living examples of what a loving marriage should be. I credit the strength of our families for much of our success in our six-going-on-seven years.
I worship the god of my choice, the God my conscience guides me to and I am persecuted by no one.
I can eat any food I want, any time I want.
I could fill dozens of blog entries about how richly I am blessed, but one will have to suffice for now.
When it comes down to it, I live like royalty. I doubt many princesses have my work-worn hands or clip grocery coupons, but the contrast between my lifestyle and that of the overwhelming majority of the world is undeniable. At times it makes me feel guilty because I know I am no more or less deserving than anyone else, but all I can do is make the best of whatever situation I am presented with.
Play the hand you are dealt.
Easy for me to say.
I'm sure it was far less disturbing than Faces of Death, but it was enough to make me start thinking about the kind of world so many people live in and how my way of life in is such stark contrast to that of most others. I've spent the past couple of days pondering this and it's rather humbling, I must say.
I consider myself to be quite ordinary. Definitely not dull or lacking in talent or personality, just a 28 year-old woman trying to survive and leave some sort of positive mark on this world. But when you think about it, I live an extraordinary life. Some may call it chance or luck, I am more inclined to call it a blessing by a God who loves me more than I could ever understand.
Even with my contacts out and my mind still mulling over the day's events, I was more than a bit freaked out when they showed a man getting his hand cut off for speaking out against Saddam Hussein. As I continuted to watch, both captivated and repulsed, I was grateful that they froze the grainy videos of executions just short of a trigger being pulled or a sword coming down.
In the days since, I've been paying more attention to the routine things that I do and I'm finding them to be increasingly significant the more I think about it.
People in countries worldwide have the right to vote, but not all are women. Few of these women had the opportunity to vote for a woman, as I did. Not only can I vote, but I can openly support or oppose any candidate for any reason. I admit, I would get frustrated when I heard more about Sarah Palin's wardrobe than her voting record, but that's just part of living in a free country.
People everywhere go to work every day, but few have the choices in a career that I do and even fewer have access to my level of education. Part of me takes pride in doing what is generally considered to be a man's job, and doing it as well as or better than most.
People everywhere marry every day, but few have parents and in-laws who are living examples of what a loving marriage should be. I credit the strength of our families for much of our success in our six-going-on-seven years.
I worship the god of my choice, the God my conscience guides me to and I am persecuted by no one.
I can eat any food I want, any time I want.
I could fill dozens of blog entries about how richly I am blessed, but one will have to suffice for now.
When it comes down to it, I live like royalty. I doubt many princesses have my work-worn hands or clip grocery coupons, but the contrast between my lifestyle and that of the overwhelming majority of the world is undeniable. At times it makes me feel guilty because I know I am no more or less deserving than anyone else, but all I can do is make the best of whatever situation I am presented with.
Play the hand you are dealt.
Easy for me to say.
28 October 2008
bum toe thoughts
So I've got a bum toe, you see. It's gotta stay elevated for the rest of the day which means I'm stuck here on the couch with only the internet and my TiVo full of nothing to keep me occupied. It's been some time since I've posted, but the stresses of work and life tend to diminish my desire to write. I like to use my blog for actually writing something thoughtful or insightful, not for jotting down every random thought that pops into my head the way so many bloggers do. I even go so far as to bookmark an online thesaurus so I spell my four-dollar words right and sound slightly more intelligent than I actually am. Nerd, nerd, I know.
Today, however, is not a dictionary.com day. It's more of a "I-really-need-to-kill-some-time" day, so don't be expecting too much depth in today's post. Here's what's on my mind.
When I was a kid, I had a bad experience with a doctor who was going to remove something out of my left heel. She held up a needle and said in her horrible-sounding accent, "Ziss is going to hurt like craaaaazy!!" The pain was horrendous and the moment was burned into my memory. So when I had to have some work done on my toe this morning, I couldn't escape the twenty-year old memory of that old bat and the big needle. I knew that this procedure was simple and truly wouldn't be that bad, but it wasn't enough to allow me a decent night's sleep or enable me to stay calm in the chair. Suffice it to say I was embarassed. I had a good childhood I suppose, but we all have our traumatic moments that affect us as adults. I should probably consider myself lucky that this was pretty much it.
Today, however, is not a dictionary.com day. It's more of a "I-really-need-to-kill-some-time" day, so don't be expecting too much depth in today's post. Here's what's on my mind.
When I was a kid, I had a bad experience with a doctor who was going to remove something out of my left heel. She held up a needle and said in her horrible-sounding accent, "Ziss is going to hurt like craaaaazy!!" The pain was horrendous and the moment was burned into my memory. So when I had to have some work done on my toe this morning, I couldn't escape the twenty-year old memory of that old bat and the big needle. I knew that this procedure was simple and truly wouldn't be that bad, but it wasn't enough to allow me a decent night's sleep or enable me to stay calm in the chair. Suffice it to say I was embarassed. I had a good childhood I suppose, but we all have our traumatic moments that affect us as adults. I should probably consider myself lucky that this was pretty much it.
I'm kinda interested to know what it looks like under the bandages.
I went to my high school reunion a couple of weeks ago. I've been in Texas for six years now so it was really shocking to walk into that room and see forty people I haven't seen in a decade. I was really curious about how it was all going to go down. Would people stay with their little cliques or branch out and talk to others? Would I be shocked at how some people looked? Would there be large amounts of alcohol resulting in much tomfoolery? The answers would all be yes. I was pleasantly surprised how the majority of folks mixed and mingled with the people outside our social circle. I probably spoke more to some people in one evening than I did in all four years of high school. I have to give the class of '98 some credit, we looked pretty good as a whole! Most of us looked the same or better, there were only a couple that I did a double take on. I imagine most reunions are like that. And of course, the presence of a keg added a little "flair" to the evening. I made it home at half past one in the morning smelling like vodka and red bull thanks to a tipsy friend who couldn't keep a firm enough grip on his cup. All in all, I had a blast with my best friend, Holly and my former classmates.
Look good, have a job. The keys to success at your high school reunion. Holly and I definitely did well.
I hate daytime television. I have dozens of channels and the only thing I can tolerate at the moment is 'The Bonnie Hunt Show" on mute. It's all either "who my baby daddy?" talk shows or Dora the Explorer. There's nothing good on the TiVo and I can't go out and rent anything. I have Iron Man on DVD but Jonathan will get mad if I watch it without him. So here I sit. Numb toe plopped up on two pillows, cat snoozing next to me, cell phone likely out of rollover minutes.
Bo-ring.
That is, until the anesthetic starts wearing off and I begin to realize that this guy just hacked off a third of my toenail. That'll be interesting.
Bo-ring.
That is, until the anesthetic starts wearing off and I begin to realize that this guy just hacked off a third of my toenail. That'll be interesting.
Hey, cat. Why don't you make yourself useful and go get me a burrito or something? Or you can just lay there.
20 September 2008
babe I'm leavin...
You all will just have to do without me for the next little bit. I'm off to Orlando on Monday for my company's annual manager's meeting. I've been packing, doing all the required paperwork, and shopping for new clothes that don't have ring-around-the-collar or burn holes in them. But mostly I've been wasting vast amounts of my free time on Facebook.
I didn't mean to join, I was just curious about it. The nice thing is, it allows you to make your page private, so only people you authorize can view it. That was my problem, the only way I could see if I liked it was to join. So I did. Turns out, there were several of my cousins on there that I don't get to talk to often as well as some fraternity sisters and high school friends I had lost touch with.
Oh, fear not my darlings. I will not abandon this blog you all adore so. I enjoy getting to write (when I actually have an intelligent idea) and quite frankly, facebook is sorta cluttered. People have all kinds of clip art, newsreels, trivia, and polls that make who they are and what they're doing difficult to find. I get great satisfaction in simply writing about what I know and posting pictures from my life. Simple is good.
But anyway. I'll try not to get into any trouble next week. And I promise to post plenty of pictures if I do.
I didn't mean to join, I was just curious about it. The nice thing is, it allows you to make your page private, so only people you authorize can view it. That was my problem, the only way I could see if I liked it was to join. So I did. Turns out, there were several of my cousins on there that I don't get to talk to often as well as some fraternity sisters and high school friends I had lost touch with.
Oh, fear not my darlings. I will not abandon this blog you all adore so. I enjoy getting to write (when I actually have an intelligent idea) and quite frankly, facebook is sorta cluttered. People have all kinds of clip art, newsreels, trivia, and polls that make who they are and what they're doing difficult to find. I get great satisfaction in simply writing about what I know and posting pictures from my life. Simple is good.
But anyway. I'll try not to get into any trouble next week. And I promise to post plenty of pictures if I do.
06 September 2008
floor hell
I'm wicked proud of my man. He spent the past two summers ripping up that uber-funky green carpet out of our house and installing the most beautiful hardwood floor. I don't have many "before" photos to post (they're all on my old computer which is currently in a coma) so you'll have to just scroll through my old posts or just use your imagination.
Last summer we did the living room, dining room, foyer, and hallway. The foyer wasn't carpet. It was bright white ceramic bathroom tile. Gag. Notice the curtains in the dining room, or should I say "curtain". The cat managed to tear most of it down for us. I suppose it was his way of protesting the use of old-lady lacy crap in our house. Can't say I disagree.
The bedroom was such a pain. The bed is way too big and heavy to disassemble and move out of the room, so we had to shift it around during the whole process. The results were worth all the shoving and glue-scrubbing and bickering. He did not appreciate how I kept sneaking out when he wasn't looking to watch the Olympics.
