People. Need I say More?

I'm fairly certain that PETA won't egg my house because it would be an unethical treatment of embryonic chickens.

On another note . . . one of my co-workers decided to get a Japanese kanji tattooed on her shoulder. Unfortunately, she did not research what the kanji meant. She wanted the kanji for "America" (think about this people - until recently Japan and America have not exactly been friends or had a great exchange of goods via trade - so it is not surprising that there is no real kanji for "America"). The long and short of the problem is: the kanji can either be read as "America" or, more commonly, as "rice." You heard me right. She has "rice" tattooed on her shoulder.

Luckily I caught her before she went in to have yet another kanji tattooed on her shoulder. What most folk who haven't studied Japanese don't get is the fact that tattooing a single kanji on your body is like tatooing the letter "c" from our alphabet. C is used in words like "cat" and "cookie" - which have entirely different meanings. If you take the kanji for "my own/mine" and combine it with the kanji for "heart," you don't get "my own heart." You get the Japanese word for "son."

So before she ended up with something like "will work for rice" or "electrical socket" tattoed on her shoulder, I offered to bring in my kanji dictionary. I suggested that her kanji could be incorporated into the larger kanji for "lost child" - but she didn't seem overly fond of that combination :P

On the flip-side of the "people - can't live with them, can't kill 'em all for no reason" coin . . . it looks like there is a hope that my employer will match the funds we collected to donate to The Wild Animal Sanctuary after all. Keep your fingers crossed . . . we have already collected over $900 dollars - so matching funds would make a huge difference. The proposal will go in at the end of this week.

For those who haven't heard . . . The Wild Animal Sanctuary is one of only 14 sanctuaries in the U.S. able to care for large exotic animals (such as lions, tigers, bears, etc.) - and it is being forced to close due to lack of funding. Natural disasters (Katrina), rising gas prices, and a tapering off of individual donations have all led to the financial crisis. If you have a moment, please take a look at their website - and watch their closing video (it is not overly depressing - I PROMISE.) The closing video is a collage of the animals at the Sanctuary - and demonstrates exactly why the Sanctuary is worth saving.

Between dealing with the kanji/tattoo crisis, writing proposals for funding for the Sanctuary, and revamping the Excel spreadsheet that contains the information for our yearly football pool (most important task of the day . . . :P), I feel like I've been stretched a little thin.

Work? You mean I was supposed to squish my actual work in there somewhere? Hmmmm... maybe that explains the wall of paper that sprang up around my desk . . .

E-Harmony

Who knew a fourth a cup of Bailey's Irish Cream could make me tipsy?

At long last . . . I post the proof. I officially know someone who was REJECTED by E-Harmony (who even knew that on-line dating services rejected people)? I post this with her full knowledge and consent.



My mother's comment was: "What did she put down? That she worships trees?"

No . . . no. I'm pretty sure tree worshipers would find a map . . . er match. (Stupid Bailey's.)

System Reboot

All systems restored to normal (or as normal as I get, anyway).

Checklist of what I did today:
Chose NOT to throw myself off a building.

Sounds like a good day's work to me!

For any and all who have not read my post regarding the closing of the Wildlife Sanctuary - please take a moment to do so. If you wish to check out their website, here is the link: The Wildlife Sanctuary (This message will be posted on the bottom of all my current blogs for the next few weeks.)

Ashes

It has been years since I felt I was a thing. Years since I studied the nuts and bolts that hold my personality together.

Perhaps I am a touch melodramatic - but it is no lie to say that I essentially created myself. There is scientific backing for my theory. Why do you think the military is careful to undress the personality of every raw recruit? And who is to say that children are any less cruel than a drill sergeant?

My childhood personality was essentially destroyed in middle school. Imagine small town girl meets big city - then pile on a nice touch of psychological warfare. (You know it is bad when the principle not only knows your name - but stops to apologize for the treatment you are receiving from other students. He broke confidentiality to assure my parents (and me) that one of my main tormentors was switching school districts - and soon I would only have four tormentors instead of five - wheee.)

