a tad polish

Reinvention-ology

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 19:25:00 +0000

In hopes that a reinvention of oneself will lead to a more dedicated blogging lifestyle, I have adopted a new work-in-progress (emphasis on "work-in-progress") and am relocating. So go see!
www.myarceology.com

Doggy Days

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 01:10:00 +0000

There is something flattering about a dog falling asleep on your toes. He doesn't even care that you need a pedicure.

Dairy Divine

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 05:01:00 +0000

The day we confirmed the pregnancy via doctor (Kyle wouldn’t believe it till then), we went to Chick-fil-A. (This is when I could eat anything. Oh the naivete of a 4-week-pregnancy!)

Kyle ordered himself a “celebratory ice-cream cone.” I questioned, “Celebratory?”

“Sure. Might as well be.”

And this is one reason I love my husband.

While I cope by utilizing good-natured sarcasm (see last post for reference), he just copes, and moves on gracefully. He’s helped me to realize that, while God is undoubtedly laughing, he’s doing so pleasantly because he knows that he’s given us a gift beyond any other gift. I know he’s right (“he” being God and Kyle), and I’m ready to care for Little One with all my heart. And hopefully along the way I’ll begin feeling maternal. Because right now? Not so much.

Away in a Manger

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 14:19:00 +0000

Why haven't I posted in so long? Because recently my mind has been in a fog, I turn in at 9 p.m., and my meals are peanut-butter sandwiches.

And now? I’m sucking on a “Preggie Pop." A Sour Raspberry Preggie Pop.

Firstly, I’m really curious as to when terms like “preggo” and “preggie” entered our lexicon. I didn’t hear them until about a year ago, when all of my friends in town decided to get themselves fertilized. Kyle and I looked at these couples – as two by two, they fell into the trap – with horror and confusion.

“Why?” we would ask tearfully. “Why do you choose to do this to yourselves?” We had already decided that we were going to need to find younger friends. Maybe join a Singles group.

And now I’m sucking on a Preggie Pop. And God is up there, having a good ol’ time. I hear him laughing every time I turn down Chick-fil-A. I hear him laughing as I suck on my Preggie Pop. I hear him laughing approximately four times every night when I get up to go pee.

Because the doctor, six home pregnancy tests, two ultrasounds and my ever-thickening mid-section have told me that I’m ~~knocked up~~ indeed with child. We have ourselves an Oops!, and nowadays Kyle and I are looking at each other with horror and confusion.

This poor child’s going to be a Christmas baby.

To Film or Not to Film

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 17:43:00 +0000

I’m dabbling in a movie love affair. I say dabbling because I’m only, like, flirting with film. Watching the There Will Be Bloods and the No Countries for Old Men, the Little Miss Sunshines; waiting to relax and sip a drink with the Junos and Atonements; catching up on the Magnolias and Requiems for a Dream; DVR-ing the Chinatowns and Tsotsis; avoiding the Mans of the Year. I’m no movie connoisseur. Still drinking bargain merlots with the bourgeois eyes of someone who hasn’t yet taken in the Godfather and who fell asleep watching Amelie.

Although, my maturation level has reached new heights: Now I turn on the subtitles of EVERY MOVIE just so I can soak in every single word. In fact, my husband has said that I’m every deaf man’s dream. Meanwhile, I dream of movies.

I dream of my Flirtatious Movie Love Affair progressing into something more. I dream of intimate knowledge. I want to learn about its angles and sideways glances and cameras. I want to learn the ins and outs of screenwriting. And, fittingly, somewhere within this affair is my frivolous life Dream, a Dream that I haven’t yet begun to attack, a Dream that is still very much only a dream. (Probably because I won't go public and subject myself to a friendly dose of accountability.)

My move toward movies actually began with my infatuation with words. Books, etc. Once I started reading about film regularly, I began to see it differently. I began to see it as an art form that has the capacity to possess not only beautiful, witty, smart, emotional language (like a book!) but also drama, cinematography, music … You get the idea. It’s a whole team of talents.