We also have a room that we really didn't use much until we finished the floor. This room is begging for a pool table, but I doubt we'll ever get one. I spent almost $150 (ouch!) on these curtains and the rod, so an additional five grand for something we'll use twice a year is not too likely. But we can still dream.
All in all, the house looks great, a huge difference from what it looked like when we bought it four years ago. My man and I did purty good, if I do say so myself. Drop me some comments and let me know what you think!
19 August 2008
integers
Tomorrow marks ten years to the day that Jonathan and I first met. We always get snickers and quotes from "American Pie" when I mention that we met during band camp. Yeah, yeah, "this one time...at band camp..." we've heard it all. Of course it doesn't help matters that I'm a redhead.
Ten years is a long time, people. That's more than a third of my life.
I'm really proud of us. Both my folks and my in-laws have been happily married since 1971. There are very few divorces in our families and I have to give them all some credit in our success. I don't know if there's really any secret or formula to a happy marriage. It's only been six years (not all that much longer than J-Lo and whatshisface) so I doubt that I am one to be giving out advice. I will say that it helps tremendously pick the sort of person that I did.
Jonathan is pretty much my opposite. I remarked to him the other day that we really didn't have all that much in common. At least we could agree on that. He's one of those analytical types who can sit in front of CNBC for hours, watching that ticker stream by. The price of gold and platinum are the only things on that channel I have much use for. He can sit in a deer stand at 5am, completely motionless, patiently waiting for that monster buck he's dreaming of. I just want the jerky and summer sausage. I am constantly finding little slips of paper with amoritazation formulas and stock picks all over them. Those notes could be in Greek, for all the sense they make to me.
But at the end of the day, I'm glad he's not too much like me. I can be quite a handful to deal with, and a huge pain to live with, so I try to cherish the differences.
I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for choosing that little redheaded flag girl you met at that party on Olive Street. As different as we may be, I wouldn't have you any other way.
Ten years is a long time, people. That's more than a third of my life.
I'm really proud of us. Both my folks and my in-laws have been happily married since 1971. There are very few divorces in our families and I have to give them all some credit in our success. I don't know if there's really any secret or formula to a happy marriage. It's only been six years (not all that much longer than J-Lo and whatshisface) so I doubt that I am one to be giving out advice. I will say that it helps tremendously pick the sort of person that I did.
Jonathan is pretty much my opposite. I remarked to him the other day that we really didn't have all that much in common. At least we could agree on that. He's one of those analytical types who can sit in front of CNBC for hours, watching that ticker stream by. The price of gold and platinum are the only things on that channel I have much use for. He can sit in a deer stand at 5am, completely motionless, patiently waiting for that monster buck he's dreaming of. I just want the jerky and summer sausage. I am constantly finding little slips of paper with amoritazation formulas and stock picks all over them. Those notes could be in Greek, for all the sense they make to me.
But at the end of the day, I'm glad he's not too much like me. I can be quite a handful to deal with, and a huge pain to live with, so I try to cherish the differences.
I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for choosing that little redheaded flag girl you met at that party on Olive Street. As different as we may be, I wouldn't have you any other way.
10 August 2008
a tale of two moles
Last month, while Jonathan and I were on vacation in Kentucky, I allowed my mother to have some professional portraits taken of my sister and I. This sort of nonsense is not something I would normally concede to, but I figured we weren't going to be getting better looking as the years pass, so we should "strike while the iron is hot". This particular guy had taken some of my cousins and the results were fantastic, so my sissy and I fluffed our hair, pulled together some coordinating outfits, and went.
It wasn't the photographs that surprised me. It was my reaction to them that caught me off guard. I felt like I looked too good.
At first, I just assumed it was my overly self-critical nature that caused my inital dissatisfaction but in reality, it was quite the opposite. When I looked at myself in the pictures, I saw myself, just minus all my freckles and moles that have become part of who I am. I can say with much certainty that there are very few adult redheaded women who have flawless, porcelain-like skin. Freckles are part of the package. I also have two moles on my right cheek and chin which were noticeably absent in the pictures. When I was an art student, I always included them in all of my self-portraits; I guess I felt that leaving them out would be lying in a way.
As these feelings came over me regarding these photographs, I started to feel something else...pride. I thought about how I would have reacted to these pictures ten years ago and the difference is striking.
1998: OMG...my ears are so goofy. They are way too small and too low on my head. (My husband would later refer to them as "Shrek" ears.)
2008: OMG...I have the same ears as Tony Romo. Sweet. (In case you are a hermit or not from Texas, Tony Romo is the QB for the Dallas Cowboys and is super hot.)
1998: Ugh, I am so pale.
2008: Redheads look skanky with tans. It's just not natural. When it comes time to get an IV or have blood drawn, I say a little "amen" for the big blue veins puffing out of my little white arm.
1998: No one will ever love me if I don't get some boobs.
2008: I prefer quality over quantity. And sleeping on my stomach if I so choose.
I could go on and on like this. In spite of my loving mother's best efforts, I just felt unbelievably insecure about myself when I was a teenager. Of course, so did everyone else. I probably felt as badly as the girl who laughed and pointed at me in the gym locker room in junior high or the one who announced to the class that I was ugly. Coming of age in the 1990s was no easy task; self-loathing seemed to be part of our lives, just like watching 90210 or reading Seventeen magazine. Even now, I still grapple with some of the old criticisms and body issues. I no longer feel that my value in the world is in any way connected with my bra size, although I wish I fit into certain pieces of clothing a little better. I always seem to show a lot of gum when I smile, but I try to see it the way my husband does, as something imperfect but beautiful.
I doubt I am going to ask the photographer to change the touch-ups on the photos. I still look like me and it's honestly not enough of a deal to ask him to give me back my two moles and two hundred freckles. He's a photographer, not a plastic surgeon. Just the fact that I saw an idealized version of myself and prefering reality instead was such an important moment for me. It's a feeling that I will be able to keep with me and can't be blotted out so easily.
It wasn't the photographs that surprised me. It was my reaction to them that caught me off guard. I felt like I looked too good.
At first, I just assumed it was my overly self-critical nature that caused my inital dissatisfaction but in reality, it was quite the opposite. When I looked at myself in the pictures, I saw myself, just minus all my freckles and moles that have become part of who I am. I can say with much certainty that there are very few adult redheaded women who have flawless, porcelain-like skin. Freckles are part of the package. I also have two moles on my right cheek and chin which were noticeably absent in the pictures. When I was an art student, I always included them in all of my self-portraits; I guess I felt that leaving them out would be lying in a way.
As these feelings came over me regarding these photographs, I started to feel something else...pride. I thought about how I would have reacted to these pictures ten years ago and the difference is striking.
1998: OMG...my ears are so goofy. They are way too small and too low on my head. (My husband would later refer to them as "Shrek" ears.)
2008: OMG...I have the same ears as Tony Romo. Sweet. (In case you are a hermit or not from Texas, Tony Romo is the QB for the Dallas Cowboys and is super hot.)
1998: Ugh, I am so pale.
2008: Redheads look skanky with tans. It's just not natural. When it comes time to get an IV or have blood drawn, I say a little "amen" for the big blue veins puffing out of my little white arm.
1998: No one will ever love me if I don't get some boobs.
2008: I prefer quality over quantity. And sleeping on my stomach if I so choose.
I could go on and on like this. In spite of my loving mother's best efforts, I just felt unbelievably insecure about myself when I was a teenager. Of course, so did everyone else. I probably felt as badly as the girl who laughed and pointed at me in the gym locker room in junior high or the one who announced to the class that I was ugly. Coming of age in the 1990s was no easy task; self-loathing seemed to be part of our lives, just like watching 90210 or reading Seventeen magazine. Even now, I still grapple with some of the old criticisms and body issues. I no longer feel that my value in the world is in any way connected with my bra size, although I wish I fit into certain pieces of clothing a little better. I always seem to show a lot of gum when I smile, but I try to see it the way my husband does, as something imperfect but beautiful.
I doubt I am going to ask the photographer to change the touch-ups on the photos. I still look like me and it's honestly not enough of a deal to ask him to give me back my two moles and two hundred freckles. He's a photographer, not a plastic surgeon. Just the fact that I saw an idealized version of myself and prefering reality instead was such an important moment for me. It's a feeling that I will be able to keep with me and can't be blotted out so easily.
28 July 2008
the world's worst iPod playlist
Sometimes I feel the urge to just troll around on the internet, looking for anything remotely interesting that does not require upgrading my software or a credit card number. Blogspot.com allows you to check out random blog sites, with interesting results. Tons of people on here post pictures of their kids (not everyone is so lucky to have a cat like me), others are trying to sell whatever crap happens to be collecting dust in their basement. The right wing nut jobs and the yellow dog democrats just make me tired. Truly cool pages that hold my attention are hard to come by. Then I found a lovely young lady from Texas who made me smile. After a long day at work looking at numbers and percentages and treading carefully through the house, trying to avoid the mess Jonathan is making (it's hardwood floor time again) it was a pleasant surprise. She appreciates good spellers and hates tomatoes, so I give her an A. And she posted a list of lame songs she's not ashamed to love.
Be still my heart.
So here is my mix tape of music that makes me terribly uncool:
1. "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel. I dunno how I first discovered this song, or how I procured a copy of it, but I remember being on long drives to my grandparents' house and playing it over and over and over again, never tiring of it. I think my record was 27 times nonstop. I'm still that way, cranking it up in the shop whenever it comes on. Much to the chagrin of my employees.