I had two choices: to withdraw from the world so that nothing else could ever hurt me - or pick up the shards of my life, and try to patch them back together. I won't pretend that I took the high road by choice. I withdrew from the world for eight years. I perfected a control over my body and my emotions that was amazing to the few who have seen it. If I have a stomach bug, I often have the choice of whether or not to throw up. I can cry and hold a conversation on the phone - without the other person ever knowing that I'm in distress. But, in college, thanks to the love and support of my roommates, the walls came crumbling down.

I remember the day that I made the decision to live. A rape counselor made a presentation to our psychology class - asking everyone in the room to write down her name and number. She explained that this was her way of ensuring anyone who needed the number would get it - and still retain their anonymity. Then she went on to describe the human response to traumatic events - and the healing process. We humans are strange creatures. We build a cocoon when we hurt. And there is nothing wrong with building the cocoon - as long as it eventually hatches. But for a few individuals - the cocoon becomes a prison.

Maybe it was the counselor. Maybe it was the sunlight. Maybe it was the three bicyclist that passed me on the street. SOMETHING that day tore open my cocoon.

It was time to begin the process of piecing myself together.

Creation of my "operating system" was slow - and painful. I still have crossed wires that I never fixed. The most prominent is my reaction to emergency situations - I dissolve into helpless laughter. At first, I gauged my success by the reaction of others. I was fluid as water. If someone mentioned they hated my laughter, I stopped laughing. I learned to put others before myself - and then spent years realizing that I was my own person - and had my own self worth.

Over time, I grew confident and stopped changing the habits that people didn't like - realizing that I could not please everyone. I began to like the person I had created. Eventually I fell in love with myself - and did my damndest to lock myself out of the control center. It was a scary step - closing that door. Making the promise to myself that I would STOP tinkering with the nuts and bolts of my personality. It was time to live - and to enjoy living.

And then yesterday I received a psychological blow, which left me feeling as if I had been kicked by a donkey.

Not two weeks ago, I passed a "final systems test" - where I overheard something hurtful (about me) that an acquaintance was telling one of my friends. I debated for a long time as to whether it was worth approaching the acquaintance - and then decided that ultimately, she was just that - an acquaintance - and her opinion could only affect me if I allowed it. FOR THE FIRST TIME, I DID NOT FEEL A NEED TO DEFEND MYSELF. This was a victory over 18 years in the making. Let her think what she wants to. I know who I am.

I am an optimist. Goodness knows, I've had enough occasions where throwing myself off a building seemed a justifiable solution - but I have used strength and humor to carry me through. I have always had faith that the Universe will watch out for me - that things happen for a reason - and everything will "turn out" in the end.

The last few years have been hard (though by no means "special" - we all have our trials and tribulations). But recently I have been seeking counseling - because I feel I have too much on my plate - and too little support. I have noticed my system careening off balance, and have made countermoves to restore stability.

Such a simple comment - to set my world on end: "Both of you are such negative people," the counselor said, referencing my husband and I.

It was said in a rush at the end of a session. Here, it is taken out of context - the situation left unexplained. But it cut. Deep. Drawing blood from a wound I thought long healed. It turned my soul inside out and showed me the ragged seams.

I know it is not true. In my bones, I know it is not true. Everything in my life is choice. I have made myself, and I can make myself again. But somewhere along the way, I allowed myself to be warped. The personality I have so painstakingly crafted is coming apart - and now, after 18 years, I find myself staring at the nuts and bolts - and right now it hurts to much too touch them.

I want to clarify that my counselor did not so much cause the wound as draw my attention to it. My soul has been bleeding for a few years now, but I was unaware how much had leaked beyond myself. I am hurt. I am confused. I am angry with no real target.

Because I know that under the facade, I AM unhappy. I don't like the person that I have become - and for ANYONE to be able to think I am a creature of negativity - to know that I am projecting a persona that can be perceived as a generator of negativity . . .

It knocks the breath out of my body. It leaves me feeling frail and hollow - like a thing of ashes, ready to crumble at a touch. I am not even sure I can explain the why of the wound to anyone else - save to say that it is kin to discovering you have become a thing you hated and swore you would never turn into.