I automatically feel a sort of bond with someone who likes the movies that I like. Case in point: While filling out the below survey, I knew that I was missing some key movies. Movies that, after I watched them, left me sitting on the couch satisfied because I had participated in an experience rather than an entertainment. But, since I’m now 25 and experiencing an inexplicable memory loss, I looked up (thanks, Facebook) a couple of close friends’ movies. Divinely, there were my missing pieces. There were my friends – people who I feel really, truly know me – holding my pieces. I didn’t know specifically what I would find when I looked up their movie lists, just that their movie lists would undoubtedly connect with mine.

My preferences within media – specifically within writings, books, films, sometimes music – are like little manifestations (thesaurus, please give me a less scary word) of what inside me threads me to other individuals. And I think that thread is a shared interest in the human condition: why we do what we do, why we feel what we feel, why we hide what we hide and why we expose what we expose. It’s the raw presentation of human emotion/love/sin to which I’m attracted.

Because when we understand what’s most deeply inside of us, then we can understand what exactly it is that God is healing. And in that I find security. I find security in knowing that there are others out there who aren’t afraid of a little mess, and that there are others out there with whom I can do a little cleaning up.

Scripted

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 04:02:00 +0000

1. Pick 20 of your favorite movies.
2. Go to IMDb and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them here for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie.
5. NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search/other search functions/looking at my profile or whatever to see what my favorite movies are.

1. I can't believe you deceived Miss Miller for a package of Tutti Frutti, Theodore.

2. So that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money. There's more to life than a little money, you know. Don't you know that? And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well, I just don't understand it.

3. I thought Tristan would never live to be an old man. I was wrong about that. I was wrong about many things. It was those who loved him the most that died young. He was a rock they broke themselves against however much he tried to protect them.

4. Dear Baby:
I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness in it.

5. I let you keep the femur, but now, now I want my skull. Or perhaps, I might just take yours. Hans!

6. And there is the account of the hanging of three men, and a scuba diver, and a suicide. There are stories of coincidence and chance, of intersections and strange things told, and which is which and who only knows? And we generally say, "Well, if that was in a movie, I wouldn't believe it." Someone's so-and-so met someone else's so-and-so and so on. And it is in the humble opinion of this narrator that strange things happen all the time. And so it goes, and so it goes. And the book says, "We may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us."

7. Everywhere I travel, tiny life. Single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter. The microwave Cordon Bleu hobby kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos, sample-packaged mouthwash, tiny bars of soap. The people I meet on each flight? They're single-serving friends.

8. You know what I like about Restaurants? … You can learn a lot, watching things eat.

9. I'd like to dedicate this to my grandpa, who showed me these moves.

10. You were just a little girl in a flannel night gown. And you were shovelling snow from the walk in front of our house. And I was the snow, I was the snow. And everywhere it landed and everywhere it covered. You scoop me up with a big red shovel. You scoop me up.

11. A man who wouldn't cheat for a poke don't want one bad enough.

12. I try and shoot one a day, if possible, before noon. How 'bout you, Coop? I figure it's their fault for being on our land before we got here.

13. This was my son. Notice how I said was? That's because he's dead. Relegated to the past tense. Went from an is to a was before he had his breakfast.

14. I brought you flours.

15. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he did not exist. And like that ... he is gone.

16. Your own father said that artists use lies to tell the truth. Yes, I created a lie. But because you believed it, you found something true about yourself.

17. “Your fans are church folk …. Christians. They don't wanna hear you singing to a bunch of murderers and rapists, tryin' to cheer 'em up.”
“Well, they’re not Christian, then.”

18. I loved Sarah, Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Even Sarah didn't have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.

19. This isn't a conversation about this being over. I'm not like, putting a period at the end of this. I'm putting like ... an ellipsis on it.

20. Are you the kind of person that takes time to get to know, and then once you get to know them ... they're fabulous?

Long live holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 15:18:00 +0000

Anyone who knows Kyle and me – either individually or as a couple – also knows that we’re competitive. Now we have this record to break.

It means that I’m going to have to live till I’m at least 108, and Kyle will have to hang in there till he’s at least 107. Can we do it? I think so.

This weekend is going to be fabulous, by the way. My parents are coming to the LR metro area on Thursday, and then my brother-in-law and sister-in-law are (planning on) coming Friday! And then Easter on Sunday! I love Easter. Anyone have any special Easter customs to share? Since this will be my first married Easter, I want it to be more special than usual. : )

EDIT: What am I talking about? It's my second married Easter ... It's been a long week already.