2. Pretty much anything by Phil Collins. When I was in college, I got busted listening to his greatest hits album in my woodworking studio by some older, cooler art students. They stopped dead at the doorway, looked at each other, and silently walked away. Oh well, I have a real job now and they're probably still in funky apartments living off vodka and ramen noodles.
3. My personal trainer assured me that I was the only person at 24 Hour Fitness who worked out to ABBA. "Dancing Queen" is a personal favorite of one of a straight male friend of mine (crazy, I know) and it kinda grew on me.
4. "Something to Believe In" by Poison. I dig the ballads by the 80's hair bands. Honorable mentions in this category go to Damn Yankees' "High Enough" (that's my boy Tommy Shaw again) and Mr. Big's "To Be With You".
5. "Glory of Love" by Peter Cetera. Uber-cheesy. Makes me want to go rent The Karate Kid, Part II.
Pretty terrible, huh? I could go on and on, but my bedtime and pride have stopped me. And thanks to http://tracianne.com/ for inspiring me to come out of the closet with my iPod playlist.
P.S. No, Jonathan. There are no Styx songs on this list. The only song of theirs you like is Mr. Roboto and nobody likes that one. Not even Styx. But I still love you, babe.
Be still my heart.
So here is my mix tape of music that makes me terribly uncool:
1. "Uptown Girl" by Billy Joel. I dunno how I first discovered this song, or how I procured a copy of it, but I remember being on long drives to my grandparents' house and playing it over and over and over again, never tiring of it. I think my record was 27 times nonstop. I'm still that way, cranking it up in the shop whenever it comes on. Much to the chagrin of my employees.
2. Pretty much anything by Phil Collins. When I was in college, I got busted listening to his greatest hits album in my woodworking studio by some older, cooler art students. They stopped dead at the doorway, looked at each other, and silently walked away. Oh well, I have a real job now and they're probably still in funky apartments living off vodka and ramen noodles.
3. My personal trainer assured me that I was the only person at 24 Hour Fitness who worked out to ABBA. "Dancing Queen" is a personal favorite of one of a straight male friend of mine (crazy, I know) and it kinda grew on me.
4. "Something to Believe In" by Poison. I dig the ballads by the 80's hair bands. Honorable mentions in this category go to Damn Yankees' "High Enough" (that's my boy Tommy Shaw again) and Mr. Big's "To Be With You".
5. "Glory of Love" by Peter Cetera. Uber-cheesy. Makes me want to go rent The Karate Kid, Part II.
Pretty terrible, huh? I could go on and on, but my bedtime and pride have stopped me. And thanks to http://tracianne.com/ for inspiring me to come out of the closet with my iPod playlist.
P.S. No, Jonathan. There are no Styx songs on this list. The only song of theirs you like is Mr. Roboto and nobody likes that one. Not even Styx. But I still love you, babe.
07 July 2008
boot scootin'
I think it was in the seventh grade or so when I got my first pair of cowboy boots. They were super-cool for 1993, white (fake I'm sure) leather with some sort of fringe on the sides. I don't exactly recall, but I most likely begged my mother for them so that I could wear them when we went to Libby's for some live music and two-steppin'.
Note: I couldn't for the life of me remember the name of that place. Kept wanting to call it "Dollies", but that was a strip club just across the Tennessee line where several people I knew acquired employment. Anyone who was at Murray State during my tenure knows that place was legendary. But anyhoo..
I always had a blast when my folks would take us out to Libby's on Saturday nights. We'd have some food and we'd watch the bands play just a few yards from the stage. We were the priviledged few who sat in the Beaver booth.
Oh, you heard me. The Beaver booth. My mom was a sales rep for the local country radio station, The Beaver 101 FM. I don't think I knew that the word beaver was a double entendre until I was in high school. Folks down here in Texas think it's a hoot whenever I talk about it. Especially their annual remote broadcasts called The Show Us Your Beaver Summer. That one always gets a big laugh.
So, yeah, we'd all sit in the Beaver booth and listen to the sub-par acts do their covers of Garth Brooks, Patsy Cline, and Alabama songs. Saturday night was the good night. Fridays were open mike, so anyone with a sequined jacket and a microphone could get up there and belt out, "These Boots are Made for Walkin".
That's pretty much what I think of when I think of my first boots. I bought my second pair today, after weeks of soul-searching and trying to figure out if I wear a 6-C or a 7-B. By the way, thanks mom. I can credit your genetics for my having to search high and low for a boot that is wide enough to accomodate my goofy pinkie toe knuckle.
Oh, these bad boys are sweeeeet. You can't tell from the picture, but the crocidile skin on the front is actually a greenish color, not brown. And I dig the little copper studs all around it. They make me feel like a real Texan. Yee-haw. Definitely an upgrade from 15 years ago.
26 June 2008
opportunity rocks
Getting a second chance at something is just a beautiful thing. The rock and roll gods smiled down upon me once again; Scotty and I scored some tickets to Styx and Boston for Tuesday night. I made sure to snap an obnoxious amount of pictures, trying to make up for the ones I didn't take the weekend before.
Right in front of the railing? Are you kidding me? I resigned myself to my fate and attempted to eat the sub-par chicken strips I paid the equivalent of my 401K for. Scotty disappears, hell-bent on taking care of this unfavorable situation. An usher approaches me ten minutes later and says, "Ma'am, we have new seats for you and your husband if you'd follow me."
Wait, husband? I don't even want to know what he did to get these (way, way better) seats at the front of the balcony. Later he told me he pitched a fit at the front desk and said he wanted to know how he was supposed to explain these seats to his old lady. Whatever. I was just grateful, for the second time in as many weeks, that I didn't have to break the law to get a better view of Tommy Shaw and whoever else was left of Styx.
Styx was just incredible. I was wishing I was down front again like I was last time, but that would have set me back almost two hundred bucks. The sound was great and they put on a really polished, seamless show. I got to hear some songs that I already loved like "Come Sail Away" and hear previously unknown ones like "Lorelei" and "Miss America" that are now new favorites.
Is it strange that I think Tommy Shaw is kinda hot? You know, for 54? He is really short, yeah, and his cheeks are kinda poochy like he just had a root canal, but otherwise? Could I have a show of hands, please? No takers? Okay. On to Boston.
Boston's lead singer commited suicide about a year or so ago and now they have this new guy they found on Myspace that was working at a Home Depot. I thought they sounded great (I made sure to get a video of "Amanda") but there was one hurdle I just couldn't get over, even from the balcony.
Yes, Jonathan was still out of town and yes, he was fine with me having another platonic date with Scotty. Love that man o' mine.
At the Doobies concert, we paid ten bucks a pop and ended up in the sixth row. This time we paid sixty and this was our view.
Right in front of the railing? Are you kidding me? I resigned myself to my fate and attempted to eat the sub-par chicken strips I paid the equivalent of my 401K for. Scotty disappears, hell-bent on taking care of this unfavorable situation. An usher approaches me ten minutes later and says, "Ma'am, we have new seats for you and your husband if you'd follow me."
Wait, husband? I don't even want to know what he did to get these (way, way better) seats at the front of the balcony. Later he told me he pitched a fit at the front desk and said he wanted to know how he was supposed to explain these seats to his old lady. Whatever. I was just grateful, for the second time in as many weeks, that I didn't have to break the law to get a better view of Tommy Shaw and whoever else was left of Styx.
Styx was just incredible. I was wishing I was down front again like I was last time, but that would have set me back almost two hundred bucks. The sound was great and they put on a really polished, seamless show. I got to hear some songs that I already loved like "Come Sail Away" and hear previously unknown ones like "Lorelei" and "Miss America" that are now new favorites.
Is it strange that I think Tommy Shaw is kinda hot? You know, for 54? He is really short, yeah, and his cheeks are kinda poochy like he just had a root canal, but otherwise? Could I have a show of hands, please? No takers? Okay. On to Boston.
Boston's lead singer commited suicide about a year or so ago and now they have this new guy they found on Myspace that was working at a Home Depot. I thought they sounded great (I made sure to get a video of "Amanda") but there was one hurdle I just couldn't get over, even from the balcony.
Dude. What's with the black pants and bright white Nikes? They look like the ones my grandmother wears when she goes for a walk, not the ensemble you put on when you're about to perform with one of the greatest rock bands ever. It drove me nuts the entire evening. They were great otherwise. I didn't think they had the chemistry with each other and the audience that Styx had, but I suppose that is to be expected given the situation. All in all, a fabulous evening with amazing music, crappy food, and a good friend.
And I brought my all-important camera so I can show 80 blurry photos to people who weren't there and couldn't care less. Such as Jonathan, who made it home safe and sound last night. If anyone does want to see the blurry videos I took, they will be on YouTube (username: amandathejeweler) here in the next couple of days.
Journey will be putting on a show here in July...I'm already preparing myself.
21 June 2008
the bachelorette
Well, I'm single again. Sort of. Jonathan has been on a tour with a wind ensemble playing different venues around the southeast while I stayed home, being a slave to my career and taking care of our co-dependent cat. His departure last week reminded me of the fact that I'm just not all that clingy or needy when it comes to relationships.
There were no tears the day he left or fear that some unforseen tragedy would occur, just some "I love yous" before we parted in different directions.