If I seem a little "off-color" this week, pray forgive. To an extent, I am soul-wounded and fighting hard not to withdraw into another cocoon. Not to worry - I have faith that I will come through this. I just need time - and a large wrench with a good grip.

The Wild Animal Sanctuary

For those who have not heard, The Wild Animal Sanctuary (based in Colorado) is closing. The sanctuary is not closing due to lack of space, or lack of caring - it is closing due to lack of FUNDING. At this point, the Sanctuary is not even trying to save itself - it is merely trying to collect enough money to provide food and transport to a new sanctuary for its current population of 150 animals. (The Sanctuary is currently looking at shutting down by September 2, 2006.)

There are not many causes I feel deserve support - THIS IS ONE THAT DOES. This sanctuary rescues abused or confiscated exotic wildlife - ANIMALS THAT CANNOT BE PLACED IN ZOOS (due to both overpopulation in the zoos, and imperfections such as declawed, defanged, or spayed). Many of these animals have been rescued from abusive situations - and to uproot them again seems beyond the bounds of cruelty.

Over the years, I have watched the news, and sanctuary after sanctuary is closing. As each sanctuary shuts down, it overloads the next sanctuary in a tragic domino effect. THE PROBLEM IS BEING IGNORED.

I may not have the pocketbook to significantly help this sanctuary - but I do have a voice, and a blog, and friends. Over the next few weeks, I will be doing my best to think of ways to secure some funding. (I'm already lobbying at work for my employer to give "matching donations" for any money the employees scrape together.)

Please do what you can to help. IF NOTHING ELSE, SPREAD THE WORD!!! The more people who see the sanctuary's plight - the harder it is to ignore. Every dollar means another animal fed - and maybe another animal sent to safety. THIS IS ONE OF THOSE TIMES WHEN YOU TRULY CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

Back Injury

Must . . take hot bath . . . to keep lower . . . back muscles . . . from strangling spine . . .

I filled out Worker's Comp forms today. I took a vicious delight in checking the NO box for the question: "Did this injury result in death?"

I also spent a long while pondering the question: "Circle which level of education you have completed" - which was followed by a series of numbers from 1 - 21. I decided I was a 17 since I spent 5 years in college . . . but, for all I know, I may have just claimed I've completed the first year of graduate work.

For clarity's sake - I injured my back while picking up a box. The front receptionist told me my copy job was ready for pick up, I went upstairs to pick it up, and suddenly PAIN - Nature's way of saying "no."

So how do I answer the questions: "What task were you assigned when the injury occurred?" and "How many years of experience do you have at this task?"

Stupid forms.

An Unfortunate Chain of Events

As a piece of background to my current story: on Friday, I wrenched my back picking up a moderately heavy box at work. I have been hunching around the house all weekend referring to myself as Igor (or "Sophie" - for those who have seen Howl's Moving Castle).

But Sunday, T.'s accident karma kicked in with a vengeance. It all started at dinner at my mother-in-law's house. T. was sitting in a recliner, quietly tossing a frisbee back and forth with A. The wind-up! The pitch! T. managed to cover his face as A. nailed the frisbee at him - which meant, of course, that A. scored a perfect groin shot.

The game abruptly changed from frisbee to "hunt and tickle." A. hid in a kid-sized tent, and T. stuck his hands beneath the tent fabric trying to catch a squealing A. Unfortunately, A. located a small plastic mallet - which he wielded with devastating (and unanticipated) force against T.'s temple.

We finally finished dinner and cards and returned home, but the gods were apparently still displeased. A. wanted a midnight snack, so we poured him a glass of milk, and set out a few graham crackers. Then we went upstairs for a few minutes - and on the way back down . . .

A. was at the base of the stairs - closely followed by T. - when Ms. Tika suddenly began nipping at my ankles (I think she was "herding" my skirt). Since I don't have the greatest balance at the moment (see painful back injury), I panicked, and in an effort to get Ms. Tika out from behind me and down the stairs, I nudged her, hard, with my foot. I take full responsibility for what happened next, because, in essence, I booted by dog down the stairs. (As an avid animal lover, I can't tell you how horrified I am - even though she suffered no injury at all. The only justification I have (which still does not excuse the action) is the honest fear that Ms. Tika was going to cause me to fall - and I was desperate to get her away from my feet.)