No Time

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 22:11:00 +0000

Wedding rehearsal: 5:30
Our location: Just 1 mile from church

It's 5:03, and Kyle is napping on the bed. I rouse him, telling him that it's 5:03. He says OK and that he's just going to sleep for 3 more minutes. I'm not quite sure how he's going to wake up in exactly 3 more minutes, but I don't feel like dealing with it and don't plan on playing the role of mother until I absolutely have to. Fast-forward to 5:15, when I wake him again. "Kyle, it's 5:15!!!" He looks startled, perplexed. Now I'M perplexed because I don't know how he can justify perplexity at this point. "Oh. ... Oh!!! ... Oh boy. ... I must have fallen asleep."

"I MUST have fallen asleep"? Tell me, someone, how to muster up empathy?

Blast From the Past

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 16:55:00 +0000

Way back in August, Elise tagged me in the "Eight Things Meme/Survey." I was honored and told her, "Hey, I'll most definitely do the survey [because I don't use the word "meme"]! Promise. Just you wait." And then when I didn't do the survey, I became a liar. But now I AM doing the survey, which makes me an un-liar ... which begs the questions: Was it ever even a lie since I never gave Elise a time frame for the completion of the survey? Would the lie have only come into effect upon my death -- at which time it would have been a certainty that I'd never get around to doing the survey? Because right NOW I am fulfilling my promise ... a mere seven months later. This makes me very trustworthy, dependable, and one whose word is golden.

Here are the rules for the survey:

"Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog."

The fun part of this whole scenario is going to be when I have to go inform ~~eight~~ six people that I have momentarily risen from the blog underworld and have tagged them to complete a survey that they themselves probably completed seven months ago.

But, pushing fears aside, here we go! Eight things about me.

1. I've lost one of my W-2s. I haven't really looked for it, though, because the thought of NOT finding it, ever, makes me very squeamish and I'd rather live with the unknown for as long as possible. In fact, I know NOTHING about taxes. Zip. Nothing at all. This in turn makes me feel childish and immature.

2. Despite being very immature and young for my age, I have recently purchased a house. I didn't really know what a mortgage was until a couple of years ago. Oh, Journalism degree, why did you fail me in the world of finance?

3. I love math. In fact, in college, I had a friend prepare little math quizzes for me during Photography. I often wonder why I didn't pursue a life of accounting, or some other math-dominate occupation. Then I remember that if I HAD done something of the sort, I'd wish I had journeyed into the land of words.

4. Apparently I am wishy-washy. I like to take on hobbies and then immediately let them fall to the wayside. Like my road-biking phase ... please don't ask my husband about the road-biking phase ...

5. I've started running again. I recently went through the "invalid" phase where I couldn't really walk because of my back, and I had to sleep with a mountain of pillows beneath my knees. Then I got a tiny taste of the flu. But now I'm healthy, which I attribute to the fantastic weather.

6. Daylight Saving Time is one of my favorite days of the year. I wish that the marketing world would decide to transform it into a holiday like Valentine's Day, so that we could all spend tons of money on gifts and celebration!!

7. I actually LOVE Valentine's Day. Always have, coupled or not. I like giving people little random Valentine's gifts, just to have a reason to celebrate. Just to have something to anticipate! Just to look forward to the annual e-card from my dad.

8. I love my dad, and my brother, and my husband. They're my top-three favorite people in the world. They are all very different, and each fulfill separate wonderful needs in my life. This is why I want to give birth to sons, and only sons, and I want this to happen far, far into my future.

I tag Devi, Meredith, Esther, Jen and Then Sum, Girl From the North Country, and ... Elise (I think enough time has lapsed to validate a tag-back) ... and, well, that's it. Two short!

Hogwash

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 03:38:00 +0000

Not only does Harry P. not have to be out of my life forever, but I also have an incentive for having children: I can read them Harry's stories and re-live the magic all over again! Why didn't I think of this before?? Being a parent finally sounds like fun.

Forever young?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 18:49:00 +0000

Kyle: "Yeah, he's really successful. He has, like, one of those trophy wives, and everything."

I'm not sure how his definition of success meshes with our long-term marriage plan.

