I've been surprised time and time again over the last couple years by the number of folks who actually follow my blog. First of all, a heartfelt and genuine THANKS--it's always great to know that people appreciate your efforts! I am even more surprised, however, by the "who factor", as in, who actually reads my blog. Aunts, uncles, friends of my mother, former teachers...sometimes, after I've written a particularly..well, let's say "Pico De Gallo"-esque blogpost, I'm more than a little red in the face to find out that my ninth grade English teacher probably read it. While these more candid posts tend to receive a lot of attention ("What Not To Do When Making Pico De Gallo" is still my most popular post to date, as folks will still refer to it, now more than a year later), I have to admit that even I get a little weirded out from time to time. Have I offended anyone's delicate sensibilities? Maybe my aunt didn't want to know about Drunken TV Antenna Man's very frank discussions about misshapen syringes and his manparts. Then I get narcissistic and paranoid, thinking that certain friends who haven't returned my phone call after two or three days must have been completely horrified by the comparisons I made between labor contractions and sexual desire. I psyche myself out sometimes.
But what I've come to learn (and even appreciate, I guess) is that I've gotta just keep being me. The last 2 1/2 years of blog posts have been the true, unadulterated Lauren. It's not always (or even often, for that matter) pretty, but it's honest. And, I suppose if folks didn't like it, they'd stop reading.
So, my heartiest thanks (and apologies) to my aunts, uncles, friends-of-my-mother, former teachers and anyone else out there who is reading my blog and is getting a tickle (or a heart attack) from what I've written. Stay tuned...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
If I'm Lost You Can Look And You Will Find Me
Not that I've had my head in a hole for the last several years (or for all 32 years of my life for that matter), but I was still a little jolted by the article that I read a couple days ago, nonetheless. It would seem that merely due to the color of my skin, if I were to go missing or be murdered, this crime would be less likely to be reported in the news, than say, if one of my white girlfriends befell the same bad luck. Not to say that the police would not open and investigate a case, but the media would be less likely to have a story on the evening news, online or in the newspaper. This means that the vital first few days that I or my kidnapper/killer could be found would go by without the benefit of media attention, which could alert the public to the situation.
Let's face it; love it or hate it, we've all heard of Lacy Peterson, Natalee Holloway, Chandra Levy, Stacy Peterson, amongst other young, pretty, white women who have gone missing or turned up dead. But why do we not hear about the many women of color who meet the same awful fate? For example, about two years ago, there was a young, black college student who was in a club in Florida during summer break, only to go missing. I literally saw one article about her on CNN. I can't even remember her name because of how little media coverage has been done. I've just done a google search to try to find an article about this young woman; after conducting a few more searches, I was able to find out that a suspect has been arrested in her murder. Does anyone have to do a google search to find out what happened to Lacy, Natalee, Chandra or their killers?
Listen, I realize that there are thousands of women of all races that go missing or are murdered every year, and that only a very small fraction of those become the media sensation that Lacy Peterson was. But the issue is more that we hardly ever hear about desperate searches or investigations for black or hispanic women in trouble. The case of the Rocky Mount (North Carolina) murders is a case in point. Over the span of six years, ten women have turned up murdered in what experts believe is the work of a serial killer, and yet only $20,000 has been managed to be pulled together for information in the case. To put this in perspective, $20,000 was pulled together within a day of Yale graduate student Annie Le's disappearance. Granted, this is an Ivy League school, but still, why has it taken six years and ten murders for the same amount of money to be raised for the women of Rocky Mount? I think that it's fair to say that if ten white women had been found murdered over the last six years, the media would be all over this story.
I realize I'm on my soapbox here, but for good reason. I am pretty partial to staying alive, and my family and friends love me just as much as any other woman's friends and family. Shouldn't I have the same benefit of media coverage if I were to be kidnapped so that public awareness might save me? Or, if I'm already dead, shouldn't my loved ones have the benefit of the public attention in helping to find my killer?
The murder of any innocent person is awful. Not giving the case its fair due because of the victim's race is tragedy upon tragedy.