Part of me feels sort of guilty for enjoying myself whenever he goes out of town. He usually drives home to visit his folks for a week around Thanksgiving and again during Christmas, so this is not the first time we've been separated. He leaves and I feel like the world is my oyster. I'm not closing down any bars or getting into trouble mind you, I just get to watch my Sopranos reruns in peace instead of having to sit through Man vs Wild and watch Bear Grylls drink his own pee. There are no three-hour negotiations on what we are having for dinner (this usually results in a trip to Sonic or toasted cheese sandwiches), I can have all the Waffle House and Popeye's Chicken my cholesterol can handle. I can troll around on YouTube without having to hand over the laptop so he can check his stock portfolio or the weather on his hunting lease.
It's the little things like this that I enjoy so. But sometimes I think that I am too independent. He tends to make his daily phone call when I am at a friend's house or in the middle of a good movie, so I sort of blow him off. My part of our conversations mainly consists of "yeah", "uh-huh", "work sucks", "love you babe", and "talk to you later". Poor guy, he deserves better. I wonder if he would rather me whine about when he's coming home instead of telling him it's okay to stop and see his folks for a day or two on his way back. It's not that I don't need him or miss having him around, I just ache for peace and quiet whenever I can get it. I'm kind of the same way at work.
The radio is always blaring classic rock or 80's heavy metal in the shop and people think it's so strange that I turn off the music when I'm working alone. In addition to Def Leppard, there is the constant buzz of the ultrasonic cleaners, the hum of the blower at the polishing station, the same 20 questions being asked to me over and over again, and the conversation amongst my employees regarding the episode of Family Guy they all watched last night. I swear if there were no South Park, Robot Chicken, Aquateen Hunger Force, or Family Guy, no one in that shop would have a word to say to each other.
I guess I'm just searching for some inner peace. I am sometimes envious of my single friends, the way they just go through life without having to consult anyone else about what to eat, what to do, or where to go. But ultimately, for someone like me who gets easily bored and lonely, this way of life is really only good for a few days. Usually by the time he gets back, I've worked all my wild oats out of my system and I'm ready to be wife-y again.
However today is not that day. It is Saturday, I am off work, and I shall life my life to the absolute fullest. There will be laundry and dishes washed, but only because I have neither socks to wear nor spoons to eat my Coco Puffs with. There will be cuddle time with baby kitty and the Sopranos episode where Carmela gets fed up with Tony's affairs and kicks him out. Oh, that's a good one. No sitting through Band of Brothers or Deadliest Catch, no trip to Bass Pro Shop.
Love and miss you honey, but you can take your time coming home. ;)
There were no tears the day he left or fear that some unforseen tragedy would occur, just some "I love yous" before we parted in different directions.
Part of me feels sort of guilty for enjoying myself whenever he goes out of town. He usually drives home to visit his folks for a week around Thanksgiving and again during Christmas, so this is not the first time we've been separated. He leaves and I feel like the world is my oyster. I'm not closing down any bars or getting into trouble mind you, I just get to watch my Sopranos reruns in peace instead of having to sit through Man vs Wild and watch Bear Grylls drink his own pee. There are no three-hour negotiations on what we are having for dinner (this usually results in a trip to Sonic or toasted cheese sandwiches), I can have all the Waffle House and Popeye's Chicken my cholesterol can handle. I can troll around on YouTube without having to hand over the laptop so he can check his stock portfolio or the weather on his hunting lease.
It's the little things like this that I enjoy so. But sometimes I think that I am too independent. He tends to make his daily phone call when I am at a friend's house or in the middle of a good movie, so I sort of blow him off. My part of our conversations mainly consists of "yeah", "uh-huh", "work sucks", "love you babe", and "talk to you later". Poor guy, he deserves better. I wonder if he would rather me whine about when he's coming home instead of telling him it's okay to stop and see his folks for a day or two on his way back. It's not that I don't need him or miss having him around, I just ache for peace and quiet whenever I can get it. I'm kind of the same way at work.
The radio is always blaring classic rock or 80's heavy metal in the shop and people think it's so strange that I turn off the music when I'm working alone. In addition to Def Leppard, there is the constant buzz of the ultrasonic cleaners, the hum of the blower at the polishing station, the same 20 questions being asked to me over and over again, and the conversation amongst my employees regarding the episode of Family Guy they all watched last night. I swear if there were no South Park, Robot Chicken, Aquateen Hunger Force, or Family Guy, no one in that shop would have a word to say to each other.
I guess I'm just searching for some inner peace. I am sometimes envious of my single friends, the way they just go through life without having to consult anyone else about what to eat, what to do, or where to go. But ultimately, for someone like me who gets easily bored and lonely, this way of life is really only good for a few days. Usually by the time he gets back, I've worked all my wild oats out of my system and I'm ready to be wife-y again.
However today is not that day. It is Saturday, I am off work, and I shall life my life to the absolute fullest. There will be laundry and dishes washed, but only because I have neither socks to wear nor spoons to eat my Coco Puffs with. There will be cuddle time with baby kitty and the Sopranos episode where Carmela gets fed up with Tony's affairs and kicks him out. Oh, that's a good one. No sitting through Band of Brothers or Deadliest Catch, no trip to Bass Pro Shop.
Love and miss you honey, but you can take your time coming home. ;)
16 June 2008
listen to the music
There's an old "Treehouse of Horror" episode of The Simpsons where Homer is trying to fix his toaster and manages to turn it into a time machine. He goes back to the prehistoric era and accidentally kills a mosquito, irreparably altering the outcome of the future.
Right now I'm trying to convince myself that if time travel were possible, minute changes such as these could actually change life as we know it. Had I brought my camera to the concert last night, the whole evening may have turned out just okay as opposed to the UNBELIEVABLY SUPER AWESOME OMG ARE YOU KIDDING ME experience that it ended up being. The same goes for the presence of a certain blanket and the absence of my husband.
A couple of months ago, my friend Scotty and I decided to check out a concert featuring The Doobie Brothers and Chicago on Father's Day. He was a Doobie fan, I was a Chicago fan, and general admission was ten bucks. It was a no-brainer. I was fully prepared to spend several hours sitting in the grass in 100 degree heat surrounded by hundreds of old stoners trying to resurrect 1974 with large amounts of pot.
Now Scotty is a concert expert. He's been sneaking into concerts and um, "upgrading" his seats to much better ones since he was fourteen. I sat on the lawn and wrangled with my moral values regarding this while he scoped out the arena for open seats. The problem, however, was the monstrosity of a quilt that I had brought for us to sit on. Kind of hard to sneak into the seating area when you are hauling what is the equivalent of a twin sized mattress.
But, heh heh heh...
As I folded it up to make it as tight and inconspicuous as any joint those old hippies could roll, we were approached by some guy offering to give us some extra tickets he had. I could have cared less if they were good or not, I was just relieved that I wouldn't be worried about my everlasting soul while sitting in someone else's $35.00 seat.
Dude. They were for the SIXTH ROW!!!!!! No kidding! And the show was incredible. I screamed my head off, jumped around in the aisle like a fool, and sang as loudly as I could for the whole show. Part of me wishes that Jonathan wasn't out of town then, but like Homer learned the hard way, things might have turned out differently. Had I not brought that ridiculous quilt, we probably would have already snatched some marginally better seats only to get bounced back to the lawn 20 minutes into the show. And if Ticketmaster's website hadn't incorrectly stated, "NO CAMERAS OF ANY KIND", I would have brought mine and been walking around, snapping pictures of the goofy pothead guys and the dried-up old cougars that made up about 90% of the audience. And good ole Bob from Louisiana would have given those tickets to someone who would have appreciated them less.
*Sigh*
So I have to fill this post with long, grammatically incorrect sentences and not one picture. I'm actually really upset about seeing such a great show with my buddy and having only my memories as souvenirs, which tragically fade with time. But the whole day was a super cool adventure and an unforgettable experience with no photos is better than missing out on it entirely.
That episode of The Simpsons ends with Homer finding a seemingly normal alternate reality, only people eat like frogs, zipping out their tongues to get their food. He resigns and says that this is "close enough". I suppose I should quit kicking myself for ditching the camera and agree with Homer on this one.
Right now I'm trying to convince myself that if time travel were possible, minute changes such as these could actually change life as we know it. Had I brought my camera to the concert last night, the whole evening may have turned out just okay as opposed to the UNBELIEVABLY SUPER AWESOME OMG ARE YOU KIDDING ME experience that it ended up being. The same goes for the presence of a certain blanket and the absence of my husband.
A couple of months ago, my friend Scotty and I decided to check out a concert featuring The Doobie Brothers and Chicago on Father's Day. He was a Doobie fan, I was a Chicago fan, and general admission was ten bucks. It was a no-brainer. I was fully prepared to spend several hours sitting in the grass in 100 degree heat surrounded by hundreds of old stoners trying to resurrect 1974 with large amounts of pot.
Now Scotty is a concert expert. He's been sneaking into concerts and um, "upgrading" his seats to much better ones since he was fourteen. I sat on the lawn and wrangled with my moral values regarding this while he scoped out the arena for open seats. The problem, however, was the monstrosity of a quilt that I had brought for us to sit on. Kind of hard to sneak into the seating area when you are hauling what is the equivalent of a twin sized mattress.
But, heh heh heh...
As I folded it up to make it as tight and inconspicuous as any joint those old hippies could roll, we were approached by some guy offering to give us some extra tickets he had. I could have cared less if they were good or not, I was just relieved that I wouldn't be worried about my everlasting soul while sitting in someone else's $35.00 seat.