Never fear

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 19:50:00 +0000

I love a good dystopia: Big Brother, barren women, bald Natalie Portmans and Brave New Worlds. Social restrictions stifle, and I quiver on the couch while clutching my Mexican blanket, fearful of doom and all its inevitabilities. My husband sits beside me, cheerfully eating Blue Bell ice cream.

"Don't you KNOW that the world is going to be one giant Oppression? Probably tomorrow? And that I won't be able to have CHILDREN?"

"You don't even like children."

"True, but the government is going to start watching us through our TELEVISION."

I'm not sure when I took on such a dismal mind-set, but working at a newspaper certainly heightens it, as does life in general, sometimes. For instance, even a lost, gentle golden retriever isn't enough to spur goodwill nowadays.

Who knows how long Macy meandered through our friends' neighborhood, gazing at neighbors with confused eyes and a wagging tail. And who knows how many of these good neighbors thought, "Oh, I have to get to my pedicure in 10 minutes, so Nancy down the road will surely help the dog, who looks like the epitome of tenderness." And so Nancy becomes Bill, who becomes Josie, who becomes Niles, who becomes the unforgiving Ford Explorer. Then a family mourns, and those who should be ashamed aren't.

One by one, neighbors become a bit more callous and scoot even closer to the center of their islands. Would I have helped Macy? I don't know, but I hope I would have.

Luckily for me, I live with someone whose life-giving optimism pushes through bleakness, someone who deserves to enjoy a big bowl of his favorite ice cream. He's the hero of the dystopia film, the human equivalent of this:

Sock it to me

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 28 Jun 2007 01:24:00 +0000

Kyle and I are ALWAYS in a hurry, mainly because his sense of time is like my sense of direction, except worse. I can find my way around if a map's handy, but Kyle apparently never learned how to tell time. I credit this deficiency to two factors:

1. He used to simultaneously play and broadcast his own football games in his backyard, himself playing I guess 23 characters, thereby developing a world of his own in which he created generous time restraints, which in turn were probably influenced by No. 2:

2. His best friend as a young-youngster was literally his dog. And dogs operate on a different timetable from us humans. This is a very confusing timetable, mind you, because I Googled "dog years," and Wikipedia gave me some sort of graph that hasn't helped me figure out Kyle. This is unfortunate, because I don't know why when I say this: "Hey Kyle, we need to leave for X in EIGHT MINUTES." He translates it to: "Wow, that's enough time to shave, shower, dry a load of laundry and play hide-and-go-seek with the DOG." But Kyle obviously can't live up to this warp-speed mentality even though he THINKS he can, so we're about 52 minutes late to everything because my powers of persuasion don't work on those who are operating under the canine influence.

Combine this false sense of reality with a crazy-good ability to misplace things, and we're now about, oh, 90 minutes late to everything.

Like Monday. We're already, you guessed it, running a little late, and Kyle needs his cleats for his softball game.

"They're not in my truck [where they stay permanently]," he says. "I just looked. Where ARE they?!!!"

"They should be in your truck. That's where they stay permanently," I comment.

"They're not in there," he yells with his fists in the air. "I DISTINCTLY remember bringing them into the house, and thinking that that was a dumb idea, and then not paying attention to where I set them down."

I poke around the closet for a moment and then sneak outdoors, where I see that the cleats are nestled on the truck's floorboard.

I return indoors to tell him as much. "Do you have some socks?"

"They're in the truck," he says. "I just now put them in there when I was looking for the shoes."

OK. So I head back to the truck in good faith, trying to be a doting and supportive wife who trusts her husband's word above any other.

"Oops! I DISTINCTLY remember putting them RIGHT HERE," he points to the console and scurries into our yellow house to retrieve a different pair of socks from the ones he had previously planned to take. The others, at this point, are apparently still MIA.

I had forgotten about the lost socks till we got home that night and I glanced upward while heading for the bathroom:

That is where he stuck his socks. Wedged between the bathroom and the cat's bedroom, 1.5 feet below the ceiling. It is an absentmindness that's characteristic of a special breed. Maybe it isn't as bad as wrapping one's keys in painter's tape and tossing them into the woods, but at least I'm not alone.

Super clean

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 04:00:00 +0000

Tonight at Kyle's softball game that wasn't, all us wives were chatting, and the conversation veered toward dry-cleaning. This is where I tried to mentally check-out of the conversation, because my household's idea of "dry-cleaning" is throwing clean but wrinkly clothes into the dryer, taking them out and then sort of waving them through the air.

