Oh so tired -blink blink- Good thing I don’t have classes on Tuesdays, as getting off work at 7:30am is quite exhausting. Slept a bit of today then ran some errands in town, part of those errands was to pick up the second season of Doctor Who…xD. So that’s what I did this evening, watched the first disc of that. I’d attempt more but I might doze off if I just watch tv without doing anything, and even though I am quite tired I don’t won’t to sleep just yet.

Yesterday I picked up a beginner’s guide to guitar playing and some picks. Shouldn’t have got the picks as I have learned I prefer strumming with my fingers and thumb. I didn’t realize how soft the fingers of my left hand have gotten. Way back in my teenage days when I was trying to learn to play the electric guitar I built up my callouses quite fast (fast thanks to me working in a lumber yard at the time as well…oh yes a proper manly, back-breaking, sweat and blood and sun type job). But since it’s been so long they’ve gotten all soft again. That’ll get fixed soon enough. Also, sometimes I have a bit of trouble with my left thumb around the neck…since I fucked up my thumb a few years back, it likes to rest out of joint, makes it a bit awkward sometimes and it hurts as well. That won’t go away, I’ll just have to tough it up and ignore it. So, that’s basically what I did last night at work, practice guitar and watch Doctor Who.

Upon coming home from errands today, I walked into the living room to see my roommates watching porn. That “girls gone wild” stuff. So I got to put up groceries while listening to girls giggle (on screen) and my roommates saying things like “oh, that’s a nice pair”. -rolls eyes- Not that I have anything against a nice pair, I just have better things to do that sit around watching drunk girls flash a camera.

Oh, had another math quiz today, passed with flying colors! Only missed one! Hehe awesome. xD

So, I’ve been talking with this girl, oh for the past couple of years, she told me…um…about 6-7 months ago that she liked me, and has liked me for a full year before that, even though she was dating someone. Well, for a few reasons I turned her down, even though I thought she was very cute, funny, and all that, I kinda liked her, but just had other things going on. We continued to talk to each other. A few weeks ago I realized I was liking her more now and wanted to see what could happen, so I told her, she told me she still liked me, then we began to see about getting into a relationship, but before that happens, she meets someone else and is now dating him. I guess that’s what I get, huh, for leaving her on the back burner for so long.

Anywho, I think that is all for now. Head is hurting and my stomach is being awfully mean to me.
I still need to rearrange my room.

Submitted by: someone via Submission Page

Yet again, another highly entertaining visit at the doctor’s office…

After waiting nearly an hour for an appointment, the receptionist opened the window and announced, to a  packed waiting room, the doctor was running 45 minutes late.

Her statement was met with a collective groan. Then, in unison, several elderly men stood up and immediately complained:

“Let me get this straight. I called for an appointment, and you gave it to me. Then you called me to confirm the appointment so I confirmed it again. Then you left me another message to call the morning of the appointment –which I did this morning – to re-confirm my twice confirmed appointment. Doctor so and so is very concerned with my timeliness, but where is the courtesy that is due to me? Not once this morning did it occur to you to tell us the doctor was late!”

It was a classic Seinfeld moment.  By then, 5 or 6 irate Frank Constanzas had assembled near the front desk, each one complaining and demanding to see a supervisor.

The receptionist swiftly closed her I-wish-this-was –a-bullet-proof window with a lyrical “Just a second!” The men, now circumstantial accomplices, murmured amongst themselves. Canes in hand, they each tucked a magazine under their arm, zipped up their windbreakers and filed out the door, opting for egg salad sandwiches in the lobby. Grumbling, they vowed to send the doctor a bill for their valuable time.

“These colon/rectal doctors are such a pain in the ass!” muttered the last Constanza as he pushed his walker out the door, “No pun intended.”

February 2, 2010

The entire cast of Jersey Shore–minus the Incredible Hulk Ronnie–showed up on the set of NBC’s Today, Monday morning, to make the announcement that pretty much everyone already knew. Why a morning show geared toward middle-aged housewives would book the cast of a show that nobody in their demographic watches, is beyond us. But hey, at least the interview wasn’t awkward, right? Oh. Yea, about that…

It’s hard to describe what made the interview so uncomfortable, but Defamer’s Brian Moylan does a pretty good job of it:

That’s the problem here. Older people don’t understand the desire to watch a batch of unprepared fameballs life their lives ablaze on camera, crashing even as they ascend. This is the hallmark of our new cultural era and even the hip cognoscenti of New York are embracing its culture wholesale. When we’re all old and gray, this is what they’ll be showing on CBS while our grandkids are going on about some new phenomenon that we think is irredeemable and unfathomable.

Don’t you see, NBC? There’s a generational gap here that can’t be crossed. So, you can give your news anchors all of the cheesy Jersey Shore nicknames you find on the internet, but none of it is going to help you understand what a grenade is or how to beat up a beat.

And Lord help us all if you ever figure out ’smushing’…

KassemG

We just started following this guy on twitter and he’s pre-tty funny!