However, my tumbling gray fuzzy rolled right into T. and, instead of fetching up against his leg, she hit his ankle at high speed and knocked T.'s legs out from under him. Luckily T. was only three steps from the bottom, and he managed to fall backwards. Now, while some of you may think this was an awful creative way to try and collect on T.'s insurance policy - I assure you that death due to airborne dog was NOT on my agenda. T. managed to heave himself upright - but he was unable to put weight on the ankle Ms. Tika had rebounded off. He gingerly hobbled over to the couch.

While T. figured out the extent of his injury, I looked at A.'s glass of milk and noticed there was a dead fruit-fly floating in it. I started to take the glass of milk to the kitchen. As I turned around, I saw (too late to stop it) A. smack T.'s ankle with a two-foot long toy (similar to a flute with a giraffe head attached to one end). This wasn't your normal two-year old smack. A. had the giraffe over his head in a sturdy two-handed grip (much like a broadsword), and brought the giraffe head down as hard as he could on his dad's freshly injured ankle. (Apparently testing if daddy's pain nerves were still working.)

Insert T. cussing, me taking the giraffe away, and A. throwing a screaming fit. T. hopped his way to the bathroom for some pain medication - and when he turned around, both cats had positioned themselves so that he could easily trip over them. "That's it," T. said. "I'm going to bed."

Once T. was safely up the stairs, I started to take A. to his room, but A. sniffled and asked for milk. Since I had thrown out the dead-fruit-fly milk, I went and poured him a fresh glass, which we took upstairs. I found T. stretched out on our bed. "I'm sorry," I said, while handing the glass of milk to A. "It's okay," T. said, "but you owe me a hug." I went over and gave him a hug, noting that A. was behind me. I turned around intending to take the glass from A. . . . too late.

A. spilled his entire glass of milk on the bed - which was followed by a lot of rushing around for towels, stripping the sheets, running to get stain cleaner, and a creative use of towels and pillows designed to keep the cleaner from staining the new sheets.

And just for the gamers out there: "Cthulu is a little @itch," T. said. "You're blaming Cthulu for your injury?" I asked. "No," T. said. "But if I've angered the gods, I may as well anger ALL of them."

By then, my back was throbbing. I'll be amazed if I can walk tomorrow.

"If we go grocery shopping tomorrow," T. joked, "maybe we can both get those motorized carts."

"I guess I can't ask you to walk the dog for me," I replied. We both laughed. I must admit, I have no idea how T. can survive being crushed by a forklift - and yet be severely injured by a 15 pound dog tumbling down the stairs. T. and Ms. Tika already forgave me - so now I need to work on forgiving myself.

We always need to laugh or cry. This blog is my attempt to laugh. Good night all.

Overdue Expression of Gratitude

I have been remiss in expressing gratitude to my friend PoN for the gift of a CD featuring her harp music. My apologies on the delay.

The CD is wonderful. The music is beautiful and relaxing (and probably the only reason my attorneys survived last Wednesday afternoon). I come from a long line of the musically challenged - but listening to your CD is inspirational. Me, product of a family that was kicked out of the kazoo-band, found myself wondering if I could ever play the harp half as well (given proper training and the time to devote to it, of course).

Unsurprisingly, my favorite tracks were the improvisational pieces, but I enjoyed every track in and of itself.

On a wider note (and since we, as a society, tend not to give praise as often as we should), I want to take a moment to say: I feel that your acquaintence has enriched my life. (And no - no plans to start stalking. Cross-my-heart and pinky swear.)

If music can change the world - I hope the world is listening to you.

Midnight Snack

A few weeks ago, I decided to try taking down the babygate that has separated the dog from the cat food and cat litterbox. Both items are located in my downstairs bathroom - and guests are constantly asking me how to disassmeble and reassemble the three foot high gate. (It's much easier to just step over the gate - but most of my guests have a slight issue with being unable to close the door . . . ).