The moral of this story is that while our friends are attributing hundreds of dollars monthly to Comet Cleaners and wearing their freshly pressed suits to work, Kyle and I spend our evenings playing old-school Super Mario Bros.

Kyle, Kyle makes me smile

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 24 Jun 2007 19:53:00 +0000

Me: "Gee. I sure wish I could be a model," while looking at The Limited flier showcasing a girl looking seductively professional in her too-tight suit. Yes, I do wish I could somehow look like that in a suit.
Kyle, very matter-of-factly: "You are a model."
Kyle again: "You're a model citizen."

Kyle's doing some work. I walk into the living room, where he's working, and say:
"Hey there, busy bee."
Kyle: "Bzzzzz. Bzzzzyyyy."
Obviously I have to use this as blog fodder, since I've already broken my two-week-long vow to blog, so I go to the hall closet to retrieve my computer.
I'm greeted with this as I walk back into the living room: "Bzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzyyyy Beeeeeeeee."

Hey, hey stupid

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 14:18:00 +0000

I'm going to be writing here every single day for the next two weeks. Maybe longer.

No, I don't really have much of anything to say, except that just when you're beginning to think that God dislikes you, that you've been shunned from his arms, and that you're perhaps the most negative person in his creation and that your chronic negativity and penchant for beating yourself up is probably exactly WHY you think God has disowned you, he whispers in your ear that, hey, I DO listen to you, I DO care about the desires of your heart, and, well, will you please start believing that?

And I humbly, nay ashamedly, say I'm sorry and crawl back into his arms. And it feels like home, because it is.

Catlike reflections

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 02 May 2007 21:54:00 +0000

A couple days ago Meredith said that she thinks cats are "misunderstood." And then I connected with the Cat.

I've decided that my newfound love of cats (primarily the sweet new Carter addition, Fiona) is because I am LIKE a cat. I am selective when it comes to friends, and I talk when I feel like talking. I also bathe regularly. I am independent and don't have obedience issues. I also don't feel obligated to like a person just because he or she is a person.

And sometimes I'm a little scaredy (note Kyle's background vocals):

To have and to hold

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 13:01:00 +0000

Parking three blocks from my downtown workplace has many cons and only three pros: I don't have to pay the $30 a month to park in the lot across from my workplace, I get some exercise (you know how they say to take the stairs instead of the elevator? this walk is my justification for not taking the stairs), and I pass the Christ Episcopal Church Book Store.

Yesterday after work I was feeling particularly unspiritual, I needed a book to read to my new cat, and I like to buy things, so the bookstore sensed my vulnerability and gave a shout out. I knew that I wanted a Lamott book, for I was also feeling particularly unwriterly and wanted inspiration.

(All those things are important in their own right and deserve to be noted, but reading and writing really don't have much at all to do with my point. Shopping does.)

I like shopping because I like Things. I am a gifts person. I am tactile,
and I think I would pray more if I were Catholic, because of the rosary. I admittedly know nothing about rosaries, except that my Irish great-aunt who's a very short nun in France gave one to my mom and that I want it.

(Kyle and I are doing a "love languages" group study, and during the "gifts" week one of the leaders said that he believes Jesus was a gifts person. I felt quite smug; I take all I can get.)

When I spend a night alone, I sleep with my Bible, for extra protection. God is actually there with me, when I hug my Bible.

At the wedding of Kyle and me, I was adamant that the preacher not explain the unity candle. Symbolism speaks for itself, I said. Things can say a lot, if you listen.

So when I stood at the counter, paying for my new book with part of the $30 I saved this month, my eye was caught by a little basket of "angel prayer charms" that had little birthstones stuck right into their hollow chests and functioned like lockets. I picked the one that held a blue stone for September. I paid the man again and left.

Today at work I typed up a 9-point-font, sentence-long prayer and folded it neatly into the angel and attached it to my key ring. I sat it in front of me, beside my cell phone and red coffee mug.

When I look at that little angel -- as when I felt it in my coat pocket on my three-block walk to work this morning -- I breathe a prayer, and I know that Kyle is safe in Georgia. I just know it, and the tiny blue stone twinkles.

