Sometimes at work I feel like the Wizard of Oz, standing behind the curtain anonymously pulling levers and hoping no one notices I am 5’3” and lacking any real magical powers.
Let’s take a little quiz: Which of the following will my dog NOT eat?
- dog poop
- aluminum foil
- stuffed animal fuzz/innards
- live bumblebees
- pickled ginger
If you answered “none of the above” you are correct. For the first year or so of our relationship, I have been off and on horrified. By now I am mostly impressed, and have started to wonder if it’s all just a game to her.
Aaron and I have started to create challenges. Duels against the dog. Survivor meets Fear Factor. What won’t she eat?
So far, nothing. If you think you’re up to the challenge, let me know. I’ll feed her anything non-life threatening and take pictures to verify her decision.
I feel like it just needs to be said, considering my last post.
I’m all packed for Nicole’s bachelorette in Austin:
When I was in the Texas Creative program at UT, they used to ask us questions, give us little mental exercises to spur creativity. Things like writing our own six-word stories, giving us five minutes to write a short story involving the words “scissors, elephant and honey-comb” or come up with a theme and creative names for six different colors.
It was fun, but I never really felt like I had accomplished anything constructive.
My sister once dated this guy who was in design school. I remember him talking about how in one of his classes they prompted him similarly with the question “How would you design a giraffe better?”
His answer: Add an extra stomach in the neck so that digestion can begin sooner.
This was about two years ago and I still remember his answer because I keep thinking I would never have come up with that solution. And have yet to come up with a better one. I am perpetually vexed.
Efficiency is sometimes the most beautiful art form of all.
I know it’s bad to dream about falling, but what if the reason you’re falling is because you’ve decided to fake your own death?
Last night I dreamed an elaborate Thelma & Louise death-scene/train going off the cliff at the end of Back to the Future III/Nitro Circus amalgamate that involved me and about four other people (I think some were family members, although that detail is fading) driving this bicycle contraption off a cliff after being chased, then letting out a parachute/hot air balloon before we hit the bottom of the ravine. The hot air balloon was designed to camouflage flawlessly with the sky and as it rose into the air we sailed inconspicuously past our assailants.
I woke up feeling rather pleasant about the whole experience.
What do you think that means?
The most accurate way I can think to describe how I feel about the experience of going through law school with my husband is this:
Question: What am I DOING that causes this?
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|1.||of or pertaining or appropriate to the Sabbath.|
|2.||of or pertaining to a sabbatical year.|
|3.||bringing a period of rest.|
|5.||any extended period of leave from one’s customary work, esp. for rest, to acquire new skills or training, etc.|
Chaos Theory: If it doesn’t match anything, it matches everything.
Mismatched Notes I’ve Been Hanging On To:
- Last night I spent approximately three hours starring at Great American Cookie across from AMC Katy Mills manning a sign-in table for a client event, without succumbing to my primal urge to collapse my folding chair, smash it into the plexiglass, and consume mother’s day cakes whole. I think they call this a breakthrough.
- I need to develop an exercise routine, or rather a routine that includes exercise. Convinced buying more ’80s workout videos is the way to go. Ups the entertainment factor. Now if only I would stop watching them sitting on the floor with a bowl of Blue Bell and the latest Us magazine.
- “I’d shake your hand but I’m holding dog poo” is one of those things you never think you’ll say until you have the acute privilege of being a pet-owning apartment dweller. Unwanted socialization and humiliation are not what I had in mind when I brought Ruby home. Some days I’d almost her rather pee on my carpet than have to trudge outside in my FRANKY SAY RELAX t-shirt and Oscar the Grouch Walmart man-panties at 7 am to have her sniff every neighbor’s poodle while I avoid eye contact. I think I may sob uncontrollably the day I actually have a backyard.
- I am so cooking-adverse I had no idea coming in contact with raw, freshly chopped onions was the equivalent of bathing in cat urine. Six haz-mat hand washings and 16 hours later my hands still smell.
1. Don’t try to be coy with me. Tell me what you are, why you are, and what you need to say.
2. Quickly. Say it at the front, top, first thing I come in contact with. Let me know within seconds if I want to be here or not.
3. Cut the clutter. If eight different widgets and windows and text bars attack me immediately, I will feel overwhelmed and shut down. Eyes averted, window closed. Let me know where and what I should read first, otherwise I will read nothing.
4. Brevity is the soul of wit. Make me crave more words, not scorn your loquacity. (Yes, loquacity)
5. Surviving my initial short attention span reaps rewards. Once I’ve decided I like your site/blog/guru theologies, I will read more. More than a personal with a decent attention span would, because I will build interest and loyalty before burning out.
In conclusion, I am 23, ADD, and from a generation that is too self-involved to read the work of others. Be direct and succinct or else employ the infallible use of shiny objects.
That when you drop a snow pea underneath a burner on your stove then let it reheat for several weeks each time you cook to the point where it becomes charcoal and glows the next time you cook so that you have to splash water on it while the burner is still cooking noodles that it lets out the most horrific smell you’ve ever smelt in your life.
There is a point in your life where you will wake up and realize that people older than you know better, in spite of all other factors that would make you believe otherwise.
From ages 10-22 I held the belief that being older doesn’t necessarily make you smarter or wiser or more apt to make a better decision. That as a generally intelligent person with a decent dose of common sense, my reasoning and understanding could trump anyone aged 23-106 if they suffered from a less desirable IQ.
They know. Oh they know. Although you may believe they have done nothing to deserve it, the simple fact that they have breathed in and out, got up in the morning and brushed their teeth more times than you have gives them insight you have absolutely no chance of attaining ahead of time.
The moment of clarity came amidst a classic middle-child throw down between my sister and mom over the Easter holiday. My sister wanted to trek across Spain with one of her girl friends from college, 300 miles by themselves. Her plan was to show up, go, and hope hostels would have openings.
I’ve always known my mother knew better. In general, and without error, although I am viscerally and genetically predispositioned to believing otherwise. But for the first time in the history of family arguing, instead of believing my mother was paranoid and needed to stop watching so much sensationalized news, I found myself (distasteful as it was) taking her side. Why would my sister not understand her concerns? How could she be so sure it would all work out?
Because my mom is older and she knows things my sister does not. No matter how much of a genius my sister is, true wisdom wins.
Trust me on this, I’m older.
After a long week of working late and being busy, I came home, sat on the couch for about an hour, then went ape-shit on the apartment.