I had a feeling you were missing me so badly that you were having withdrawals. Yes, I know… I’ve been a bad blogger friend. But I have my reasons. Actually, to be perfectly honest with you, I’ve been on a blog protest. It’s nothing serious or long term, so don’t be upset or take it personally… I’m really just trying to look out for your best interests. Don’t worry… this isn’t some bad break up line like, “It’s not you, it’s me.” I’ll be back in full force soon, but I just have a few pending life decisions that I’d like sorted out before I stress you out every day with my rants… meltdowns… bitching… or whatever. You may think that my recent emotional roller coaster sounds like entertainment, but I assure you, it’s not. And my identity could be compromised. And if that happens, it may negatively impact what is or isn’t about to happen in my life. OK, whatever. Enough of that. Moving on…

Anyway, last night was my friend’s birthday/moving celebration. Even though in my recent lapse in sanity I haven’t only been a bad blogger friend, but a bad real life friend, and I totally spaced and forgot that it was her birthday until the last minute… I ended up pulling something together. Birthdays are my thing, so I’m always down to have a good time and find a way to make my friends feel special on their big days. This wasn’t exactly an easy task seeing how we live in small town hell, but we ended up having a good time nonetheless. She and another one of our friends, the pseudo Cheshire Cat from this post, came by my house for cosmos before we headed out for dinner and drinks at this new bar/restaurant in town. Another one of our friends met us out, and the night was off to a great start.

My boyfriend ended up getting off work a little after 9:00 PM, and he came out to join us for a drink or two. A few minutes after he arrived, in walks none other than Slutty Secretary with another one of their co-workers. While this would always be an inherently awkward situation, since it’s pretty much common knowledge that I can’t stand her, being around her, seeing her face, or hearing her voice, it was even worse than usual and just about the worst possibe thing that could have happened at that moment.

Let me back up. My friend, pseudo Cheshire Cat, is cousins with the wife of the husband that is having an affair with Slutty Secretary. Oh yeah, and she works at the same office as my boyfriend, but is in the same department as SS. Cheshire Cat just found out about the whole thing a few weeks ago and has first hand evidence of the rumors being true. She lives in the same complex as SS and saw the husband’s car parked at her apartment at 3:00 AM while the wife was out of town with the kids. That bastard, I know. Actually, the whole town knows. That and the fact that SS is the most worthless whore known to man. But whatever. As you can imagine, Cheshire Cat has been pretty torn up about the whole thing, and it’s just a really sensitive subject at this point.

OK, so back to real time, well last night real time. So SS walks in, and Cheshire Cat immediately heads to the restroom. SS doesn’t even speak to me, my boyfriend, or my other friend, and tries to get over in the corner by Queen of Hearts and camp out. Once Cheshire Cat comes back, we head outside to smoke a cigarette. Of course she’s upset, but thankfully SS makes the one smart decision of her life and leaves the bar before we come back inside. Stupid bitch.

My other friend decides that we should head out to a different bar to mix it up and find a bigger crowd. Queen of Hearts and I had originally rode with Cheshire Cat, but she wanted to stay back for a bit to talk with my boyfriend and their other co-worker about what to do. So anyway, the three of us head out to a different bar and it’s this guy that we know’s birthday too. We’re all hanging out having a good time, and this random chick (in a freaking t-shirt at a bar) comes up to one of the guys in the group and eventually tells him that he’s not that attractive. He responds and asks her to name a girl in the bar that she’s more attractive than, and instead of doing that, she gets all huffy and upset that he would say that to her. He walks away, and she comes back five minutes later with her Facebook pulled up on her iPhone, shows him a picture, and is all shaking her shoulders and shit and says, “Do you think still think I’m unattractive now?!”

Of course, being slightly inebriated and in the I-don’t-give-a-shit mode (am I ever not in that mode?), several of us are cracking up and making fun of her. I’m sorry, but if you have to show someone a picture that you’ve posted online to justify your attractiveness, you should seriously reconsider. You’re clearly lying to everyone online in hopes that someone may buy into it and believe that you could possibly look semi-decent enough in person that they may want to sleep with you. Just saying.

Anyway, back to my protest. Hope this is enough to keep you entertained until my life is sorted out and I’m back. Until then, peace bitches!

Let’s admit it now, we all make mistakes.  Mistakes we are embarrassed about long after they’ve happened.  Something stirs in us years later and we sit up in the middle of the night and damn the situation.  It’s the situation’s fault, it should have never played out that way.  Why did the dominoes have to fall in that order?  Couldn’t they have split and gone around said circumstance?  If we really do have free will and all that jazz, couldn’t we all just choose the path of least resistance?  In theory, wouldn’t that path make everyone content with their decisions?  Imagine, no rethinking of the situation.

Sure, we all have our problems.  That’s a given.  Yet, as insurmountable as this is to some people, some people’s problems are way worse off than other people’s.  I am one of those problematic people.  You see, I’ve been recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder, which as you might know, means I have extreme lows and extreme highs.  These differences in mood can come at any time and under any circumstance.  But they are usually triggered, by this or that.