Gate being down lasted two days. Dog thinks cat poop is yummy. Enough said.

So now, two weeks later, I look up from reading a book - and there are pieces of cat-poop scattered all over the livingroom. Confused, I looked at T. and asked, "Do you know where she got that?" T. looked at the floor and began cussing a blue streak. "Do you think she jumped the gate?" I asked. "No," T. said.

Then I noticed Tika had removed the cushion from her doggy bed. "Umm . . . did you check her bed?" I asked T.

He wandered over to her bed - and recoiled in horror. Apparently Ms. Tika stuffed her doggy bed with a good supply of litter and old cat poop.

"Apparently she was saving a midnight snack," T. grumbled, as he went to bed. By then, I was laughing so hard I could barely clean up the mess.

Radio Blog

When I first began working at my Firm, one of the staff members assured me that I would be absolutely amazed by the Firm's generosity come Christmas-time. They described fantastic presents from the past - including miniature color TVs. Needless to say, I could barely wait. And that first Christmas WAS awesome. We received beautiful short-wave radios (German make and encased in real leather). While I immediately fell in love (and began trying to pick up radio signals from Japan), many of the staff were disappointed and returned the radios to The Sharper Image.

Yes. I did say The Sharper Image. And I saw one of the refund receipts. Those puppies were NOT cheap.

Then came the tragedy of 9/11, and our Firm elected to give up our Christmas gifts and donate the funds to the Red Cross. Everyone in the nation felt the need to do something - anything - to help make the world a better place. And none of us regretted a penny of it.

But the Christmas after . . .

We received a decent quality Dreamcast radio/cd player, a small circular unit which, while nice in its own right, came nowhere close to the coolness level of my beloved shortwave radio. To be brutally honest, I don't listen to music very much, and I was not all that pleased with the Dreamcast. It now lives in my son's room and serves as a decoy to keep A. from breaking my other electronics.

The next Christmas, we received a large square Panasonic radio/cd/mp3 player, which now sits (collecting dust) on the mantle in my livingroom. "Ho hum," I thought. "Sure it plays MP3s - but it's still just another radio."

The next year we received a set of radio headphones. I'm not kidding. The radio was actually part of a giant set of headphones - which you could wear around the house or while exercising. I gave these away as quickly as possible.

Then came the Christmas Party the following year, where we had silly nominations for even sillier prizes. Much to my chagrin, I won the American Idol category - which meant I won a small radio attached to an armband - which was meant to be worn while jogging.

Admittedly, last year the Firm finally departed from their obvious theme and gave us seat covers with a massage function (and no soothing radio function - THANK GOODNESS), but I'm still waiting for them to give us a waterproof radio. After all, the only place left in my house that is radio-free would be my BATHTUB.

Poster Child for "What's Wrong with America"

I sat next to the poster child for "What is Wrong with America" on the return flight from visiting my family. She was a very sweet 14 year-old girl, slightly overweight, and filled with questions. (I only mention her weight because she gave me a long list of activities she enjoys - including movies, video games, and bowling (thank goodness there is SOME activity in there).)
The girl leaned over and looked at my book. "Can you actually read on the plane?" she asked.
"Umm.. yes."
"I hate reading," she said. "I just can't. . . well, I can't focus on the page and stuff."
"Well," I replied. "Some books are worth the effort."
"I wish Southwest had TV's like all the other airlines."
I almost choked. "I don't."
"Yeah," she said. "And it's expensive." She looked out the window. "Look, we're so high - it's like we're in Heaven!"
I shifted uncomfortably and opened my book wider to hide the cover. I would happen to be reading "The Demon Awakens."
Ever perceptive, she stared at me. "Do you believe in God?" she asked bluntly.
"Ummm. . . no."
"That's cool," she said. "My mom doesn't either. Have you ever gone to the bathroom on an airplane? Does it smell?"
We just went from a conversation about God to a conversation about airline toilets??? "Umm. . . yeah," I replied. It's like an outhouse - or a 'Port-o'-Potty.'"
"Oh," she said. "I get sick on airplanes. And, I've been scared about flying since the terrorists."
(For those who have not been watching the news, a group of folks living in the UK decided it would be nice to blow up around 10 planes departing Britain for the US. Not cool. Luckily they were stopped - but a few members of the group were still "at large" - which led to heightened airport security and the nationwide outcry as expensive perfume, fine wine, toothpaste, and other water/gel substances were listed as contraband.)
"The only thing I don't understand," she continued, "is why Britain is trying to kill us."
THUNK. That was the sound of my head hitting the seat-tray in front of me.
"It's complicated," I said. "Britain doesn't want to kill us. It's like . . . if you and your mother moved to Africa, and then did something bad, should we blame Africa? It's not the country. . ."
"It's the people!" she said, with pride.
"Exactly," I said.
"I'm just glad they caught them all," she said.
"Umm, yeah." (Except they didn't. Anyone want to bet that mommy and daddy told her all the big bad people were in jail?) By now, I was desperately wishing the conversation would return to the airline toilet.
"Thanks for helping me out," she said.
"No problem."
"Say, when do the masks fall out of the ceiling?"
"Never, if we're lucky."

