Sunday, December 28, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I keep seeing all these ads and mentions of keeping Christ in Christmas, and I have to tell you what I think. Well I've been seeing these for a few weeks now, and I have to tell you, the first one I saw on a little church sign, made me think. Keep Christ in Christmas, because without Christ all you have is mas and that's no fun at all.
Every time I see that now, that's what I think, but then I begin to wonder . . . What is mas?
The obvious choice seems to be mass. Christmas mass, which is probably repetitive. But Its not spelled mass, its spelled mas. So here is a list of things Christmas might be without Christ.
mas - slang for massive
mas - abbreviation for masculine
mas - Modula-2 Algebra System
mas - mobile atmospheric spectrometer
mas - Muslim American Society
mas - Country house or farm in the south of France, usually made of stone.
mas - Monetary Authority of Singapore, mas is Singapore's central bank.
mas - The Musicians' Answering Service was established in 1976, since then the diary service has built its reputation within the classical music business for professionalism and reliability.
Now I'm sure you all found that helpful and informative, and I just want to say, that unless your a massive male mathematician looking to invest or convert, please keep Christ in Christmas.
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOODNIGHT!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I'm alternating between trying to think of all the things that I need to do before my party on Saturday, and trying not to think of all the things I have to do before my party on Saturday.
I'm hungry, since I haven't eaten since breakfast and its now ten something (10:19:26) so I got to talking with one of the other ladies who works here and she's on a diet, so we sat together for awhile and looked at delish.com a website that lets you create menus, search recipes, and view instructional videos. So now I'm really hungry.
They have eliminated the giant rat being a cappabeara, but they have caught one now and are running DNA tests.
Tuesday in lab we looked at pond water thru microscopes, and let me just say, I will never swim again. Sitting here thinking of that makes my skin crawl . . . or that could be the pt who had bedbugs.
So they found out the rat was a giant African something or other that had been originally imported as exotic pets, then were found to carry monkey pocks and were outlawed, so some dumb breeder released his remain eight into the wild. And since rats can breed within four week of birth, have eighty some spawn a year, well, the Florida keys have a problem.
Well. since its now 10:57:39 I had better go finish my job so I can leave. only 26 minuets, 21 sec, 20, 19 . . .
Sunday, November 30, 2008
*according to Nichole's Rules, the christmas season begins the moment the Thanksgiving meal is over, and last until the ball drops on New Years Eve. During that time it is mandatory to listen to holiday music.
Thanksgiving was . . . unorthodox this year, so we broke tradition by not decorating immediately after the meal. Usually this is when I convince everyone that we should put up the tree, decorations, and villiage. My most persuasive argument is that I will gladly drag all one hundred of our Christmas box (big beefy boxes) out of the basement/garage/attic/ or where ever they happen to be stored that particular year.
So I drug everything out on Friday, and we began to decorate. But another hang up! Due to rats (blast those creatures) the old fake tree is retired to porch duty, and we were without an inside tree. We planned to get a real tree this year and wait till after the season to get a new atrificial. So no tree on Friday.
We also had a few complications with the villiage, which is my dads baby, so it was half up when I left for work. Eight some hours later when I came home (thanks dad for picking me up) I discovered to my delight, a tree in the dinning room!!!!! I worked very hard to convince myself not to stay up into the wee hours of the morning decorating it.
Saturday was another kink. The whole family, myself excluded were going to Indiana to have a late Thanksgiving meal with relatives. I had to work, and therefore had to stay. I sat and stared at the tree. It stared back. (maybe not really that bad) But I knew, that if I began decorating it without the rest of the family, I was so much dead meat, smoke me and use me for stocking stuffers. So I waited. Until Sunday.
Sunday was well . . . interesting. Due to circumstances not quite beyond my control I slept on the coach, which means no alarm. Mom woke up dizzy and lightheaded, Dad woke up sore throat and nauseous( they can't even agree on their symptoms when their both sick!) So, when everyone woke up, church people were already filling out We Missed You Cards.
I think that God organized this little break from the week, (The most spiritual resting day I've had for awhile)
Needless to say, we finally decorated the tree!
I got the ball rolling by mentioning that the whole family was here (tech. Tiff was on the way, but soon to be present.) and that I had to work at three so could we please, please, please, decorate the tree. Sniff. I think it was the tears and grovelling that finally got them, and my volunteering to untangle the lights.
We went with colored lights because we didn't have enough white lights (not that I'm light-racial or anything, I only prefer white lights for that classic look rather than color for the traditional look.) Apparently no one in my family likes putting lights on the tree either, so I did that too. By the time I finished everyone was getting in the spirit, which means the radio was on, the kids were arguing about who got to put on the angel, and dad had found himself a project in another room.