When I’m low, I’m depressed beyond belief.  It’s the worst you’ve ever felt and the torture is so great that suicide becomes a viable option.  A happy combination of ending the sadness and doing something that at the time seems worthwhile.

When I’m high, the sky is the limit.  I’m rude, ridiculous, backstabbing, adventurous, thrill-seeking, and emotionally spent.  Which means, that after any given altercation under the influence of a high, I’m extremely embarrassed about what just happened.

You might think that this is over dramatic, but believe me.  None of this is wished upon anyone.  There’s another degree of separation, that separates me from the typical bipolar patient.  That will remain a secret for now, as it’s even more personal than this information.  The point is, that there are things that I’m constantly embarrassed about and am struggling through on a daily basis.  I’ve lived a life full of embarrassment and strife.  And sometimes, the fun of friends, things, and adventures doesn’t seem to make up for the bad parts.

A manager once told me, after the discussion about my having bipolar disorder and it’s potential conflict with the workplace, that everyone had problems and essentially compared mine to his.  I wanted to end the conversation there, but he kept going.  Explaining that we all have trouble coping.  That everyone has their ups-and-downs.  This comparison, no matter how ridiculous, upset me greatly.  How can you compare major depression with common day problems.  How sick are you to suggest that everyone is excited by certain things when I’m triggered into complete mania.  I don’t see the similarities and maybe I never will.  I’m struck with awe when it comes to people who relate to those differences that make us unique by trying to blend them in with what they know.  Why do that?  Why make it seem less important?

I just thought you should know, that I’ve got you in check.  I’ve got my problems.  And you’ve got yours.  Let’s not begin to compare notes.

Today a young man reached into his back pocket to show me his ID. As he pulled his wallet from his pocket, several gold, tin foiled squares spilled on my desk and floor.  

Oh no! Is that what I think it is? Did he just drop CONDOMS!

Really? Right in front of me?

He did. And not only did he do it, but he did it to the one person in that entire room most ill-equipped to handle a socially awkward situation. The moment was quickly followed by a prickly silence between two very embarrassed people. Even my ears were burning.

Then, he recovered. Thank goodness because I was stuck to my seat, stifling my laugh, and unable to speak. He immediately apologized, frantically picked up his things and scurried away– his face nearly as bright as his orange shirt. I was left looking around for an eye-witness. Darn! Not a soul.

Well, that was entertaining. One thing is certain: Whatever his plans may be for this evening, he is abundantly (well) prepared.  

January 21, 2010

Alright, since I’m ostensibly doing this because I was told to by a friend, I’m going to start with her example of why I should write a blog. (I really think it’s just ’cause she likes blogging so damn much, but let’s pretend that it’s actually because I’m super fascinating):

Said friend, who for this post I will call Sacco, thinks that I should write a blog about being adopted, claims I have funny things to say about the whole thing. Sacco has been subjected to my rantings about this topic for years- more than anyone else, I think. This is not only because she is a wicked listener, but because we met about a month after I first met my ‘birth mother’ (‘birth mother’ in quotation marks, ’cause quite frankly, it’s kind of  a weird term- maybe more on that later). Meeting my birth mother was the culmination of a couple of years of searching, expensive record-seeking and years of thinking about it and probaby over-idealizing the whole thing. It was a big deal, but it certainly wasn’t what I expected. In fact, while it wasn’t horrible or fantastic, I think it’s pretty safe to say that it  introduced a whole ton of new problems/concerns/things to mull over into my life, while not really clarifying things for me or eradicating the issues I already had around the whole thing.

I feel like I need to qualify this by saying, I know adoption isn’t a big deal…like I need to be clear that it’s not like I had a hard childhood or anything. But it’s a big deal to me, if only in the sense that it’s part of the fabric I’m made up of, the context of my life, and the relationships I am or have been involved/entangled in in my life. It’s not a core part of my identity; it’s more of a matrix.

Starting this, I realize that I have tons to say on this subject. But, here is a start…Meeting birthfamily is not like meeting family. At least, it wasn’t for me. It’s more like going to some kind of awkward family reunion and meeting your second cousins, or someone peripherally related to you, but whom you feel no connection to. They may vaguely look like you, and you know that you should feel a sense of connection, but you’re also kind of weirded out and have nothing to say. There are polite comments and uncertainty as to what to do. Much like these types of interactions, it is good to have alcohol and/or food on hand, to fill some of the intermittent awkwardness.

It’s like that, only it’s also mixed with what I imagine going to a highschool reunion would be like. From many a trashy Hollywood films, I gather that the Reunion is all about impressing your former classmates in one way or another. Like ostensibly, it’s all about showing them that you ‘made it’ or that you have changed or that you haven’t changed or whatever. It’s all about going back to some primary relationships having had a whole lot of time to reflect, and a lot of time to think about what you would say when you attended it. There may be a need to make excuses for your current condition, perhaps some photos get passed around of your life in the intervening years since you last met. And I think, probably like an adoption ‘reunion’, there are small attempts at feigned connection or closeness.