Let's face it; love it or hate it, we've all heard of Lacy Peterson, Natalee Holloway, Chandra Levy, Stacy Peterson, amongst other young, pretty, white women who have gone missing or turned up dead. But why do we not hear about the many women of color who meet the same awful fate? For example, about two years ago, there was a young, black college student who was in a club in Florida during summer break, only to go missing. I literally saw one article about her on CNN. I can't even remember her name because of how little media coverage has been done. I've just done a google search to try to find an article about this young woman; after conducting a few more searches, I was able to find out that a suspect has been arrested in her murder. Does anyone have to do a google search to find out what happened to Lacy, Natalee, Chandra or their killers?
Listen, I realize that there are thousands of women of all races that go missing or are murdered every year, and that only a very small fraction of those become the media sensation that Lacy Peterson was. But the issue is more that we hardly ever hear about desperate searches or investigations for black or hispanic women in trouble. The case of the Rocky Mount (North Carolina) murders is a case in point. Over the span of six years, ten women have turned up murdered in what experts believe is the work of a serial killer, and yet only $20,000 has been managed to be pulled together for information in the case. To put this in perspective, $20,000 was pulled together within a day of Yale graduate student Annie Le's disappearance. Granted, this is an Ivy League school, but still, why has it taken six years and ten murders for the same amount of money to be raised for the women of Rocky Mount? I think that it's fair to say that if ten white women had been found murdered over the last six years, the media would be all over this story.
I realize I'm on my soapbox here, but for good reason. I am pretty partial to staying alive, and my family and friends love me just as much as any other woman's friends and family. Shouldn't I have the same benefit of media coverage if I were to be kidnapped so that public awareness might save me? Or, if I'm already dead, shouldn't my loved ones have the benefit of the public attention in helping to find my killer?
The murder of any innocent person is awful. Not giving the case its fair due because of the victim's race is tragedy upon tragedy.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
So Long SCM, Hello DTVAM!!!
So once there was Sleazy Cafe Man who skulked around the internet cafe in Oregon, creeping out me and many other unsuspecting women in Roseburg. And then, one day, he disappeared, ne'er to be seen again...
Now, a new breed of creepy man has surfaced...Drunken TV Antenna Man. For the last year or so, our TV antenna (yes, we still have rabbit ears; we can't/won't/refuse to invest in cable tv) has been picking up the voice of a rough-voiced, drunk-sounding man who rambles on and on (to who? we don't know) about various topics. Recently, the reception for DATVM has gotten so clear that we can hardly hear whatever TV program is on at the time. So, rather than continue my futile attempts at fiddling with the antenna to avoid his wavelengh, instead I've started listening to him.
A few nights ago, he was talking about a bunch of marijuana and I started to get nervous that he might be confessing to something I shouldn't hear. In fact, everytime I hear him talking, I know that I might be witnessing (well, hearing) something--like a crime--that I might have an ethical obligation to report. You don't know how much I really don't want that to happen. Already I'm worried that DTVAM is closer to my house than I'd like to imagine, and that somehow he'll find out that we've been hearing him. Crossed wires, overheard plotting of a crime, the innocent witness becoming the prey...sort of like that movie "Sorry, Wrong Number" if you've ever seen it. Creepiness at its finest.
But, then again, he might be a likeable type of drunk guy. After all, last night he was talking about how "it feels like a square-shaped syringe in my scrotum!". Adam winced when he heard that one...and I knew I had a bit of material for the blog.
Good night. :-)
Now, a new breed of creepy man has surfaced...Drunken TV Antenna Man. For the last year or so, our TV antenna (yes, we still have rabbit ears; we can't/won't/refuse to invest in cable tv) has been picking up the voice of a rough-voiced, drunk-sounding man who rambles on and on (to who? we don't know) about various topics. Recently, the reception for DATVM has gotten so clear that we can hardly hear whatever TV program is on at the time. So, rather than continue my futile attempts at fiddling with the antenna to avoid his wavelengh, instead I've started listening to him.
A few nights ago, he was talking about a bunch of marijuana and I started to get nervous that he might be confessing to something I shouldn't hear. In fact, everytime I hear him talking, I know that I might be witnessing (well, hearing) something--like a crime--that I might have an ethical obligation to report. You don't know how much I really don't want that to happen. Already I'm worried that DTVAM is closer to my house than I'd like to imagine, and that somehow he'll find out that we've been hearing him. Crossed wires, overheard plotting of a crime, the innocent witness becoming the prey...sort of like that movie "Sorry, Wrong Number" if you've ever seen it. Creepiness at its finest.