Never. If we're lucky.

Good luck, sweetie. You are growing up in a far scarier world than I did. And with less of an attention span to work with.

Guilty Pleasures

My friend, PoN, tagged me with this particular exercise:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Turn to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next three sentences (and these instructions) on your blog.

I was visiting my family in another state when I saw PoN's post . . . and the only book I had was actually blank (chapter end) on page 123. Therefore, I grabbed the first book I came to when I got home - which is "Godslayer" by Jaqueline Carey.

"He ran. It was no longer a matter of pain. Pain was a fact of existence, a familiar sound in the background."

The World is Changing

I have a friend who truly believes that the time of Rapture is upon us, and all of the Christians will be departing the planet shortly. Over the years, I have learned to respect other people's beliefs, and I honestly don't know if she is right or wrong. For all I know, the Rapture may be close. There is just one problem:

I don't believe in the Biblical God.

It's not that I don't want to - it would be lovely if I could. But I have never heard His voice nor felt the calling for His church. I have actually listened to the Jehovah's Witnesses that come through my neighborhood (inviting them in for hot chocolate near Christmas . . . you've never seen such a surprised and grateful bunch). And when they finished their presentation and asked if I was ready to accept Jesus Christ, I gave them my honest answer.

I can't. Not because I don't want to. Because I don't believe it. And if I go to church and say I'm going to be saved solely because I went to church - I am a hypocrite by all our laws.

Which returns me to the Rapture.

If it does happen, I won't be going. Which begs the question: what happens to all the good people who are left behind? Thus, the Creative Exercise - what will happen to the World when all the Christians are gone?

I think the most harmful concept of Christianity is also the simplest - man has a God-given dominion over Nature. Man is apart from Nature, and does not have to follow its rules. Even though Christianity has been a source of inspiration and comfort to billions of people - it also carries a deadly message: your reward is not HERE. It is in another place.

Why respect this planet if there is no reward?

What will happen when the Christians are gone? There will be a chance for a change in perception . . . all over the World (and NO, I'm not referring to the alleged lies of the Antichrist). Since I will not be departing with the Rapture, I choose to have optimism and Hope. I choose to try and forge a better future for my son.

As civilations collapse (which arguably, will happen simply due to the whole food = reproduction issues, which the World is severly uninterested in fixing) the World will be catapulted into chaos. But, there is a middle road. There is a chance to become a part of Nature again. To learn its rules and live in harmony. And yes, I believe some of this will happen in my lifetime. I also have the hope that it can be done BEFORE the collapse into chaos.

We have all been pulled apart by two sides of the Nature issue. REMEMBER, I AM DEALING WITH THE EXTREMES HERE. On one side, you have the environmentalist - who insists that Wilderness must be kept pristine and nothing touched or changed. (Change is the only constant in the World. I guarantee you the Wilderness of the dinosaurs was vastly different from our Wilderness now). The other extreme is "big business" chewing through our forests for National resources with no regard for the destruction it wreaks. THERE IS A MIDDLE ROAD.