I should say right now, that I am thinking in the back of my mind that I really hope my birth mother doesn’t read this. I wouldn’t want her to think that I don’t like her, or that I regret meeting her. That’s not it. But it was a surreal experience, and it’s also something that I feel less connected to as time goes on. I don’t talk to her now, but I know she’s a good person. She’s just not family, and she never will be. And so, I want to leave our relationship where it is, letting it settle into the background again, a little crisper and familiar…And it’s time to write about it, I guess.

Alright…so the ‘adoption reunion’: weird. At first it was great…I recieved a ton of emails, telling me stories about my birth family’s life. I found out things that were super interesting…and a couple of things that were disturbing, too. I printed the emails and pasted them into my journal, and felt like I was carrying around a huge, amazing secret. I was in between cities, having come back from traveling, and about to move. I had arranged to live in a wonderful, scrappy activisty house for two months, or maybe it was only one; I can’t remember. The time in that house was really great- I had few belongings, and only stuff I loved. I’d wake up every morning to lots of sunlight, and drink coffee on the stairs looking out over the garden. I had nice roomates and a ceiling with 4 or 5 colours of paint peeling from it. It was a much needed break…and surreal in its own way. This was the house where I first spoke to my birthmother on the phone, where I recieved her emails on my roomate’s computer in his dark basement room, and where I felt excited and hopeful. It felt like everything was changing in the most amazing way.

I moved to my new city, and kept corresponding by email with her. I live in Canada; she lived in the States. I lived on one coast; she lived on another. It was pleasant to be in contact, but it was safe too. She was far away…a fantasy person…our relationship something I had control over. Then, without warning, she moved. She moved to MY city.

She attempted to explain it as a choice unrelated to our ‘reunion’: she needed some time to think about her relationsip with her latest husband, she missed living out here, and she had health-related issues which could only be treated in my city. I still don’t really know what to think about this, except that it was damn awkward to get a phone call telling me that she lived here. Yup, that was weird.

My best friend at the time helped me prepare. He bought me coffee and biked me downtown. I stood around the corner from the restaurant we were supposed to meet at, reading and re-reading a bulletin board about the history of the area. I remember simultaneously being horrified about the in-between-the-lines of the historical narrative, while also freaking out and trying to think of how I could get out of the situation, whether I should run…And I kept thinking, ‘well, she might have already seen me’. It was strange knowing that I could have walked by her, could be around her at that very moment, or very shortly would be. I mean, I don’t know how much you have  experienced this kind of thing, but I had spent my whole life never knowing or seeing anyone genetically related to me. While I knew I had family out there, I felt (well still feel, I guess) on my own. Like, I felt lonely in some ways for –not family, but origins, like indisputable origins–and I felt hungry to fall into something that would make me feel like my feet were on the ground, like I could let down my guard, like I belonged (I have since found that some of this may just be the nature of life- I mean, we are all looking for more belonging, and we all have different forms of belonging/we all have strands and webs of relationships…but that’s not really pertinent to this story). There is also something magical about not knowing the history of where you come from. This is something I really miss. There is a lot of freedom in being so singularly yourself. So, I was sort of on the precipice of all of that changing. I wasn’t sure I really wanted it, even though I had always thought I did.

After awhile, I just stopped thinking- walked into the restaurant. It felt horrible, that first moment. I immediately wanted to run out the door. The restaurant had clearly just opened- probably not long before my birth mother had arrived. She had now been waiting for me to come for at least 20 minutes, but it might have been longer. I swear, all the waitresses/staff kind of stopped what they were doing for a moment as I approached the table. She had evidently told everyone within earshot that she was meeting me. And, conveniently, we were seated directly across from the kitchen and server’s stand. It made me hyper aware of how I thought I should act. I mean, in movies they always instantly recognize one another, right? It’s tearful, and it’s a huge relief- people coming home to one another. But it wasn’t like that.

We had nachos, but I couldn’t eat them. She kept trying to get me to order, to get me to eat. Thinking back on it, it was like she was really trying to give me something, or to show me that she could  give me something. But I couldn’t eat. I felt shaky and awkard and like eating would be too difficult. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t know what to order for a drink, and I don’t even know if I did drink anything. For some reason, we had to sit on the same side of the table. I think it was a booth. And we were facing the kitchen. The restaurant was dark, with Mexican decorations dangling about, and in my memory, there was no music, hardly any sounds. Everything I said felt very audible. I hate talking loudly in places about personal things, when I think people might overhear me. I don’ t like feeling on display or knowing that others can hear personal conversations, even though I’m sure most of the time- in restaurants or cafes, no one gives a fuck. Anyhow, that’s how it was.