Dude. They were for the SIXTH ROW!!!!!! No kidding! And the show was incredible. I screamed my head off, jumped around in the aisle like a fool, and sang as loudly as I could for the whole show. Part of me wishes that Jonathan wasn't out of town then, but like Homer learned the hard way, things might have turned out differently. Had I not brought that ridiculous quilt, we probably would have already snatched some marginally better seats only to get bounced back to the lawn 20 minutes into the show. And if Ticketmaster's website hadn't incorrectly stated, "NO CAMERAS OF ANY KIND", I would have brought mine and been walking around, snapping pictures of the goofy pothead guys and the dried-up old cougars that made up about 90% of the audience. And good ole Bob from Louisiana would have given those tickets to someone who would have appreciated them less.
*Sigh*
So I have to fill this post with long, grammatically incorrect sentences and not one picture. I'm actually really upset about seeing such a great show with my buddy and having only my memories as souvenirs, which tragically fade with time. But the whole day was a super cool adventure and an unforgettable experience with no photos is better than missing out on it entirely.
That episode of The Simpsons ends with Homer finding a seemingly normal alternate reality, only people eat like frogs, zipping out their tongues to get their food. He resigns and says that this is "close enough". I suppose I should quit kicking myself for ditching the camera and agree with Homer on this one.
06 June 2008
the neverending vacation slideshow continues...
Strangely enough, one of the things we enjoyed most during our trip was visiting a local macadamia nut factory. Who knew? After grazing their free sample area like it was a country buffet, we left with fifty bucks worth of flavored nuts. Fifty dollars. I didn't know we were such mac nut junkies. Oh and the blue car in the picture? A 2008 Dodge Avenger. Not recommended. My lawn mower has more horsepower.
Ok, here's where I'm gonna just give you the reader's digest version of the rest of the trip. My reasoning for this is a) there are literally about 400 more pictures in addition to the ones I've posted and this is seriously becoming a chore and b) most people don't give a rip about looking at other people's vacation pictures. Unless you're my mother and I promise I'll bring my laptop home with me in July. So here goes. i...
saw lots of waterfalls,
hiked until I wanted to die,
ate lots of sub-par food at the resort,
illegally cooked some fish on the beach,
saw some ancient ruins and rock carvings, and
shut my head in the car door (literally).
Well that just saved me about three hours. Oh, and for all those out there who were sorely disappointed that I did not post the gross video of the fish, I posted it on YouTube for your viewing pleasure. Just do a search under "amandathejeweler" and it will take you to both fishing videos.
31 May 2008
our almost-free vacation part one
I felt that just a little blurb in my last entry was not enough to describe just how freakin' awesome our trip to Hawaii was. The other bonus is that I no longer feel obligated to email pictures to everyone. So here's some of the highlights:
Our room was great but who cares? I had no desire to spend any amount of time there, but the view was pretty okay. Not exactly an "ocean view" but I spent some time spying on one of our vice presidents playing golf one morning. And a little tipsy, too.
We spent our first day there just hanging around the resort. Jonathan spent most of the day snorkeling and had a blast. It came at a heavy price however...he sunburned his back horribly. Meanwhile, I entertained myself at the beach and the pool and visited with some honu turtles that come to the beach every day.
We also went to the Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park a couple of times. The first time it was during the day and all you could see was steam coming up out of the crater of Mount Kilauea. We went again on our last night (this time to Pu'u O'o, the heart of the current eruption) and got to see the lava flowing into the ocean. We were pretty far away, but the park had set up a telescope for people to get a better look. It looked like 2 or 3 waterfalls of red molten lava pouring into the ocean creating big billows of steam when the tide came in. I'm posting some video we took, but it doesn't to it justice. Truly a moving experience I will carry with me the rest of my life.
I'm not sure if you can hear the audio, but on the video I had just asked one of the park rangers the age of the ground we were standing on. He said it was about 18 years old...ten years younger than me. Crazy. There were tons of people there that night and most of them were standing there silently, watching new earth being created before their eyes.
Fishing was second on Jonathan's Must Do list, after the volcano. We went one day with a shop manager buddy of mine. No sooner had I gotten up out of the chair, Doug sat down and reeled in a 70" spearfish. Whatever that is. Anyway. Jonathan and I were only slightly jealous but got a big kick out of seeing him get so excited about it, smoking cigarettes and calling his dad. I took some video when they pulled it from the water and didn't expect to see it get beaten to death. I would post it, but I'm sure I would hear about it from my mother so I'll spare her the lecture.
Okay, that's enough for now. The laptop is getting too warm on my lap. More later!
30 May 2008
better than Indiana Jones' comeback
You know, it took me a really long time to figure out what my blogger username/password combination was. That's what I get for going well over a year without writing in this thing. It was entertaining reading some of my old posts (and deleting some of the ones that should have never been brought into existence).
I think I should thank my old friend Stephanie from high school for inspiring me to try to write again. This afternoon was one of those days when I tooled around on YouTube, read the newspaper from my hometown, and checked out who died recently on Wikipedia. I found her blogger page and figured I should try once again to login myself.
Yes, I have attempted to break into my page on several occasions, to no avail.
I can't believe that I haven't written anything in here since February of last year. The real tragedy here is that my profile and whatnot has changed little. I added a couple of books as my favorites and deleted "exercising" from my long list of supercool hobbies (which was a lie, anyway).
Things aren't all that much different from the last time I wrote, though. Fasten your seatbelts and stow your traytables, here comes a few highlights from the last 16 months:
1. Most of that funky green carpet is gone. Jonathan did an incredible job of laying hardwood floor in the living room, dining room, and hall. I like it when the cat gets scared and starts to spin out on it when he's running.
2. Speaking of mangy creatures in my house (no, not my husband...oh you saw that one coming did ya? My many fans are so smart...) yes, we still have the cat despite the many homocidal temptations we've had. His favorite pastimes still include chewing shoelaces and plastic bags and quickly puking them up. His new thing is sharpening his claws on our mattress while we sleep. Not cool. But we still love that stupid thing.
3. I probably wrecked my car at least twice since I last wrote. So now I have a new one. Love it. Not the payments. My employees make fun of me because I am not entirely sure how many collisions I have been in. Eight or nine? Maybe?
4. Went to Cancun last year for vacation. Went to Hawaii this year. Now before you start thinking we are big high rollers, know that we went to Hawaii on my company's dime. Sweet. Turns out I'm a pretty decent manager and I won a spot on my company's yearly incentive trip. Seeing Kilouea erupting into the ocean at night was truly indescribable. The big island is half volcano, half lush green jungle sprinkled with gorgeous waterfalls.
Everything else is pretty much the same. I've gotten hooked on The Sopranos, so I watch a little less Star Trek (see? I can be cool.) I still love Vietnamese food, but I also eat at the Waffle House twice a week. Work is still work, but I'm better and a little more confident/competent at my job so my stress levels are noticably lower. So now perhaps I can stop in every once in awhile and keep my family and friends updated. And hopefully not ramble on and on about work.
Ooooo...forgot to mention I cut my finger in half right after Christmas. Oh yeah. Combine holiday stress with a dull exacto blade and you will spend half a day in the emergency room. Good times.
04 February 2007
extreme makeover: blogger edition
Unless you are one of my die-hard fans that has been around since I got fired from myspace and stumbled into the blogger community, you may not know that I have changed the look of my page...once again. I succumbed to the mounting peer pressure from blogger.com and updated my account to have all the new crap on it. Personally, I was happy with the way the site was set up (aside from being suddenly unable to post pictures) but quite frankly, I was getting tired of being bothered about it. So I switched. I was really hoping for some new templates so I could alter the layout of my page whenever the mood struck me, but no dice.
It's kinda like going from BETA to VHS...not as thrilling as one might think.
Now that I think about it, I've enjoyed shaking up the fung shui since I was a kid. Just about the only time I'd really give my bedroom a good cleaning was whenever I'd rearrange the furniture. This semi-annual event usually took up the better part of a Saturday and gave me a strange sort of high that lasted for a couple of days. I would wake up the morning after and be mildly confused for a few moments as I processed my new environment. Some kids did weed, others chugged beer, I got my jollies from moving furniture and scratching the crap out of the hardwood floors.
These days my furniture is much heavier, much more plentiful, and somewhat more color-coordinated (the olive green couches on the putt-putt green carpet being the exception). The day I moved the hide-a-bed-piece-a-junk into the next room is not one I wish to relive anytime soon.
Pushing my mouse around isn't quite as cumbersome as hauling around a heavy sofa, but I'll probably be just as frustrated once I start trying to tinker with the HTML codes while still using dialup. So expect to see this page change along with my mood.
Ha, good luck to ya.
It's kinda like going from BETA to VHS...not as thrilling as one might think.
Now that I think about it, I've enjoyed shaking up the fung shui since I was a kid. Just about the only time I'd really give my bedroom a good cleaning was whenever I'd rearrange the furniture. This semi-annual event usually took up the better part of a Saturday and gave me a strange sort of high that lasted for a couple of days. I would wake up the morning after and be mildly confused for a few moments as I processed my new environment. Some kids did weed, others chugged beer, I got my jollies from moving furniture and scratching the crap out of the hardwood floors.
These days my furniture is much heavier, much more plentiful, and somewhat more color-coordinated (the olive green couches on the putt-putt green carpet being the exception). The day I moved the hide-a-bed-piece-a-junk into the next room is not one I wish to relive anytime soon.
Pushing my mouse around isn't quite as cumbersome as hauling around a heavy sofa, but I'll probably be just as frustrated once I start trying to tinker with the HTML codes while still using dialup. So expect to see this page change along with my mood.
Ha, good luck to ya.
03 February 2007
tell me a story...