There is a school of thought that works in harmony with Nature. It encourages us to play our part - not as undisputed masters, but as caretakers - Gardeners, if you will. It encourages caring for the land (not leaving it alone), and making changes with the full knowledge of who (or what) those changes will effect - and consideration for those who come after. You can still mine for resources - but with the questions, who and what does this effect? How can I mine in such a way that my children's children can reap the rewards . . . and not the consequences?

Key to this philosophy is the fundamental change in perception . . . the shift to RESPECT FOR LIFE. And, in this instance, our children are our future.

I take my son camping, and encourage him to touch and smell the flowers. I instruct him that throwing rocks at animals is harmful. I teach him to appreciate his food sources.

If the Rapture comes, the World will change. And in that moment, we will be caught in the crux of a decision . . . do we follow the Christian script and allow the World to fall into darkness beneath the Antichrist? Or do we prepare our children and change our perceptions, so the World can be reborn and respect for the planet restored?

I know which path I prefer to tread. I hold A.'s hand, and we walk it together.

Reckless

Speaking of song lyrics. This post is for me. (And I probably wouldn't post it if I didn't have a Crown and Coke sloshing in my stomach and sleep deprivation keeping my good sense tied up in the back room.)

From "Ghost" by Indigo Girls:

"And now I see your face before me -
I would launch a thousand ships -
to bring your heart back to my island -
as the sand beneath me slips.
And though I burn up in your presence -
and I know now how it feels -
to be weakened like Achilles -
with you always at my heels."

If I never get another chance to say it . . . I am so very sorry for the pain I have caused. I am sorry. So sorry. Someday, I hope to find forgiveness - but, even if I cannot - just knowing I said it (and meant it) will have to be enough. There are two sides to every story - two sides to every coin.

I lost the toss.

I learned my lessons.

If the Universe wills it - it will happen. In this one matter, I defer to the Universe. I offer the choice upon the altar of coincidence.

And now, I go to bed.

Obsessed With Your Appearance?

The following is an accurate transcription of a conversation that happened as Sherri and I left her house.

Sherri: "Don't worry. I brought a hairbrush, so my hair won't be ratty all afternoon."
Me: ::helpless laughter:: "If we get stopped by a police officer, I'll be sure to tell him 'I'm not with her. She has ratty-a** hair.'"

Thank goodness Sherri can laugh at herself.

The Phone Number Curse

I work in a fast-paced national law firm with at least five regional offices (we keep adding - so we might be at six or at seven). And yet, out of umpteen-thousand possible phone extensions, I get the following:

Attorney 1: 6199
Attorney 2: 6191
General Services: 6119
Attorney 3: 6145
Attorney 4: 6154
File Clerk: 6115
Paralegal: 6151

It's a bloody miracle that I EVER reach the correct person. For the love of cripe! Give me a 2, or a 7, or a 3, or SOMETHING.

Holy Flaming Bagel Bites!

For years, I have cooked Bagel Bites in a manner wildly inconsistent with the directions on the package. Whenever I try to cook them according to the directions, I end up with cold, nasty Bagel Bites. The cheese won't melt. The "bagels" stay soggy. I have always cooked my Bagel Bites for two minutes on the highest setting (which they expressly forbid you to do in the package directions). I get absolutely nummy Bagel Bites, with the cheese melted, and bagels that turn rock-hard after a few minutes of exposure to air. Mmmm... just the way I like them.

So tonight I decide to make A. Bagel Bites for part of his nutritious dinner (mandarin oranges and a glass of milk made up the "nutritious" part). I placed four bagels on the plate, and put them in for six minutes on 50% power. Note: I was TRYING to be GOOD. I used 50% power.

I went to the restroom.

Holy flaming Bagel Bites!!!! Smoke was pouring out of the microwave - and there was still three minutes of cook time to go. T. and I got the microwave stopped, and frantically opened every window in the house. I am going to pause here to say - steam from a hot shower causes my smoke alarm to beep - but piles of smoke billowing out of the kitchen didn't set off a thing (I think I'll be fixing that little issue soon.)