She didn’t have all that much to say. In fact, her oustanding first comment was, ”Your forehead isn’t so big anymore” (which gave me a mild forehead size complex for a few weeks, until I realized that not only did I not care what she thought about my forehead, but that newborn babies’ foreheads look bigger than adults. I mean, it’s just not a reasonable comparison. But anyhow…). She told me about where she had moved (many many places, all for no clear reason), who she had married ( a few people, whom she didn’t have much to say about), and very briefly, about my ‘birth father’. We looked at photos of her family; she only briefly flipped through the ones I’d brought. She couldn’t tell me much about a lot of the people in her photos, and kept asking if I wanted any of them. I didn’t really look at them too closely, since I was focused on trying to make pleasant comments about people. This is a subject for another day, but -as mean as this sounds- one of the things about being adopted that is really hard is that, when you do meet/learn about your biological relatives, they are sometimes pretty damn ugly.

Okay, I totally know that sounds mean…but to be fair, for all I know my family (and by family I mean family- my parents, my siblings, the cousins and aunts and uncles I have grown up with and who have claimed me/made me their own)- for all I know my family is ugly. You know, I really don’t think so…but I think this is what I am trying to say about this whole thing—I have grown up knowing my family members’ faces, loving them and seeing them as some of the most beautiful people I have ever met. I grew up using their features as the norm, the standard, the features I hoped to grow into, and in some ways did (whether due to socialization/imitation or whatever, I really looked a lot like my family/and still maybe do in some ways—at least to the point that people frequently did not believe that I was adopted when I was a child, and thought that I was making it up). I don’t think I look like my birth family, and it makes me upset when I can recognize their features on my face or my body. (And I sometimes miss feeling alone in origin). To me, my birth family are ugly- I mean, at the time of this meeting, they really really did, with the exception of one or two people. They are unfamiliar. You know how even new friends are sometimes recognizable as family when you first meet them/like they are super familiar to the point where once you’ve met them, you can’t imagine how you didn’t know them all along? Yeah, that’s not how it is with birth family. Not with mine, anyhow.

This is turning into a super long post. I’m going to end this pretty soon. I really haven’t related the story much…haven’t given any details of what she was/is like, where it went from there. But I think the sort of thing about the bits I have said is that, this moment of connection, of meeting, it wasn’t really about meeting her. I mean, I had no idea about this. And I wish I could forewarn others, though I’m not sure how that would change anyone’s approach to finding birth family. I really believe that for me, and many others, meeting birthfamily is a right, but that it is also something that, whether good or bad, we need to do. We need to have it, and the search is part of  trying to become whole. 

Biological family is something that a lot of people take for granted, and unless you’ve been there- unless you’ve grown up having absolutely no biological relations or information about them, then you really can’t understand completely. I will never know how my experience differs from non-adopted people. I can only guess, because I have no other way to conceptualize who my family is other than as non-biologically related, and I have no sense of what it would be like to grow up with people I originated from, had a similar body to, the same colour eyes as, the same predispositions…all of that. I’m digressing…I think what I wanted to say is that, meeting birth family, for me, wasn’t a conclusion to a journey, it wasn’t the beginning of a relationship, really…even though that was what I had intended it to be. It was really a shaking up of my life, a shaking up of my identity, in ways that I wasn’t prepared for.

 I’m glad Idid it when I was young (22). I’m really glad that I took it on while I was still sifting through so many other things about my life and my sense of self. But it’s changed things, really, for good too. And it’s meant that I’ve had to figure out a whole new set of questions about who I am and who I want to be in the world. It’s rattled my self esteem, made me feel more alone, made me angry and sad and guilty-feeling and ashamed, relieved and confused…and I think now, it has given me something, while shaky and slightly messy, that I could add to the rest…like something I could add to the foundation I already had for my life. And it’s given me a different take, a little more clarity on my origin story. And origin stories, they’re so fundamental to knowing that you are alive, that you belong on the earth, and that you are intertwined with everyone else, connected and criss crossed with other relationships and lives.

“What those girls on Sex and the City do is NOT normal.” – Mrs. Mom

“Therapists are witch doctors. The whole field of psychiatry is black magic. ” – Dr. Dad

“Every time I feel guilty about spending mom and dad’s money, I remember… that they made a choice to have us.” – DJ Bro

Submitted by: Anonymous

Sorry for the lack of updates!

Here is one that I found that you may like.

Yes, that is true, I am a huge liar, but not here. This is probably the only place I won’t lie, why not? It’s a simple answer, no one I know will ever read this.

The strange thing is, I only lie to people I know very well. The truth is just so boring to those who already know me, so why not spice up the conversation with a tall tale here and there? It makes sense, doesn’t it? I can tell a total stranger my day, and they are somewhat amused because they’ve never heard that story before. I can open up to them with my past, without covering anything up, because they don’t know me at all so they won’t think back to other things I have done and read into why I did that certain thing the way I did. Wow, that’s a mouthful.

I could go up to any random person, and tell them my deepest darkest secrets, without even a small white lie. But I can’t get through a simple conversation with BFF without stretching the truth a little bit. I mean, come on! She’s heard about my fights with my Mom over and over, so I throw in that my Mom called me a selfish bitch, and the story gets more interesting, and more intriguing.

I think my confidence around strangers is what attracts men to me. I will be the first to admit, I am not the prettiest, or smartest, but when put in an awkward situation with someone new, I have a hell of a great personality! It’s how I met Blue, and Private, and this one guy(FM) I often seek solace with when Private and I aren’t on speaking terms.