But, then again, he might be a likeable type of drunk guy. After all, last night he was talking about how "it feels like a square-shaped syringe in my scrotum!". Adam winced when he heard that one...and I knew I had a bit of material for the blog.
Good night. :-)
Friday, October 16, 2009
Flat Iron Press
So, since not a lot has been going on in my current life (other than wake up at 11am, breastfeed, wash the baby, change baby's diaper, play with baby, breastfeed baby, put baby down for a nap, MAYBE get some housework done, take care of baby for the rest of the day, put baby to bed for the night, go online for a couple hours, go to bed, get up 3-4 times per night to nurse or check on baby, rinse and repeat), I'm forced to write about my past to keep you entertained. Well, at least my 20s were mildly fascinating to have provided fodder for these considerably more sanguine years of my 30s.
Anyway, in the summer of 1997, right after my sophomore year of college, I decided to stay in Manhattan to work rather than head back home to Virginia. Even though I stayed in the dorms, they were expensive enough that I took all sorts of odd jobs to afford my rent and meal plan. Today's post is just a memory of the many things I was once willing to do to stay in the city
I was already working as a baby-sitter for a nanny agency, so I kept my evenings free to continue working for my uptown clients. In addition, I also answered ads to be a "door opener" for a young couple's party. Their front door was downstairs from their condo and they couldn't hear guests ringing the bell over the music, so they hired me (twice!) to sit by the door and answer it as guests arrived. I got paid $50and a glass of wine (I was only 19 at the time so that was pretty cool for me) for my efforts.
I also got a temporary job working at the design department of the clothing company Van Heusen. A friend of mine at the time was a freelance clothing designer and she had been working with Van Heusen off and on, and heard they needed some temporary help during that summer. I think I got paid $30/hour, so I was more than willing to work on the Upper East Side, get a rare view into the world of fashion design, and pay my bills at that. It turned out to be pretty boring work. I was hired to cut out copies of designs and affix them to sheets of paper to be filed away later. The women who actually worked at the company were uber-snooty and NEVER brown-bagged their lunch, so I was always a little snubbed for being the poor college student temp who brought her lunch to work. Whatever. I got loads of money, and that's all I really cared about.
My longer-lasting job that summer was working for a temp agency. I remember going in and having to show my typing proficiency, which I later learned, did not include any backspacing I might do to correct errors. After ascertaining that I was no typist, they ended up assigning me to St Martins Press, which I didn't realize until my first day of work is located in the historic Flatiron Building at 23rd St where Broadway and Fifth Avenue intersect. I was in awe. In fact, I got to work early enough that first morning that I sat in the park just east of the building for a few minutes, admiring its beauty, watching traffic and the world go by.
I ended up working for a woman (Caroline? Ann? Helen?) in her 40s who was brusk but friendly. She introduced me to the girl I was filling in for, who had decided to go of to graduate school. I soon found out why. The work, which mostly involved finding plot summaries for books that were published there, making copies of those and then putting them into alphabetized files, was mind-numbingly boring. In fact, I literally fell asleep over my work on a number occasions. I actually fell asleep standing up over the copy machine it was so boring. But I did find one interesting part of the job--reading the plot summaries for the books. St Martins Press publishes a wide variety of books, from fiction to autobiographical to self-help, and I passed the slow periods by reading the plot descriptions of some of the books with more interesting titles. Over and over again, I'd come across the titles "Surfing the Himalayas" and "Snowboarding to Nirvana" which I could only imagine was about an extreme-sports enthusiast with a wild imagination. I was pretty absorbed with the murder-mystery book titles and some of the other fiction. On one of my last days working at St Martins Press, my boss told me that I could select some books that were almost-finalized hardback copies that needed a bit more editing. I was psyched to be able to take some books home, so I took one really long novel called "Tully" and another, by the same author, called "Red Leaves." Both were pretty good. Despite my boredom by the job and my little habit of falling asleep over my work, I apparently did a bangup job because my boss offered to hire me on permanently. I had to refuse since I was returning to college in a few weeks, but I was kind of flattered that she liked me, and was willing to serve as a reference for me for future job prospects. I've never forgotten that job and that big old odd-shaped building. Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention that the Flatiron building has a really old rickety elevator that I was sure was going to break and caue me to fall to my death.