Bye-bye, buddy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 19:48:00 +0000

In 11 days, I will say goodbye to a friend.

This friend has made my life substantially awkward, but that awkwardness is trumped by the good times we had. I learned the importance of individuality, and that has no doubt proven itself in the way I typically enjoy being a little different from others. I have embraced Atypical instead of Typical.

I also owe my spelling and phonetic abilities to this friend, who forced me at a young age to acquire a handle on the strange arrangement of letters. I've also developed a taste for strange sounds, which is maybe why I think that I sing well, and why I name my dog Flush.

Patience, while admittedly not my strong suit, does come into play when I am teaching people difficult tasks -- tasks that they may not understand at first command. I slowly and empathetically spell things out to them, step by step.

Words have been my confidante for all my 2.4 decades, and this buddy knows that well. My sidekick has long taught me that a word is more than a word: A word means something -- like, it could be Old English for "army building" -- and all the little words need attention too, the same as the weird ones.

My BFF also reminded me early that you can't lose your family, whether you want to or not, because the family bond is one that sticks out like a sore thumb, namely while that thumb is flipping through the phone book.

Yes, I must say goodbye to my dear, dear friend, who has defined me for years and years, who is a huge chunk of Amy.

I am saying farewell to my surname, Harbottle. No, not Hard-bottle, or Hard-bottom, but Har-bottle.

But, as Shakespeare (who I think still leads a misspelled rigor mortis life himself) said:
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

So maybe I'll always be a little Harbottle, even when I'm Carter.

Source

The Write to Rant

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 15 Dec 2006 21:16:00 +0000

This:
Article That Illustrates the True Ignorance of Our Society

Makes me write this to Kyle:
Read this article. Dumb parents and even some dumb teachers think that PENMANSHIP shouldn't be taught to their children. Hello?!!?? It's like a BASIC SKILL and allows a person to THINK and ORGANIZE without the use of a COMPUTER. American leaders want to turn us all into robots. And you know what? Parents and teachers are LAZY. Any parent and/or teacher who doesn't want their children to learn how to WRITE BY HAND is exceptionally lazy because THEY are the ones who have to TEACH their child to WRITE BY HAND and THEY DON'T WANT TO. What if their child needs to leave a sticky note on the refrigerator? They won't be able to do it WITHOUT RUNNING TO THE COMPUTER AND TYPING SOMETHING UP. It's the stupidity, the RELIANCE on technology and overall laziness that infuriates me. OUR CHILDREN will without a doubt learn how to HANDWRITE before they learn how to type.

In other, more relaxed news, Melissa brought this to my attention: a six-word memoir.

I think mine might be: "Excuse me, you cut in line" or "Scoff. Mine's only five words" or "Can my words have footnotes, please?"

This is fun.

When a book changes a life

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 14:17:00 +0000

A long time ago, far, far away in Hartford, Ark., there lived a 6-year-old who fell in love with window seats. Why did she fall in love with window seats, you rightfully ask? Because the book "Poinsettia and Her Family" spoke to her innocent heart.

Poinsettia was a tiny pig with big dreams: She wanted to merely read her favorite book, but she had many brothers and sisters who occupied her favorite reading spots! And, as you -- adept reader -- might have already surmised, one of her favorite spots was the "buttery leather" of the window seat.

The young girl, the one reading the story, realized that small things, like a window seat, can become something invaluably precious. She hurried to her room and tried to sit on her windowsill, but alas, it was no buttery-leather window seat. The sun did not spread through her window, warming her body and her heart, and the sill was hardly sit-on-able.

But the young girl, like her heroine Poinsettia, found big dreams as well: She knew that when she goes into debt and purchases a house of her own, that her home would have a library and a leathery window seat, her own niche of refuge, where the sun would spread onto her like butter.

Then the young girl, when her grandfather let her choose one of his baby bovine for her own so that when he sold it at the cow auction she could have the money for her savings, named her chosen calf Poinsettia. It was only fitting, for Poinsettia represented all her tender hopes and dreams, dreams that she would deposit into her memory bank in the same way in which her parents deposited the $700 from Poinsettia the Cow.

-------
To see how "Poinsettia and Her Family" has influenced other children, click here.