Hold up, someone’s ringing the intercom.

Okay, I’m back, and you’re probably curious as to whether or not that was a lie. It wasn’t, I ordered Chinese food! So I vow, to never lie in these post. Who knows? Maybe one day I will publish all my entries, but then I would have to either disconnect from all those I know I will be hurting with it, throw some money their way, or tell them to suck it up and accept their(and my) flaws.

OK, so I know it’s not exactly award winning photography or anything, but I wanted to give you an update on our whole water-less situation without infringing on my neighbor’s privacy. For those of you who can’t decipher the image without an explanation, hopefully this will help. On the top right is a typical green utility box; the only thing atypical is the fact that it’s not on the ground and water is surging out of it. Apparently, a pipe burst beneath it, shooting that box up from the ground, and now water is rushing into it and spraying out all over my neighbor’s yard and into the street. After about an hour and a half of this, the water company has finally arrived, but they don’t exactly look like they know what is going on. Anyway, fingers crossed that this isn’t the reason that we haven’t been able to get water today, and our pipes are just frozen. It’s up to 32 degrees now, so maybe they’ll thaw out soon? Please?

Like everywhere else, we’ve been experiencing a major cold snap the last few days. Luckily for me, this doesn’t mean snow or anything (knock on wood), but just that I’m not as comfortable taking the dogs out as I was say, last week. While I hate the cold weather – even before Templetons I-VII invaded my house – I can’t complain too much since I live in the south and, aside from the inconvenience of having to wear a coat, it’s not too bad, especially in comparison to other parts of the country.

That being said, those were my thoughts before this morning, but now I think I’ve earned the right to complain. My boyfriend woke up to get ready for work and went into the bathroom only to find… no water. In the house. Anywhere. Yep, you heard me… our pipes are frozen. I immediately called the landlord to see what he could do. Of course I got his voice mail, but he eventually called me back with two options:

1. Pour water on the pipe until it thaws. Hmm… now how the fuck do you propose I do that? You know, seeing as we have no water in the house and all.

2. Use a blow dryer. And don’t do have it on too high, or the pipe will burst. What?!

Great. If you haven’t been able to figure it out yet, (other than the mice hunting) I’m not much of a do-it-yourself kind of girl, and I’d rather just have someone do it for me. Isn’t this supposed to be a given when you’re cute, like a free gift with purchase or something? Or don’t men have some type of a signal that picks up on a damsel in distress needing assistance? I thought so, but since my landlord didn’t exactly offer any assistance and my boyfriend is at work, it leaves me pretty SOL. Ugh. So now I have to bundle up, go out in the 23 degree weather, and attempt to slowly blow dry the pipes without them bursting.

Wish me luck! This should be interesting…

today, i had a physics exam. it was a unit test for science 10, my last unit test before my provincial actually. but anyways, when i have my tests, usually i’m the youngest one there. sometimes there are adults taking tests, which makes me feel… well, little. so i sign my name and student number, and follow the proctor to the exam room.

i told my mom i would take an hour, because that seems like a reasonable amount of time for a unit test, right? especially for physics, which isn’t my strongest subject. well, i was wrong. really wrong. i check the number of questions and there’s only 30! the other tests had at least 45, but no, this one had 30. i finished in ten minutes.

so i felt really awkward. i’m looking around the room and there’s people with 2 or 3 hour long exams, and were even allowed extra time after that if they needed. i felt totally bad leaving after ten minutes! i spend the next twenty minutes slowly reading through my exam and answering the questions again… doodling random equations on paper so it looked like i was actually doing something… occasionally using my calculator… etc. i didn’t want them to think i cheated when i didn’t. jeez, i’m so awkward. anyway, eventually i gave up trying to extend my time and left quietly. toodle loos, poor girl taking history 12. bye bye people in the back of the room. i’m off to run some errands.

good thing is, i got an A! so at least my quickness wasn’t because i was getting everything wrong.

What if getting into a new relationship was like applying for a job? It would be a lot easier if we got a person’s basic qualifications right there on a sheet of fancy, thick resume paper. Sifting through the candidates would be far less exhausting and the whole process could be completely streamlined.

Thus I propose – the relationship resume.

One would detail their vital statistics – name, SAT scores, current address…..income over the last three years. And any arrests that don’t fall in the Party Crime category thus involving more serious misbehavior than public nudity or operating your loft like a nightclub without a liquor license.

It would also include other important information to note – like an affinity for camping or an obsession with pornography.

Since you can pretty much predict a person’s relationship pattern based on their last few relationships, the Experience portion of the resume would be of utmost importance. It would list the significant other, her age, occupation, and length of relationship. The details would go on to specify whether there was any cohabitation, engagements, pregnancies or pets involved. Also, whether there was any infidelity or the need to issue a restraining order.  Just so you’re aware ahead of time if you have to watch out for one of those crazy ex- girlfriends.