So, that's that. Everytime I'm back in Manhattan and walk past the Flatiron Building I can't help but want to walk in (use the OTHER elevator that's a little more stable) and see what's become of St Martins Press. But instead, I remain content just looking up at the building, in all its wonder. It is satisfying enough on its own.
Anyway, in the summer of 1997, right after my sophomore year of college, I decided to stay in Manhattan to work rather than head back home to Virginia. Even though I stayed in the dorms, they were expensive enough that I took all sorts of odd jobs to afford my rent and meal plan. Today's post is just a memory of the many things I was once willing to do to stay in the city
I was already working as a baby-sitter for a nanny agency, so I kept my evenings free to continue working for my uptown clients. In addition, I also answered ads to be a "door opener" for a young couple's party. Their front door was downstairs from their condo and they couldn't hear guests ringing the bell over the music, so they hired me (twice!) to sit by the door and answer it as guests arrived. I got paid $50and a glass of wine (I was only 19 at the time so that was pretty cool for me) for my efforts.
I also got a temporary job working at the design department of the clothing company Van Heusen. A friend of mine at the time was a freelance clothing designer and she had been working with Van Heusen off and on, and heard they needed some temporary help during that summer. I think I got paid $30/hour, so I was more than willing to work on the Upper East Side, get a rare view into the world of fashion design, and pay my bills at that. It turned out to be pretty boring work. I was hired to cut out copies of designs and affix them to sheets of paper to be filed away later. The women who actually worked at the company were uber-snooty and NEVER brown-bagged their lunch, so I was always a little snubbed for being the poor college student temp who brought her lunch to work. Whatever. I got loads of money, and that's all I really cared about.
My longer-lasting job that summer was working for a temp agency. I remember going in and having to show my typing proficiency, which I later learned, did not include any backspacing I might do to correct errors. After ascertaining that I was no typist, they ended up assigning me to St Martins Press, which I didn't realize until my first day of work is located in the historic Flatiron Building at 23rd St where Broadway and Fifth Avenue intersect. I was in awe. In fact, I got to work early enough that first morning that I sat in the park just east of the building for a few minutes, admiring its beauty, watching traffic and the world go by.
I ended up working for a woman (Caroline? Ann? Helen?) in her 40s who was brusk but friendly. She introduced me to the girl I was filling in for, who had decided to go of to graduate school. I soon found out why. The work, which mostly involved finding plot summaries for books that were published there, making copies of those and then putting them into alphabetized files, was mind-numbingly boring. In fact, I literally fell asleep over my work on a number occasions. I actually fell asleep standing up over the copy machine it was so boring. But I did find one interesting part of the job--reading the plot summaries for the books. St Martins Press publishes a wide variety of books, from fiction to autobiographical to self-help, and I passed the slow periods by reading the plot descriptions of some of the books with more interesting titles. Over and over again, I'd come across the titles "Surfing the Himalayas" and "Snowboarding to Nirvana" which I could only imagine was about an extreme-sports enthusiast with a wild imagination. I was pretty absorbed with the murder-mystery book titles and some of the other fiction. On one of my last days working at St Martins Press, my boss told me that I could select some books that were almost-finalized hardback copies that needed a bit more editing. I was psyched to be able to take some books home, so I took one really long novel called "Tully" and another, by the same author, called "Red Leaves." Both were pretty good. Despite my boredom by the job and my little habit of falling asleep over my work, I apparently did a bangup job because my boss offered to hire me on permanently. I had to refuse since I was returning to college in a few weeks, but I was kind of flattered that she liked me, and was willing to serve as a reference for me for future job prospects. I've never forgotten that job and that big old odd-shaped building. Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention that the Flatiron building has a really old rickety elevator that I was sure was going to break and caue me to fall to my death.