Vroom vroom

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 01:57:00 +0000

Here's for all my numero tuno fans. (Numero tuno is English-Spanish for "one and a half." It doesn't matter if you don't get it. I was cleaning the bathtub and amid the mildew I thought, "Here's for all my numero tuno fans," and I liked the sound of it.)

Today I met John Schneider. As in, duh, The Dukes of Hazzard. I think I heard him sing when I was 8 years old at the Arkansas-Oklahoma State Fair. He touched my hand, and if I were middle-aged at the time, I would have swooned. But I didn't, because I was 8. I just wanted to know where he got his flying orange car. Anyway. Now Mr. Schneider is Mr. Jonathan Kent on Smallville. Father of Clark Kent, Superman. He apparently traded in the flying car for a flying son.

I stood in line for 2 hours, waiting to meet Johnny. See, there was a car show in town, and several Dukes were there signing auto-graphs. I call them "auto"-graphs because of all the cars.

I held in my purse Smallville: Season Two. My brother loves Smallville, and I wanted to do this because I wanted to win the Best Sister in the World award. The "good deed" was fueled solely by selfishness, not gasoline.

Thirty minutes into the wait, I decided that all these Dukers and Dukettes were weird. I mean, the show was ages ago (1979-1985, in case you were wondering). Do you really think your toddlers are going to care about these old men signing the fake orange cars for them? (I know little Tommy is tired right now, but he'll be glad he did this one day.) They're not, Tommy's not, and your little children are just taking up MY precious time. I have some chicken that must go into the Crock-Pot.

Now, this particular day, I had made a vow to be nice to people. I have seen my friendliness and humaneness slide down a sarcastic, cynical slope. But I realized such an attitude is not conducive to "getting along" with others, nor is it proper human conduct. (Just ask the lady at Wal-Mart who wouldn't help me with the bridal registry.) So I decided today that I need to get the "cheery Amy" back. So here I go. I try to make conversation with Hazzardites, who are chatting in line ahead of me.

"I'm not even here for Dukes of Hazzard," I say perkily to the people in line in front of me. "I'm here for Smallville."

It's here that I realize that people are rude, and I remember why Cheery Amy has been a little stifled. Sure, I hadn't taken a shower in two days and my hair is a little too greasy, like the grease in an engine, or motor, or wherever grease is found in a car. Sure, I just exposed myself as an imposter. But do you REALLY have to flash me one of those squinty-eyed fake smiles, where you're trying to pretend like you're being friendly but you know good and well that even I know you're not trying too hard to be friendly because you know good and well that I am detecting your Scoff?

I mean, Hazzard People, we're all here because of Schneider, and if I'm here for Schneider, and YOU'RE here for Schneider, that should be good enough, right? It's like Michael Jackson sang: "We are the world. We are the children. We are the ones who make a brighter day."

So, numero tuno readers, let's vow to indeed make brighter days. Life shant be full of hazards.

Spoil me, please

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 14 Sep 2006 17:39:00 +0000

Growing up in Hartford, Ark., which for most of my days sat at population 721, led me to believe that rich people (by "rich" I mean millionaires) were out there, but that they were few and far between. Like, they lived in a little colony and gave birth to little Richies who all went to a boarding school together out on some island in the Pacific. They learned things like which fork to set on which side of the plate and how to walk with a book on top of their heads, so, no thanks, I'll keep on living at the foot of Sugarloaf Mountain. We were comfortably middle-class, and I thought that was sufficient and allowed me to be spoiled but not spoiled brat.

Then, through the making of various acquaintances at college and through the stepping into the real world without any money, I realized that rich people – or those who pretend to be rich and thus accumulate massive debt – are everywhere.

Now, I am not anti-money. I really wish that I had money. (And any bitterness I have toward money is really because I've been developing a disdain lately for the business world and those who function solely on greed.) Anyway, it all boils down to this:

According to Cost of Wedding.com, on average, couples in my city will spend $16,219.10 on their wedding. This does not include cost of honeymoon, engagement ring or wedding planner.

I don't want to spend that much on my wedding. I am incapable of doing so. So, in short, I am perturbed with people who spend that much on weddings, setting such a high standard for us middle-of-the-road folks.

My future father-in-law recently said: "At my wedding, we served punch and peppermints, and we're just as married as anyone else." I guess he has a point.