Next, whether the couple traveled together, exchanged expensive gifts and how much time they spent with each others families and friends. Pretty much, how good of a boyfriend was this guy. Although this type of information would be best left for references to elaborate upon.

Finally, the reason that this relationship did not work out and how it ended. Extremely important – considering this is likely how your relationship with this person will also end.

Other things that the resume should encompass – real estate ownership, club memberships, obsessions/disorders/ addictions, and of course ease of accessibility to yachts and jets.

It’s a document of full disclosure of all the things that you will eventually find out. Whether intentionally or not. Think about it… wouldn’t it be nice to know right away if your new boyfriend will secretly activate the GPS locator on your phone to know where you are at all times or if you will get an incredible gift for your birthday?

Let’s not forget though, that this would go both ways. How would your resume look in the hands of your dinner date?  So the next time you’re about to throw a hissy fit over an R’ed bbm….. Don’t.

I met her when I was 15 years old and living in Panama City, Florida. My dad was pastoring a small Episcopal church, and my family had been there for about a year and a half.

I had been leading at our youth ministry’s weekly services, a couple of songs for the Sunday morning service, and songs at other events ocassionally.

This particular event was one of a series of summertime mid-week services held in the chapel, with an extended time of singing at the beginning, followed by a teaching. I had just started Paul Baloche’s new (at that time) song “Open the Eyes of My Heart, Lord”, when she came in the back door with her tambourine swinging.

I was really young and had not been leading worship for very long. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t believe this was happening – and from the looks on the faces of the people in the congregation – they couldn’t either.

The tambourine is one of those instruments that either has to be played really well, or hidden deep inside a closet where no one would ever think to look. You know what I mean.

In this instance, it was not being played well. Honestly, it was being played horrendously poorly. That’s probably too kind of a definition. It wasn’t being played at all. It was being used as a weapon of mass distraction. That’s more like it. A bit cheesy but accurate.

No one had taught me what to do in this situation. None of the conferences I had attended had offered seminars on “what to do with the tambourine lady”. The worship leading books had all conveniently left this chapter out. And YouTube didn’t even exist yet, so I couldn’t log on and watch Paul Baloche’s instructional video on the topic.

So I would like to offer some tips on what do when you’re leading worship and all of the sudden a woman walks into the back of the room with her own personal tambourine. I call them the “AAA’s”.

Assess
Do a quick damage assessment of the congregation. What percentage seems to be distracted and disturbed? Has everyone noticed? Do they not even care? Are they about to stage a tambourine revolt and kick her out of the room? The extent of the damage will affect your next move.

Adjust
If the tambourine “playing” seems to have distracted every single person in the room, you might want to think about skipping your fast songs and singing some slow songs. Really slow songs. Odds are (you hope – and pray) that the slow tempo will mean no more tambourine. Or you may just need to keep going on as you had planned.

In all seriousness, when a disruption like this happens, just relax, pray a quick prayer for the Holy Spirit’s guidance, and then make the decision that you feel is best. You may very well need to adjust your leading somehow.

Approach (and ask)
Seek the tambourine lady out after the service at all costs. If you can’t find her, call her. If you can’t call her, email her. If you can’t email her, drive to her house. If she doesn’t have a house, put an ad in the local paper. Somehow you have to talk with this person – with your pastor, ideally.

What you want to do is approach her, thank her for her desire to worship God with the tambourine, and ask her if she would like to come to an audition.

If she says no, then you can ask if she would refrain from playing during a service since the other musicians who are up front all rehearse together.

If she says yes, I would be surprised, but you’d need to set up a time to meet with her and audition her, and then be honest with her. (See my post on how to be honest with unskilled musicians who audition for worship teams.)

You may never meet the tambourine lady, but I have heard that she has a habit of showing up at most churches at one point or another.

If you do have the privilege of meeting her, please tell her I said hi.

Ok. We all have our moments. Lord knows I have. When you walk away like, “Wow, I am not fit to walk on this planet, I cannot believe I just said that.”  But sometimes it’s the other person, and you are left without a doubt in your mind that it’s them and not you.

Necessary back story:

1. I caught the plague on my way back from California.
2. I probably could have avoided some of this plague-like illness if I had taken medicine immediately, but being hired at my new job was contingent upon taking (and passing, obviously) a drug test.
3. I was genuinely terrified that if I took Sudafed/my very-expired-but-still works-like-a-charm cough syrup with codeine in it I’d be presumed an opiate abuser and never be hired. Laugh, but I’ve never done a drug in my life, so what do I know? P.S., purple drank? Seriously?! Thank you hip hop culture.
4. While I was gone, Oklahoma had an actual blizzard, complete with 2 feet of snow and 50 MPH winds. Like, shut down all of the freeways in the state bad.

Yesterday was Day 7 of the aforementioned plague, and after sleeping for 14 hours straight I actually felt like a human again. Just, you know, a human that was so weak that I couldn’t leave my couch. So THIS is what being run over by a snow plow feels like. Cool. Naturally I decided to order food to be delivered, because WOW, America is that great, and frankly it was hard enough to just dial the phone, so the idea of driving somewhere was laughable.