So, that's that. Everytime I'm back in Manhattan and walk past the Flatiron Building I can't help but want to walk in (use the OTHER elevator that's a little more stable) and see what's become of St Martins Press. But instead, I remain content just looking up at the building, in all its wonder. It is satisfying enough on its own.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
If You Are Confused Like I Was...
Here is a link that explains the trouble our country is facing under our current healthcare insurance system, and what is being proposed by Obama, and by Congress, to reform it. What a shame such a detailed explanation of the U.S. situation was provided by the BBC News instead of a U.S. news outlet. But anyway:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8160058.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8160058.stm
Ramona, Forever
Sometimes through the years, I've wondered what my younger self would think of my adult self if she could gain a window to my current world. What would she think about Adam? Shabbi, Kika? Living in Michigan? Being a wildlife biologist? When I was a young girl, I always imagined I would travel the world, globe-trotting from one country to the next as a citizen of the world. I would have many "lov-ahs" (lovers, with a European accent), settle down with none of them, and do really important work at the international scale. Wow. I guess my younger self would be really disappointed with my current self.
I'm especially curious about my younger self in recent days, because I've figuratively gone back in time...I've resurrected copies of the "Ramona Quimby" series and have been reading them to Bryony. It's been eye-opening to read these books again after so many years (I think I read the last one when I was nine or ten); many of the words and situations that left me confused as a child have been uproaringly hilarious to me now as an adult. I think about myself as a kid, reading these books and siding with poor little Ramona in her constant battle to be respected by her family, teachers and classmates. Now, I can laugh along at her misadventures while still remembering why I empathized with her so many years ago.
I've been thinking lately about what Ramona would be like as an adult. Would she fulfill the dreams her child self had conjered for her? Or would little Ramona be disappointed with the way her life turned out?
All I can say is that whatever my younger self might have thought, my adult self is pretty darn satisfied. How can I complain about having a wonderful family, a fulfilling job and general overall happiness? So what if I never became Lauren of Arabia? I like to think I'm making some positive impacts here at the local level. Besides, I think I've still got a few more good years left in me to cash in my frequent flyer miles...and break some foreign hearts, once they catch sight of my wedding band.
I'm especially curious about my younger self in recent days, because I've figuratively gone back in time...I've resurrected copies of the "Ramona Quimby" series and have been reading them to Bryony. It's been eye-opening to read these books again after so many years (I think I read the last one when I was nine or ten); many of the words and situations that left me confused as a child have been uproaringly hilarious to me now as an adult. I think about myself as a kid, reading these books and siding with poor little Ramona in her constant battle to be respected by her family, teachers and classmates. Now, I can laugh along at her misadventures while still remembering why I empathized with her so many years ago.
I've been thinking lately about what Ramona would be like as an adult. Would she fulfill the dreams her child self had conjered for her? Or would little Ramona be disappointed with the way her life turned out?
All I can say is that whatever my younger self might have thought, my adult self is pretty darn satisfied. How can I complain about having a wonderful family, a fulfilling job and general overall happiness? So what if I never became Lauren of Arabia? I like to think I'm making some positive impacts here at the local level. Besides, I think I've still got a few more good years left in me to cash in my frequent flyer miles...and break some foreign hearts, once they catch sight of my wedding band.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Light A Little Candle For My Baby
It's been two years since we lost our dear sweet baby Shabbi. To this day, we miss her terribly and speak of her often. Tonight, Adam lit a candle in her memory. We wonder from time to time if Kika thinks of and/or misses her big sister. Our biggest regret is that Shabbi didn't live to see her little sis Bryony. We think she would have done very well with a baby in the house.
For those of you who knew Shabbi-girl, I just ask for you to take a moment to remember her. She touched so many people and we still honor her with our thoughts.
We love you, sweet girl.
Mum, Daddy and Kika
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Freaks Come Out At Night...And During The Day
These are strange times indeed...Michigan State football beat Univ. of Michigan two years in a row (Go Green, Go White!)...David Letterman (kinda) got caught with his pants down...Adam and I managed to start and finish a house project within a week...someone actually read and responded to the Ask-A-Question-Thursdays post...and my child is a little over a month away from being half a year old. Wow.