I remember my good friend Danielle in high school asking somebody that once in that cute little nasaly voice of hers. I don't recall who she asked or why, but it's one of those random memory flashes that makes me smile whenever it pops up. Once in awhile I ask someone to tell me a story and I am usually able to coerce a pretty good one out of them.
I have quite the vault of stories in my memory. There's one from my husband involving an iguana running through the gravy bowl one Thanksgiving, another involves a friend of mine's gross misuse of a nebulizer. A personal favorite from my father's unruly youth involves his execution of an entire chicken coop with his BB gun. Most recently, I acquired a humdinger of a story over a bowl of nachos, but I think I'll keep that one filed way in the back so I don't run across it too often. Too bloody. However, all these stories and the dozens of others I have heard have one thing in common.
None of them are my own.
Yes, I suppose I could go off and kill some innocent farm animals if I so desired. I could do some tequila shots and cause some trouble that I may or may not be able to remember after the fact. I'm in my twenties, pretty good looking when I put my mind to it, so I shouldn't have any problem going out into the world and doing something worthy of the ten o' clock news or dinner conversation, at the very least.
So why am I always the one asking for good life stories instead of sharing my own? Frankly, I have none. Or not many that will hold anyone's attention for very long. This has been one of those small and stupid problems I've been grappling with since childhood. Specifically, it reared it's ugly head sometime in my fifth or sixth grade English class.
Those damned personal narratives. Worse than the annual compare and contrast papers or the ever-popular report on the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. Never has an eleven-year-old stared so blankly at a sheet of wide-ruled paper, never has writer's block struck someone so young. Don't worry, I am keeping all this in perspective. Most kids wrote about their family trip to Orlando, minor bodily injury, or catching a big fish at Lake Malone. Man, I couldn't even come up with anything to compete with that. So I decided to put my creativity to work and just conjure up something believable. The one I recall most vividly is about how five-year-old Amanda used the process of elimination to figure out what crayons were. Over the years, I've discovered a few flaws in this fake autobiographical account:
1. I showed a great deal of promise as an artist from a very early age, a talent I most certainly inherited from my mother, who was an artist herself. No self-respecting parent in the 1980s would have denied their child a cheap box of Crayolas. It wasn't my purpose to make my mother look like an idiot in the story, I just wanted to get a passing grade and move on to the next form of literary torture.
2. The story took place on the school bus, on my way to my first day as a bona fide kindergartener. I don't really recall the events of that day, but I'm pretty sure my mom would have driven me to school that day (both of us probably emotional wrecks) instead of dumping me off on the bus. For the reason I would have been an emotional wreck, see #3.
3. I'm told that I was a rather "stress-prone" child (well I'll be danged) and "acted out" by refusing to eat, among other things. I would imagine little bitty Amanda, after being shoved onto that clunky bus bound for Olmstead School, might have undergone mild to moderate stress. It is unlikely that I would have tried to eat my crayons in a crude attempt to figure out what they were.
I wonder what grade I got on that. I hope that Mrs. Whatsherface at least gave me a little credit for creativity.
The point here is, I guess, is that I feel sort of dull. I know I can be entertaining when I want to, and have even been called "hysterical" by a handful of people I consider to be highly intelligent. Life, I am learning, is not all about just talking about your life, it's about living it. I'm just concerned that I'm doing too much working and whining and philosophizing and not enough living.
Oh, and blogging. I need to do more living and blogging. I'll make a note in my daily planner about that.
Bah humbug season is FINALLY over so I hope that I will be able to stop in here a bit more frequently than I have lately. But if it's still a bit more sporatic that you'd like, just know that I'm out there somewhere trying to live the life I've been given so I can assemble some jolly good stories for you to read. And they'll definitely be my own.
I have quite the vault of stories in my memory. There's one from my husband involving an iguana running through the gravy bowl one Thanksgiving, another involves a friend of mine's gross misuse of a nebulizer. A personal favorite from my father's unruly youth involves his execution of an entire chicken coop with his BB gun. Most recently, I acquired a humdinger of a story over a bowl of nachos, but I think I'll keep that one filed way in the back so I don't run across it too often. Too bloody. However, all these stories and the dozens of others I have heard have one thing in common.
None of them are my own.
Yes, I suppose I could go off and kill some innocent farm animals if I so desired. I could do some tequila shots and cause some trouble that I may or may not be able to remember after the fact. I'm in my twenties, pretty good looking when I put my mind to it, so I shouldn't have any problem going out into the world and doing something worthy of the ten o' clock news or dinner conversation, at the very least.
So why am I always the one asking for good life stories instead of sharing my own? Frankly, I have none. Or not many that will hold anyone's attention for very long. This has been one of those small and stupid problems I've been grappling with since childhood. Specifically, it reared it's ugly head sometime in my fifth or sixth grade English class.
Those damned personal narratives. Worse than the annual compare and contrast papers or the ever-popular report on the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. Never has an eleven-year-old stared so blankly at a sheet of wide-ruled paper, never has writer's block struck someone so young. Don't worry, I am keeping all this in perspective. Most kids wrote about their family trip to Orlando, minor bodily injury, or catching a big fish at Lake Malone. Man, I couldn't even come up with anything to compete with that. So I decided to put my creativity to work and just conjure up something believable. The one I recall most vividly is about how five-year-old Amanda used the process of elimination to figure out what crayons were. Over the years, I've discovered a few flaws in this fake autobiographical account:
1. I showed a great deal of promise as an artist from a very early age, a talent I most certainly inherited from my mother, who was an artist herself. No self-respecting parent in the 1980s would have denied their child a cheap box of Crayolas. It wasn't my purpose to make my mother look like an idiot in the story, I just wanted to get a passing grade and move on to the next form of literary torture.
2. The story took place on the school bus, on my way to my first day as a bona fide kindergartener. I don't really recall the events of that day, but I'm pretty sure my mom would have driven me to school that day (both of us probably emotional wrecks) instead of dumping me off on the bus. For the reason I would have been an emotional wreck, see #3.
3. I'm told that I was a rather "stress-prone" child (well I'll be danged) and "acted out" by refusing to eat, among other things. I would imagine little bitty Amanda, after being shoved onto that clunky bus bound for Olmstead School, might have undergone mild to moderate stress. It is unlikely that I would have tried to eat my crayons in a crude attempt to figure out what they were.
I wonder what grade I got on that. I hope that Mrs. Whatsherface at least gave me a little credit for creativity.
The point here is, I guess, is that I feel sort of dull. I know I can be entertaining when I want to, and have even been called "hysterical" by a handful of people I consider to be highly intelligent. Life, I am learning, is not all about just talking about your life, it's about living it. I'm just concerned that I'm doing too much working and whining and philosophizing and not enough living.
Oh, and blogging. I need to do more living and blogging. I'll make a note in my daily planner about that.
Bah humbug season is FINALLY over so I hope that I will be able to stop in here a bit more frequently than I have lately. But if it's still a bit more sporatic that you'd like, just know that I'm out there somewhere trying to live the life I've been given so I can assemble some jolly good stories for you to read. And they'll definitely be my own.
28 December 2006
i'm not catholic, but whatever
Ah, 2007 is approaching. Time to watch all the Best of 2006 junk on TV and force down at least one black eyed pea on Monday for good luck (which is one pea too many in my opinion). Before one can start generating a list of to-dos that will probably not get to-done, I feel I should confess some things that weigh heavily on my soul. You know, start 2007 off fresh, free of guilt. So here goes:
So, yeah, Jonathan is out of town for a week or so. Doing recreational things back home like napping, refraining from bathing, and hunting that one giant buck he saw back around Thanksgiving. While I'm stuck here makin' the donuts as they say. My confession? I had mint doublestuff oreos marinated in milk for supper last night. That's stooping pretty low, even by my standards. Especially since we have that huge Christmas ham in the fridge in all its honeybaked goodness. Too lazy for the microwave, that's me.
You better be sitting down for this one, folks. Way worse than the confectionary sin. I seriously just watched High School Musical on the Disney Channel. And I...(gulp)...liked it. Yes it was all unrealistic and politically correct and had the overly happy song and dance at the end, but I just couldn't resist. I succumbed to the temptation of the cheese. And it was glorious. First it was The Sound of Music on Christmas night. Then the movie version of Annie. And now this. The shame is almost too much to bear.
My bedtime is about 10:30 these days. I'm really in no position to make fun of my mom and sister anymore. I crave sleep like my tragically-seasonal mint oreos. Mmmmm. Oreos. I feel another pang coming on...
I am now the proud owner of a bluetooth. No, no, not a blue tooth, a bluetooth. You know, one of those things people stick in their ear and proceed to walk through life like mindless zombies? I hate it when one of the living dead comes up to the repair window and I try to talk to them. Of course I get embarassed and feel like a dope when I notice their earpiece but hey, that guy has ABSOLUTELY NO FRIGGIN' CLUE that I exist. Quite frankly, he's probably shocked when he ends his call and realizes he's standing in a jewelry store and not the Starbucks next door. I vow to not be like them. I refuse to join the Borg collective. It's good for driving, but that's it. I won't walk around in public as if to say, "Look at me! I am wealthy enough to spend thirty bucks Best Buy!"
Well, I guess I thought that this day would never really come, but it did. The nonoffensive mounted black duck atop my mantel has been replaced by the buck Jonathan shot last fall. If I sit in my favorite chair to watch TV, the stupid thing is staring at me. It was supposed to be looking toward the front door (I assume to scare off religious kooks and the occassional girl scout) but no, it stares at me. So the other day I stuck a santa hat on him and proceeded to dramatically eat the deer jerky he so generously provided. Mmmmm...num num...want some? No? Okay, more for me. As if being shot and put permanently on display in our home wasn't humilation enough.