Of course, I had to experiment. We pulled the sad, charred remains of the prior four Bagel Bites out of the microwave. I placed four fresh, frozen bagels on the plate, programmed the cook time exactly the way I had before . . . and stayed to watch.

After thirty seconds, the bagels began to bubble.

Eleven years of cooking the stupid things - and I couldn't get the cheese to melt when I put nine bagels in the microwave at work for SIX minutes on 50%. Apparently, four bagels placed in my home-microwave will burst into flame in under two minutes.

There is something very very wrong with the world.

Leaving

Yesterday I was walking Ms. Tika (my miniature Australian Shepherd), when I noticed a set of absolutely gorgeous wrought-iron candle stands sitting on the street. A gentleman of about 30 years of age was carefully loading a variety of objects into his car. When he noticed me noticing his candle stands, he looked mildly embarrassed (I have no idea why), and mumbled "I'm moving out."

I couldn't help it. Something about the situation tickled my sense of the absurd.

I put on my best smile. "Well, then," I said, with an overdose of cheer and sincerity, "It was nice meeting you. FAREWELL . . . and best of luck in all your journies."

He stared at me, speechless.

I tugged on Ms. Tika's leash and continued on my way home. I mean, really - what else was there to say?

Squid Masters

If squid and octopi could come out of the ocean and live on land - I think they would be my absolute worst nightmare. Here comes the scary news flash . . . these critters are intelligent, tool-using predators with the ability to navigate mazes, open doors, and squish into phenominally tiny spaces. If a tentacle can make it through - so can the rest of the animal.

They can open mason jars to pull out food. Aside from monkeys or other ape-related mammals, I don't think there is another critter on the planet with the intelligence and dexterity to open a jar (okay - maybe through brute force, but we're leaving the bears in Yellowstone National Park out of this).

Some folks claim squid and octopi have "personality." I translate that as "avid desire to rule the world." Don't fool yourself. They are simply biding their time.

Eat calamari often. Its a form of self defense.

Life After PB

I have no intention of quitting my current job any time soon, but one of my long term life goals definitely involves switching to a lower stress job. Not that being a legal secretary is without its benefits. After five years of experience, I have "mad phat" customer service skills. Not only do I deal with clients on a daily basis . . . I deal with touchy, panicky, flighty, clients who are often doing little things like running corporations - and wondering why all of their computer equipment was just seized. As one of my attorneys says: "clients generally don't call their attorney because they're happy. Please forgive them if they seem a little cranky."

What exactly is the difference between a legal secretary and a regular secretary? I gave the question a lot of thought, and came up with the following two answers:

1) WE RUN. It is not uncommon on any given day to see a legal secretary booking it down the hall (often in a skirt and high-heels). Most of the time we are chasing a piece of mail - trying to retrieve the envelope because the letter has been revised/we found a typo/the expert witness is actually in Timbuktu instead of at his Idaho address/or the attorney decided there was no reason to send it out prior to the actual deadline.

2) GENERAL STRESS LEVEL. A regular secretary loses a letter, they retype it. I lose a letter, and we can't locate Exhibt 15-A to our Motion, so the client does 5 to 10 years.

So this has led to the question. What about life after PB? What career would I go into? What would I enjoy doing?

I think I would like to "downgrade" to a regular secretarial position - perhaps at a University, where I could audit classes as an employee benefit. (I get pro bono representation as an employee benefit at the moment - but really, I think that falls under the category "things that are good to have, but not to use" kind of like flood insurance).

Would I miss trying to locate an attorney for a rabid client, when my sole indication of the attorney's location is an itinerary that reads "a chateaux in Paris. Don't know the name. Don't know the address."? Would I miss odd requests like: "Can you find a copy machine that we can access 24 hours a day in Ft. Lubbock, New Mexico?"

Could I give up three different kinds of coffee - fresh brewed all day?

Maybe not yet. But someday. And that day geta a little closer every time they ask if I can skim 40,000 documents and flag every mention of "Soybeans Incorprated."

You laugh. But, I'm not kidding.