Bulbs first, then snow flakes, then icicles (plastic not tinsel) then the special ornaments.
Every year, everyone in the family gets a new ornament, with their name and the year written on it. We try to coordinate, like the year we got, precious moments, or Winnie the pooh, or snowmen in candy cane stripped outfits, or the smore/marshmallow fig. You get the picture. So everything got put up (and I do mean everything, mom still insists on hanging the can lids that we punched nail holes into and ran a string through during some craft time)
Toward the end it was a scramble for hangers, but I made do for the last three with modified paperclips -- in a festive green -- which I'm going to have to remember when I put up my tree.
So anyway. I just wanted to let everyone know that I am happy. Our house is Christmasy. And I just love this season!!!
Saturday, November 29, 2008
At first I thought that must mean I am a small picture kind of person. I have since learned that I am nothing of the sort. I don't do details. In my last two jobs I have struggled with remembering all those little detail. I have the over all idea, but I forgot something here, another thing there.
I must, I suppose, dwell somewhere in between, (story of my life) not really catching all the details, not really getting the big picture. But I have moments where I come close to one or the other. There are those few times, when looking at a picture or a person everything seems clear, or I seem to get a deeper sense of what or who they are. Likewise, I occasionally get a glimpse of the larger world around me.
Like the other day, as I rode the bus in to work. I saw an old man, coming down a set of stairs, a young man, shaking leaves out of some bottle crates, and a little boy playing at push ups in a car wash lot. As I sat there in my seat, I began to get a glimpse of the world around me. How many thousands of people do I pass every day? And how many do I see? Three. Three people that made an impact on me, the thousands of others slip by like drops of rain, significant only in great numbers, and then only in registering their presence.
Always we are ourselves, living our life every minute of every day. But occasionally we get to take part in someone else's life. Sometimes we are more than just ourselves. Sometimes, we are, family, seeing and living as a group. Sometimes we are friends, getting deep inside the world and emotions of others. And sometimes, we are a crowd, feeling a little of the combined consciousness, mind, and power of many people. But mostly we are one, just ourselves, staring out the window, unable to see the forest for all the trees.
I wondered, as my bus careened along, what was I to those people? Did the old man coming down the stairs see a girls face staring back at him from a bus window? Or just traffic? Did the young man see another human being with acknowledgement in her eyes? Or just feel the breeze of cars passing. Did the little boy look up and see someone watching him play? Or did he only hear the sounds of car horns, more distant to him than his imaginary army base. Did anyone see me? Or was I just a drop of water in a bucket?
Maybe I was the girl running for the bus. The person in your bus seat. The stranger in the crosswalk. But did you see me, or did you notice me? Was I one out of millions? Or was I someone who caused you to think about the little pictures that make up the big one. Did I walk past you before you even knew I was there, or did you go home and blog about me?
P.S. If you saw me, could you tell me how I looked? because I wasn't really sure about that outfit . . .
Friday, November 28, 2008
I could hardly believe the news when my mom announced that due to the Thanksgiving style meal we had enjoyed with our grandparents about a month ago, we were going out to eat. She informed us that in no uncertain terms was she going to slave away in the kitchen to provide a second Thanksgiving meal. I mean what is that all about.
Ok. So sacrilege aside, how was the food?
Well, it ain't like momma used to fix it.
The stuffing was dry. (so they tell me. I don't actually eat stuffing.)
The turkey was . . . turkey. (not my favorite meat.)
The sweet potato casserole. well lets just say that it was fixed by Yankees. (they can't really help it.)
The rest was ok, but I did find a disturbing lump of quivering red goo, which my dad said was supposed to be cranberry sauce, (eww) but we managed to convince Letha it was jelly and she rather enjoyed it on her biscuit.
All in all, the no prep/no clean up factor did not really make up for the no taste/no leftovers. But However, I will not complain, because there was pie.
Not just any old pumpkin or pecan or apple pie, this was an apple pumpkin pecan thingy.
I have no idea where they put the apple, mostly it seemed to be pumpkin pie with pecan crumble on top, but served with a generous helping of whipped topping, cut into huge slices, the pie, well lets say the pie made me happy.
Next year we cook the meal at home, but go out for dessert.
Friday, November 21, 2008
He watches as the dry logs snap and slowly change from solid into ash, dropping away bit by bit. But he is not satisfied by the slow demise, and the steady glow of flame. He picks up a metal rod and prods the log, knocking away the old ash to reveal new wood, new meat for the fire. And the fire responds by leaping to the new patch of wood, burning for a few minutes brighter and higher than before. The boy is delighted, but soon disappointed that the fire slows again. Again he prods, and the fire soars, fades, prods, soars.