So that's pretty much the extent of my Transgressions Against Mankind for 2006. I'll just omit all the actual horrible things I did and said and participated in. All of the other miscellaneous sins I'll just have to take to the guy upstairs. And I won't need my bluetooth to get him to listen. ;)
Happy New Year!
Amanda's 2006 Top 5 Transgressions Against Mankind
So, yeah, Jonathan is out of town for a week or so. Doing recreational things back home like napping, refraining from bathing, and hunting that one giant buck he saw back around Thanksgiving. While I'm stuck here makin' the donuts as they say. My confession? I had mint doublestuff oreos marinated in milk for supper last night. That's stooping pretty low, even by my standards. Especially since we have that huge Christmas ham in the fridge in all its honeybaked goodness. Too lazy for the microwave, that's me.
You better be sitting down for this one, folks. Way worse than the confectionary sin. I seriously just watched High School Musical on the Disney Channel. And I...(gulp)...liked it. Yes it was all unrealistic and politically correct and had the overly happy song and dance at the end, but I just couldn't resist. I succumbed to the temptation of the cheese. And it was glorious. First it was The Sound of Music on Christmas night. Then the movie version of Annie. And now this. The shame is almost too much to bear.
My bedtime is about 10:30 these days. I'm really in no position to make fun of my mom and sister anymore. I crave sleep like my tragically-seasonal mint oreos. Mmmmm. Oreos. I feel another pang coming on...
I am now the proud owner of a bluetooth. No, no, not a blue tooth, a bluetooth. You know, one of those things people stick in their ear and proceed to walk through life like mindless zombies? I hate it when one of the living dead comes up to the repair window and I try to talk to them. Of course I get embarassed and feel like a dope when I notice their earpiece but hey, that guy has ABSOLUTELY NO FRIGGIN' CLUE that I exist. Quite frankly, he's probably shocked when he ends his call and realizes he's standing in a jewelry store and not the Starbucks next door. I vow to not be like them. I refuse to join the Borg collective. It's good for driving, but that's it. I won't walk around in public as if to say, "Look at me! I am wealthy enough to spend thirty bucks Best Buy!"
Well, I guess I thought that this day would never really come, but it did. The nonoffensive mounted black duck atop my mantel has been replaced by the buck Jonathan shot last fall. If I sit in my favorite chair to watch TV, the stupid thing is staring at me. It was supposed to be looking toward the front door (I assume to scare off religious kooks and the occassional girl scout) but no, it stares at me. So the other day I stuck a santa hat on him and proceeded to dramatically eat the deer jerky he so generously provided. Mmmmm...num num...want some? No? Okay, more for me. As if being shot and put permanently on display in our home wasn't humilation enough.
So that's pretty much the extent of my Transgressions Against Mankind for 2006. I'll just omit all the actual horrible things I did and said and participated in. All of the other miscellaneous sins I'll just have to take to the guy upstairs. And I won't need my bluetooth to get him to listen. ;)
Happy New Year!
19 November 2006
fun with multiple personalities
(The following is the much sought-after interivew with the creative genius behind Amanda's Crucible.)
Okay, Amanda. What’s your deal? You aren’t blogging that much anymore. You’re not going to abandon this, are you?
No, no. I have no plans to quit writing. I have six fans I have to think of. I can’t let them down. I mean, they have this page bookmarked! Seriously, though, I just don’t have as much time as I used to with my work schedule becoming more demanding and all. I have to be in the mood to write, too. I don’t want to just post a bunch of boring crap about work that nobody would want to read.
But lately, all you’ve written about is work. Is that all you do? Do you have a social life at all?
Ouch. I wasn’t expecting these Geraldo Rivera-type hard hitting questions. Yes, my job is very time consuming so most of my life is revolving around that. Especially with Bah Humbug season rapidly approaching. However, I do try to spend as much quality time with my husband as possible.
Yeah, your husband? Remember him? What does he think about your new job? Is he mad about all the time you’re spending away from him?
Oh, he’s handling it all quite well, actually. He’s away at work most of the time too, so my hours don’t affect him as much as you might think. He’s very proud of me and already has grandiose plans for my extra income. He gets his jollies from sitting around in front of his amortization guide and a calculator, trying to see how quickly we can pay off the truck. My vote is for granite countertops, but I suppose those will have to wait. Seeing as how it's his money and all (snort).
So how are you liking your new job?
It’s unbelievably challenging, but I think I’m going to do well once I get going and get my relatively new staff trained. The timing of my promotion will make the holiday season difficult, but I’ll survive somehow.
In case you hadn’t noticed, none of your readers are jewelers. Could you give us a brief explanation of what you do? Since you obviously have nothing else to blog about?
Ouch again. Okay. First and foremost, I’m a jeweler. I size rings, set stones, fix whatever is broken, and try not to break what is already fixed. I have five employees working for me, and they do most of the repairs. I maintain communication with all the stores we do work for, make sure all the work gets done correctly and in a timely fashion, and basically just try to keep the system running. I guess you could say I’m a glorified hall monitor. Just without the badge.
Is that it? Geez, you make it sound so difficult when you’re writing. Somebody pays you do to that?
Yeah, well you don’t exist. All six of my fans know that this is all me. So there. Got any real questions mister Figment of my Imagination?
(Awkward silence #1)
Got any secret tattoos no one knows about?
What a lame question. And you know I don’t post personal stuff like that. If I decide to get a tramp stamp one of these days, I’ll just send a mass e-mail accopmanied by a photo.
Favorite color?
Sigh.
Favorite movie?
(rolls eyes, tousles strand of hair) An interesting question por favor or I’m walkin’ outta here. I’ve seen better interviews in the Russellville High School Panther Press. Holly knows what I’m talking about. Remember that Student Profile I wrote senior year? Heh heh heh. Oh, those were the days.
Speaking of high school…
Ah, crap.
I heard you were a big dork. True or false?
As the years have gone by, my bad memories have become much, much worse in my mind. I recall quite a few horrible experiences but I am pretty sure they are skewed by the passage of time. I wasn’t terribly cool, but I survived. I'm super cool now, that's a cold hard fact.
What about that time you wore the same clothes three days in a row?
Where on earth did you hear that from?
What was up with your seventh grade school picture?
I was growing my bangs out. Don’t judge.
And your huge crush on Star Trek: The Next Generation boy genius Wesley Crusher? I heard he was gay.
Okay, now you’ve gone too far. Don’t hate on ole Wesley. I thought he was wonderful and brilliant and had just the prettiest little brown eyes. I will not sit here in this press junket and listen to such slander!!!! Sigh. Could somebody get me some Evian? Or a little drink with an umbrella in it? Thanks.
Mmmmm. Sounds like somebody is still carrying a torch for Ensign Crusher. How does your “number one” feel about this? Hmmmm?
Jonathan understands my abiding love for Wesley and several others. To be fair, I share him with a couple of ladies who will never love him back, so things are fine.
Others? What others?
Well, I do love Jude Law in spite of the fact that he’s pretty much a pretty boy/philanderer. But he’s a great actor with an accent and totally hot, so I’m forgiving. Same goes for Russell Crowe, but I’m not diggin’ the shaggy 70’s hairdo. I liked him best in Gladiator. Also Michael Palin of Monty Python fame and George from Grey’s Anatomy. Just to name a few. Do-gooder Brad Pitt and Scientology nut job Tom Cruise just aren’t interesting enough for me.
Uh, you heard about George from Grey’s Anatomy, right?
Yes, yes. I know George likes McBoys. I just can’t talk about that right now, it’s too soon (blinks back tears). I really could use a break. Stop the cameras. Is anyone bringing my Evian? I’m a bit parched.
This is your imagination, not a press junket for the next Star Trek movie in which you explore the galaxy with Wesley Crusher!! You’re a mediocre jeweler married to a guy you met in band camp. You have to hide all your shoes from your cat because he has a fetish for shoelaces. You send out a public service announcement every time to do anything in the kitchen more challenging than boiling water. Your muffler on your car is practically dragging the ground, you need to get your roots done, and everyone knows you don’t really know your left from right. Nobody is getting you any blasted Evian!!!!
(Awkward silence #2)
I suppose that’s sad but true. To be honest, I’ve never purchased Evian. I’m too cheap. I get the Sam’s Club brand from Wal-Mart.
This interview is so over. Ashley Judd is waiting. You remember her? She played Lt. Robin Lefler, Wesley Crusher's love interest back in Season Four? You're excused.
Stupid figment.
Okay, Amanda. What’s your deal? You aren’t blogging that much anymore. You’re not going to abandon this, are you?
No, no. I have no plans to quit writing. I have six fans I have to think of. I can’t let them down. I mean, they have this page bookmarked! Seriously, though, I just don’t have as much time as I used to with my work schedule becoming more demanding and all. I have to be in the mood to write, too. I don’t want to just post a bunch of boring crap about work that nobody would want to read.
But lately, all you’ve written about is work. Is that all you do? Do you have a social life at all?
Ouch. I wasn’t expecting these Geraldo Rivera-type hard hitting questions. Yes, my job is very time consuming so most of my life is revolving around that. Especially with Bah Humbug season rapidly approaching. However, I do try to spend as much quality time with my husband as possible.