One crazy, two crazy, too crazy?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 16:33:00 +0000

A couple days ago I saw KBC take the papasan-chair bowl off the papasan stand, put it over his head and then lie on the ground. Like ... a turtle. But his head was inside the shell. "Flush! Flush!" he yelled, from deep within his cave.

(Insert proverbial arm-pinch here.)

Flush then circled the turtle, jumped over the turtle, banged his wagging tail against the wall and finally gophered his way inside the shell to "find" his owner, who, yes, is still bellowing.

At this point, I was ... dumbstruck. I was struck by dumbness. It's like ... I already have a maniacal dog. I had tried to tell myself that Kyle wasn't bonkers, but then he got inside a papasan chair to hide from a dog. You can't really argue with that. Trust me, I tried. So, do I stay or do I go now [to the loony bin]?

"Was that funny?"
"Oh yes, it was funny."
"Like, really funny, watching Flush try to get me?"
"Yes, really funny."
"Oh man, I wish I could've seen it," Kyle said, looking really eager.

Thirty seconds later: A more feminine but no less absurd and a bit muffled "Flush! Flush! Come here little fella!"

No, it wasn't me. It was Amy-Lou.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 16:59:00 +0000

Elise tagged me to do this survey, and I can't let her down:

Three things that scare me:
Caves. I will never go spelunking. Why would anyone want to go underground when their little entry tunnel could collapse?? They would have to live with bats, and I guarantee cannibalism would ensue. Gross.
People. Yes, I am afraid of the human race. I am afraid of being attacked, kidnapped and taken as a prisoner of war.
My sense of direction.

Three people who make me laugh:
My younger brother, Adam. He is just the goofiest guy. His wit makes me laugh, his actions make me laugh, the way he'd charge me interest when I'd borrow $10 from him when we were kids makes me laugh. What a fun guy.
Kyle. This means I've had to laugh at myself, since he always makes fun of me. But boy, can he wisecrack!
Roald Dahl. J.K. Rowling. And there are two other childhood books that I remember made me laugh and laugh. At like every sentence. I don't know if they're still funny, but here they are: Jennifer Murdley's Toad and Buffalo Gal.

Three things I hate the most:
Housework.
People who are naturally neat and tidy.
People who can't take care of other people's belongings. For example, when I was in the fourth grade, everyone would borrow my crayons. But, they would return the crayons half-used! Half of the crayon would be gone. They completely misused their privilege. So, I started making an indention on the crayon with my fingernail, and I would let the other children borrow the crayon as long as they didn't go past the line.

Three things I don't understand:
How some people keep their homes clean all the time, effortlessly.
Water. How is it together, like a solid, but not really?
Dinosaurs, and what happened to them.

Three things I'm doing right now:
Watching the clock.
Not eating candy from the candy basket. I know, I know, my will-power is amazing. Thank you.
Yawning.

Three things I want to do before I die:
Go white-water rafting.
Meet Ernest Wilford.
Win two fantasy-football leagues in 2007.

Three things I can do:
Rapidly spell words backwards.
Nag people into doing things. I'm an exhorter.
... drink my coffee black? I am pretty proud.

Three ways to describe my personality:
Aloof
Go-getter
"You've got champagne taste and beer money."

Three things I can't do:
Sit at a desk for eight hours straight without going crazy. Which, incidentally, is exactly what I do Monday-Friday.
Simultaneously be late and happy.
A cartwheel.

Three things I think you should listen to:
Crickets.
Your stomach.
Alarm clock.

Three things you should never listen to:
Business executives and those who aspire to be business executives.
Those pants, when you can't fit into them.
Your significant other when he tells you that you can't be Chloe on 24.

Three things I'd like to learn:
How to make my dog obey me.
How to take failure in stride.
Karate.

Three favorite foods:
Crunchy breadsticks.
No-bake cookies and coke cake
Nachos! (with cheese, refried beans, hamburger and garlic)

Three beverages I drink regularly:
Water
Gatorade
Coffee

Three shows I watched as a kid (in addition to the Flintstones, Jetsons, Cosby Show and Married With Children -- thanks, Dad):
Saved by the Bell
Growing Pains
Who's the Boss?

Three people I'm tagging (to do this):
Hannah because she needs to warm up to this whole blogging thing.
Kyle for the same reason.
And Devi, but I don't think she'll do it.