But the weirdness abounded a month or so ago. Adam and I were shopping at Horrocks, our local produce store, trolling the aisles in search of the "good rice" (basmati and/or jasmine). From around the corner of the aisle came a young woman, her eyes large and bright, walking purposefully up to us. The way she was approaching made me think she knew us, but I couldn't place her face. Then I got the over-protective mother instinct and immediately thought she might be brazen enough to try to steal Bryony right in front of us, so I stood my ground, waiting to see what she'd do. Adam looked up at her as she planted herself in front of us.
Girl: "Oh my God! Do you guys remember the second 'Back To The Future' movie when they show the bottle of Pepsi in the future?"
Adam, ever the gentleman, even to psycho strange women who come out of nowhere to quiz us on 1980s movie trivia, replies: "Yeah...? Kind of...oh, yeah, sure!"
I'm looking incredulously at this whole exchange, still trying to figure out how this girl found us out of everyone in the store to swap movie memoribilia with.
Lauren: I never saw "Back To The Future 2".
Girl (to Adam): Doesn't this bottle totally look like that bottle from the movie, the one in the future?
Adam, still being nice even though he's totally perplexed: Yeah, it kinda does...it's been awhile since I've seen that movie...
Girl, looking fondly at the Pepsi bottle in her hand, continues to ramble on about its similarity to the one in the movie.
Adam and Lauren say very fast good-byes and move on.
It wasn't until a few weeks later that Adam and I finally remembered to discuss the incident. We were both completely floored by the fact that she actually found us from another aisle of the store. It would have been a lot less disconcerting if we were shopping next to her and she had struck up conversation with us, but it's like she somehow tracked us down. In fact, now that I think of it, the section of the store we were in is nowhere near the soda aisle. Where the heck did she come from?
Perhaps the weirdest thing of all these days is the fact that I'm a little happy about staying in Michigan for the time being. Yup, that's right, the move is a no-go for us. Georgia has been cancelled, and so has Virginia. Don't get me wrong; I'm bummed by the prospect of a secure income coming our way, but I do like a Michigan fall, and I love my friends here. The idea of moving away, while something we've always looked forward to, has suddenly become a slightly bitter taste in the back of my throat. Perhaps having a support system here--friends to hang out with, loads of honorary aunts and uncles for Bryony, and a sense of comfort and stability that we've assumed over the last seven years--is the draw. I don't know. Of course, eventually we'll leave, but for now, for this autumn, we're here and I can't wait to enjoy all that Michigan has to offer--apple picking, pumpkin patches, gorgeous fall foliage, not to mention "Silver Bells in the City".
We're here for the time being, and freakishly, I'm okay with that.
But the weirdness abounded a month or so ago. Adam and I were shopping at Horrocks, our local produce store, trolling the aisles in search of the "good rice" (basmati and/or jasmine). From around the corner of the aisle came a young woman, her eyes large and bright, walking purposefully up to us. The way she was approaching made me think she knew us, but I couldn't place her face. Then I got the over-protective mother instinct and immediately thought she might be brazen enough to try to steal Bryony right in front of us, so I stood my ground, waiting to see what she'd do. Adam looked up at her as she planted herself in front of us.
Girl: "Oh my God! Do you guys remember the second 'Back To The Future' movie when they show the bottle of Pepsi in the future?"
Adam, ever the gentleman, even to psycho strange women who come out of nowhere to quiz us on 1980s movie trivia, replies: "Yeah...? Kind of...oh, yeah, sure!"
I'm looking incredulously at this whole exchange, still trying to figure out how this girl found us out of everyone in the store to swap movie memoribilia with.
Lauren: I never saw "Back To The Future 2".
Girl (to Adam): Doesn't this bottle totally look like that bottle from the movie, the one in the future?
Adam, still being nice even though he's totally perplexed: Yeah, it kinda does...it's been awhile since I've seen that movie...
Girl, looking fondly at the Pepsi bottle in her hand, continues to ramble on about its similarity to the one in the movie.
Adam and Lauren say very fast good-byes and move on.