Yeah, your husband? Remember him? What does he think about your new job? Is he mad about all the time you’re spending away from him?
Oh, he’s handling it all quite well, actually. He’s away at work most of the time too, so my hours don’t affect him as much as you might think. He’s very proud of me and already has grandiose plans for my extra income. He gets his jollies from sitting around in front of his amortization guide and a calculator, trying to see how quickly we can pay off the truck. My vote is for granite countertops, but I suppose those will have to wait. Seeing as how it's his money and all (snort).
So how are you liking your new job?
It’s unbelievably challenging, but I think I’m going to do well once I get going and get my relatively new staff trained. The timing of my promotion will make the holiday season difficult, but I’ll survive somehow.
In case you hadn’t noticed, none of your readers are jewelers. Could you give us a brief explanation of what you do? Since you obviously have nothing else to blog about?
Ouch again. Okay. First and foremost, I’m a jeweler. I size rings, set stones, fix whatever is broken, and try not to break what is already fixed. I have five employees working for me, and they do most of the repairs. I maintain communication with all the stores we do work for, make sure all the work gets done correctly and in a timely fashion, and basically just try to keep the system running. I guess you could say I’m a glorified hall monitor. Just without the badge.
Is that it? Geez, you make it sound so difficult when you’re writing. Somebody pays you do to that?
Yeah, well you don’t exist. All six of my fans know that this is all me. So there. Got any real questions mister Figment of my Imagination?
(Awkward silence #1)
Got any secret tattoos no one knows about?
What a lame question. And you know I don’t post personal stuff like that. If I decide to get a tramp stamp one of these days, I’ll just send a mass e-mail accopmanied by a photo.
Favorite color?
Sigh.
Favorite movie?
(rolls eyes, tousles strand of hair) An interesting question por favor or I’m walkin’ outta here. I’ve seen better interviews in the Russellville High School Panther Press. Holly knows what I’m talking about. Remember that Student Profile I wrote senior year? Heh heh heh. Oh, those were the days.
Speaking of high school…
Ah, crap.
I heard you were a big dork. True or false?
As the years have gone by, my bad memories have become much, much worse in my mind. I recall quite a few horrible experiences but I am pretty sure they are skewed by the passage of time. I wasn’t terribly cool, but I survived. I'm super cool now, that's a cold hard fact.
What about that time you wore the same clothes three days in a row?
Where on earth did you hear that from?
What was up with your seventh grade school picture?
I was growing my bangs out. Don’t judge.
And your huge crush on Star Trek: The Next Generation boy genius Wesley Crusher? I heard he was gay.
Okay, now you’ve gone too far. Don’t hate on ole Wesley. I thought he was wonderful and brilliant and had just the prettiest little brown eyes. I will not sit here in this press junket and listen to such slander!!!! Sigh. Could somebody get me some Evian? Or a little drink with an umbrella in it? Thanks.
Mmmmm. Sounds like somebody is still carrying a torch for Ensign Crusher. How does your “number one” feel about this? Hmmmm?
Jonathan understands my abiding love for Wesley and several others. To be fair, I share him with a couple of ladies who will never love him back, so things are fine.
Others? What others?
Well, I do love Jude Law in spite of the fact that he’s pretty much a pretty boy/philanderer. But he’s a great actor with an accent and totally hot, so I’m forgiving. Same goes for Russell Crowe, but I’m not diggin’ the shaggy 70’s hairdo. I liked him best in Gladiator. Also Michael Palin of Monty Python fame and George from Grey’s Anatomy. Just to name a few. Do-gooder Brad Pitt and Scientology nut job Tom Cruise just aren’t interesting enough for me.
Uh, you heard about George from Grey’s Anatomy, right?
Yes, yes. I know George likes McBoys. I just can’t talk about that right now, it’s too soon (blinks back tears). I really could use a break. Stop the cameras. Is anyone bringing my Evian? I’m a bit parched.
This is your imagination, not a press junket for the next Star Trek movie in which you explore the galaxy with Wesley Crusher!! You’re a mediocre jeweler married to a guy you met in band camp. You have to hide all your shoes from your cat because he has a fetish for shoelaces. You send out a public service announcement every time to do anything in the kitchen more challenging than boiling water. Your muffler on your car is practically dragging the ground, you need to get your roots done, and everyone knows you don’t really know your left from right. Nobody is getting you any blasted Evian!!!!
(Awkward silence #2)
I suppose that’s sad but true. To be honest, I’ve never purchased Evian. I’m too cheap. I get the Sam’s Club brand from Wal-Mart.
This interview is so over. Ashley Judd is waiting. You remember her? She played Lt. Robin Lefler, Wesley Crusher's love interest back in Season Four? You're excused.
Stupid figment.
17 November 2006
large and in charge...sort of
Well, I haven't quit yet.
I have, however, found myself near tears at a couple of instances, tempted to put my fist through a wall in others, and had to bite my tongue at least once an hour. I am still here, nonethelesss.
I'm not so much bothered by the hours I'm working, which have gone from 40 to 44 and now 50 which will be 55+ in a couple of weeks. It's the fact that I have to be aware of an infinite amount of things at any given time. Otherwise the results are either embarassing or disastrous. I thought I was busy when I was the management trainee. Ha. I'm completely exhausted, but all in all, things have gone relatively well.
Unfortunately, this past weekend was a jeweler's nightmare. I was casually going through a repair bag when I noticed the ring it contained was no longer there. And it just-so-happened to be from this store (in Kentucky of all places) that likes me about as much as Kazakhstan loved the new Borat movie. Which was hysterical, by the way. Needless to say I spent that weekend out of my mind with anger at myself for letting this happen and tearing my poor shop apart looking for that sapphire ring. Oh and that conversation with the store's manager? Not pretty. Long story short, one of my employees shipped it out to a vendor and neglected to leave me a note. There are truly no words to describe how I felt at this point, so I'll just leave them to your imagination.
On top of all that? I broke my first diamond. The aquamarine I busted back in September was much less of a big deal since my soon-to-be ex-boss busted the replacement (I found that somewhat comforting) and it retailed for about $300.00. This was somebody's engagement ring and the diamond was worth $2900.00. I felt awful. If my diamond got damaged somehow, it could be replaced, but it wouldn't be that same one that Jonathan gave me that chilly night at the lake. Someone was definitely watching over me that Sunday...the owner was super nice and understanding about it and didn't throw the fit I was expecting. I was picturing myself rotissere-ing over a fire, lightly seasoned with lemon pepper and with an apple in my mouth. Or swinging next to Saddam (duh-doom-doom-ching).
*crickets chirping*
But all that has blown over and things have started to calm down a bit, just in time for Black Friday and the onset of Bah Humbug season. The Christmas season comes to an end right about the time every couple in the tri-state area thinks that getting engaged on Valentine's Day would be just super-dooper.
I apologize to anyone who got engaged or married on V-Day and is currently offended. I'm a jeweler, and reserve the right to be mildly to moderately annoyed by this. Thank you.
That'll do it for now, I think. Perhaps something good will happen today and I can share it with all six of my devoted readers tonight. Or that one crazy lady will come in again and very politely tell me that my work sucks. I'll have an apple ready for her.
I have, however, found myself near tears at a couple of instances, tempted to put my fist through a wall in others, and had to bite my tongue at least once an hour. I am still here, nonethelesss.
I'm not so much bothered by the hours I'm working, which have gone from 40 to 44 and now 50 which will be 55+ in a couple of weeks. It's the fact that I have to be aware of an infinite amount of things at any given time. Otherwise the results are either embarassing or disastrous. I thought I was busy when I was the management trainee. Ha. I'm completely exhausted, but all in all, things have gone relatively well.
Unfortunately, this past weekend was a jeweler's nightmare. I was casually going through a repair bag when I noticed the ring it contained was no longer there. And it just-so-happened to be from this store (in Kentucky of all places) that likes me about as much as Kazakhstan loved the new Borat movie. Which was hysterical, by the way. Needless to say I spent that weekend out of my mind with anger at myself for letting this happen and tearing my poor shop apart looking for that sapphire ring. Oh and that conversation with the store's manager? Not pretty. Long story short, one of my employees shipped it out to a vendor and neglected to leave me a note. There are truly no words to describe how I felt at this point, so I'll just leave them to your imagination.
On top of all that? I broke my first diamond. The aquamarine I busted back in September was much less of a big deal since my soon-to-be ex-boss busted the replacement (I found that somewhat comforting) and it retailed for about $300.00. This was somebody's engagement ring and the diamond was worth $2900.00. I felt awful. If my diamond got damaged somehow, it could be replaced, but it wouldn't be that same one that Jonathan gave me that chilly night at the lake. Someone was definitely watching over me that Sunday...the owner was super nice and understanding about it and didn't throw the fit I was expecting. I was picturing myself rotissere-ing over a fire, lightly seasoned with lemon pepper and with an apple in my mouth. Or swinging next to Saddam (duh-doom-doom-ching).
*crickets chirping*
But all that has blown over and things have started to calm down a bit, just in time for Black Friday and the onset of Bah Humbug season. The Christmas season comes to an end right about the time every couple in the tri-state area thinks that getting engaged on Valentine's Day would be just super-dooper.
I apologize to anyone who got engaged or married on V-Day and is currently offended. I'm a jeweler, and reserve the right to be mildly to moderately annoyed by this. Thank you.
That'll do it for now, I think. Perhaps something good will happen today and I can share it with all six of my devoted readers tonight. Or that one crazy lady will come in again and very politely tell me that my work sucks. I'll have an apple ready for her.
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