By the time my interaction with the delivery guy was over, I knew the following:

1. That he had forgotten his pen in his car because he was so distracted by the blocks of ice on my lawn.
2. His analysis of the shapes of the blocks of ice on my lawn.
3. Where he moved here from.
4. That his garage door is broken.
5. That he cannot park on his driveway.
6. His roommate’s name.
7. His landlord’s name.
8. That he has a cat.
9. That he’s not getting his security deposit back.
10. That the entirety of his social interaction is in his deliveries.

Truly it was the strangest food delivery interaction I have EVER had. And I think I spoke thirteen words from start to finish. I was closing the door and he was still talking. Also, as a side note, did you know that in Oklahoma you can have a sandwich delivered to you? A SANDWICH. Not pizza or Chinese food, the only two things I have ever had delivered, but a sandwich.

After my 9+ hour drive “home” on Sunday, I met up with one of my friends for a much needed drink (and dinner) at this cute, trendy sushi restaurant in town. One of my favorite things about this place, other than the delicious menu filled with creative rolls, is the atmosphere… and the fact that it’s not exactly kid-friendly. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the idea of kids and I love my niece and nephews dearly, but sometimes – especially when I’m spending an expensive night out – I just want to be around grown ups.

Anyway, my friend and I are about mid-way through our bottle of wine, catching up on gossip, and enjoying our sushi that has just arrived… only to look over to find a woman breastfeeding at a dinner table nearby. Breastfeeding! In public! Needless to say, I was shocked and appalled. But seriously, who does that?! I mean, I completely understand if you make the decision to breastfeed your child, but you need to plan in advance for social outings. Why could she not have pumped before or breastfed in the car or the bathroom? While she did have it covered up, the thought of her exposed, chapped nipple underneath the blanket really sicked me out and I almost gagged on my sushi.

Hungry child or not, is it really that difficult to consider the people around you before you pop out a boob? If we wanted a peep show, we’d be at a strip club.

Those who know me know the story about the guy and the sandwhich. From welcome week.

Well, God seems to have a sick sense of humor because i often find myself face to face with memories I’d rather not encounter again.

I went to a Christmas party and guess who was there? Sandwich man. He lives in my hometown and we happened to be at the same place because we were also involved in the same organization at different times. I was mortified. We made slight conversation and just kind of stuttered at each other until he made a lame excuse to escape towards the chips and drinks. Luckily I had told my best friend everything and she was there to shield me from his sight the rest of the party.

By the time we left, I was mentally exhausted from the ordeal, and proceeded to freak out while Christmas carols softly played through my minivan’s speakers.  Sometimes my life is too much.

Can’t wait to see him again on campus. SIGH.

Keep it Classy.

So…um yeah… I’ve been freaking out a bit over the last 24 hours. Leave it to my family to bring a special kind of misfit drama to the holidays. It never fails. Every single freaking year there is some kind of calamity right around Christmas that makes me want to mix pharmaceuticals and alcohol like no other.  So I’m dealing with that, when all I really want to do is hunker down and get some writing done. I actually have a lot to get done in that department!

Anyways…

I’d like to thank my oldest, Tater Tot for making that guy and I have the most awkward parenting moment EVER! She’s in that wonderful phase where she can remember stuff. Crap.

She got a Ken doll from Cruella for Christmas. Not only a Ken Doll, but a Ken Doll of color that is dressed in Roca Wear….her intolerant father’s worst nightmare. Well, I was working on something in my room and I hear, “GO TELL YOUR MOTHER WHAT YOU JUST TOLD ME>>>NOW!”

Tater Tot comes in all wide eyed, and has a half naked Ken Doll in her hand. I ask her what’s going on and she matter of factly says, “I’m taking his clothes off so he can lay on his girlfriend and say oh-oh-oh like you and Daddy do.”

HOLY SH!TBALLS! She did NOT just say that! OMG!… that’s my inner dialogue. But I don’t want to scar the kid, so I just fake like it doesn’t freak me out and said…”keep his clothes on, that’s grown up stuff, little girls don’t need to play that.”

Luckily for me, she was ok with that explanation and went about her business in a more rated G kind of way. I only remember her walking in on us one time like a year and a half ago! Must’ve been some scary shit for her to remember that long.

So shine up my Mommy Of The Year trophy. I’m a lock this year.

Later.

You know sometimes we just don’t fully appreciate what journalists have to go through to deliver us the news.

This is the person who has a desk at work right next to the bathroom.  Many fear this person.  This is the person, at no fault of their own, that patrols activity in and out of the bathroom in your workplace whether they want to or not.  They see who comes, they see who goes, they see how long it takes them.  Men especially fear this person.  Everyone is aware of what is happening if a man is in the bathroom for more than 2 minutes.  Matters are made far worse when this person sees someone go into the bathroom with a newspaper or a magazine.  Some have gone so far as to hide from this person, waiting for them to get up to get a cup a coffee or go into a meeting so they are not judged.  The Bathroom Post Patroler controls your workplace, whether you are aware or not.