It wasn't until a few weeks later that Adam and I finally remembered to discuss the incident. We were both completely floored by the fact that she actually found us from another aisle of the store. It would have been a lot less disconcerting if we were shopping next to her and she had struck up conversation with us, but it's like she somehow tracked us down. In fact, now that I think of it, the section of the store we were in is nowhere near the soda aisle. Where the heck did she come from?
Perhaps the weirdest thing of all these days is the fact that I'm a little happy about staying in Michigan for the time being. Yup, that's right, the move is a no-go for us. Georgia has been cancelled, and so has Virginia. Don't get me wrong; I'm bummed by the prospect of a secure income coming our way, but I do like a Michigan fall, and I love my friends here. The idea of moving away, while something we've always looked forward to, has suddenly become a slightly bitter taste in the back of my throat. Perhaps having a support system here--friends to hang out with, loads of honorary aunts and uncles for Bryony, and a sense of comfort and stability that we've assumed over the last seven years--is the draw. I don't know. Of course, eventually we'll leave, but for now, for this autumn, we're here and I can't wait to enjoy all that Michigan has to offer--apple picking, pumpkin patches, gorgeous fall foliage, not to mention "Silver Bells in the City".
We're here for the time being, and freakishly, I'm okay with that.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
You Know What Thursdays Are...
Ask-A-Question-Leave-An-Answer Thursdays has returned for another installment. Y'all know the drill!
1. Why is my Jewish husband obsessed with Christmas music? Literally, he hums it around the house without even realizing it, and now he has downloaded a bunch of commerical Christmas tunes on ITunes for MY listening enjoyment...yeesh!
2. Why do tsunamis always seem to hit the already-poorest parts of the world? Just seems like rubbing salt in the wound...
3. I asked before and I'll ask again...can horses mate with ponies??
4. What are babies thinking when a perfectly good laughing session morphs suddenly and drastically into a big screamfest?
5. If terrorits are really planning attacks in the name of Allah and they are doing his work, then why deny it to a grand jury once they're caught? Seems like you'd be like, "Yes! I planned it, and although it went horribly wrong and I got caught, I still did it in the name of Allah and I'm proud, dammit!"
6. Is going to post-secondary school a total waste of time? 'Cause it kinda feels that way, seeing as how my family and friends with less education have way better jobs than I do that pay way better.
7. Is Patrick Swayze's ghost going to come back to make another movie?
8. Why did they make smelly markers when we were kids (I LOOOOOOVED the cinnamon....uhhhhhhh!!!!!) and then expect that we wouldn't continue smelling markers and other noxious fumes when we were teens?
9. Is New York City really still New York City now that cars can't drive through Times Square?
10. What is the meaning behind DeVo's video for "Whip It"? I mean, the cowboy, the Mexican woman, the cross-eyed Asian woman, the guy with the weird construction cone on his head...seriously????
1. Why is my Jewish husband obsessed with Christmas music? Literally, he hums it around the house without even realizing it, and now he has downloaded a bunch of commerical Christmas tunes on ITunes for MY listening enjoyment...yeesh!
2. Why do tsunamis always seem to hit the already-poorest parts of the world? Just seems like rubbing salt in the wound...
3. I asked before and I'll ask again...can horses mate with ponies??
4. What are babies thinking when a perfectly good laughing session morphs suddenly and drastically into a big screamfest?
5. If terrorits are really planning attacks in the name of Allah and they are doing his work, then why deny it to a grand jury once they're caught? Seems like you'd be like, "Yes! I planned it, and although it went horribly wrong and I got caught, I still did it in the name of Allah and I'm proud, dammit!"
6. Is going to post-secondary school a total waste of time? 'Cause it kinda feels that way, seeing as how my family and friends with less education have way better jobs than I do that pay way better.
7. Is Patrick Swayze's ghost going to come back to make another movie?
8. Why did they make smelly markers when we were kids (I LOOOOOOVED the cinnamon....uhhhhhhh!!!!!) and then expect that we wouldn't continue smelling markers and other noxious fumes when we were teens?
9. Is New York City really still New York City now that cars can't drive through Times Square?
10. What is the meaning behind DeVo's video for "Whip It"? I mean, the cowboy, the Mexican woman, the cross-eyed Asian woman, the guy with the weird construction cone on his head...seriously????
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