He is lost somewhere in the flame, absorbed. To increase the power of the flame he must give it the sacrifice to feed on. On and on he continues, until his mother calls him away to bed.
When he walks away, he does not notice, that by burning the log faster, the fire has run out of things to feed on, it dwindles, and nearly dies, before his father comes to add another log.
I thawed the meat in the microwave, then put it on low in the crock pot with some cream soup. and threw in several tinfoil-wrapped potatoes on top. Dinner taken care of I looked around the kitchen. It was a mess, mostly from a little project of mine the night before. So I cleaned up, filled the dishwasher, wiped down the cabinets, spot swept, and threw away all the trash.
In loading the dishwasher, I gathered all the cups and such left on the dinning room table. The dinning room was a mess too, (this time not my fault but due mostly to the boys - dad bought a train set last night for his new restaurant and he and Dakota couldn't resist setting it up in the middle of the table to see how fast it would run. Dishes away and trash thrown out, the dinning room was clean.
I moved to the living room. I decided to watch an episode of one of my fave old TV shows, Hogans Heroes, but the screen was malfunctioning and nothing would play. So I looked around the living room for inspiration. It was dirty too. So I opened the blinds (I cannot stand a dark room) and picked up in there (mostly after the dog, which chews everything and makes nests - like a rat.)
Living room clean mostly - I remembered that I was suppose to fix the roof on the dog pen today, and they needed fed anyway (the outside dogs -2 not the inside rat/dog -1) So I grabbed the drill (which had reminded me of the job) and headed outside. Fed the dogs, then I got the plastic roof off, but the drill was dying so I had to put it on charge before I could put the roof back on. (The roof was up in a traditional v shape, but I was going to flatten it and close off part of the front to limit the cold air coming in.
While I waited on the drill to charge, I remembered that I had just dug out my old camera the other day, and bought some film to play with the night before. So I took a few picks of the dogs, and wandered aimlessly for awhile. I got cold, and went inside, sung along to a few songs on the radio, country of course, then figured the drill had charged enough to finish my job.
Back out in the cold, I got the roof on, found some boards to close off the front, and filled the dog house with fresh cedar chips.
Back inside the house I looked around. What to do now. I decided to watch Hogan's Heroes on the computer. I couldn't get it to play on there either (the disc thing was stuck and wouldn't open.) But being in the computer room reminded me that of hamster - the only current resident of that room. I had promised mom that I would clean out the cage. Its Dakotas but at four we don't just turn him loose on that sort of job.
Hamster cage clean, I went back up to my apartment, and finally got to watch my Hogan's Heroes up there. Interrupted of course by several calls from my family. By the time it finished I was scrambling to get ready and make my way to work, where I sit now thinking back on my morning.
Then it hits me. I cleaned a house. Not mine. Cleaned a hamster cage. Also not mine. Took care of three dogs. Only one was mine. And made dinner, which I won't be home to eat. That's when I started thinking, I should probably hang out in my own apartment more.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
~ Taxonomy is a system for classifying living things using eight "steps".
As an example we used the classification of a house cat.
Domain - eukarya (this tells you that the cells of this being are more complex
Kingdom - animalia (this tells you its an animal (duh) but bare in mind humans fall under this category)
Phylum - chordata (meaning has spinal cord)
Class - mammalia (a mammal has hair, etc)
Over - carnivora (eats meat)
Family - Felidae ( of the cat family)
Genus - felius ( mostly small cats)
Species - felius catus (domestic house cat)
~Atoms are so small that it would take about a million of them to stretch across the period at the end of this sentence.
~I believe in evolution (we have defined evolution as the evolving of species to suit there environment. This is obvious, because the best suited animal survives and reproduces, giving it offspring more of those characteristics which enabled it to survive. Over time this can change the entire appearance of a species. I still believe that a monkey will always be a monkey no matter how much it changes, and to believe that one thing can change into another is the most profound form a idiocy. )
I have learned that we should not eat or drink in the laboratory, mt dew code red is only slightly less acidic than vinegar, you can reveal the iron in cereal by crushing it and dragging a magnet through it, some young men will argue with you whether the color of a base and phenthelphaelin (not sure that's spelled right) is fuchsia or violet, and that in today's generation language skills . . . well it just makes me sad.
I look forward to tomorrow and the chance to learn new things, that I may share with whomever reads this. Until then, I had better go do my homework or I shouldn't bother going to class.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
is a Chinese dish of chicken and vegetables in Chinese gravy.
is a political position that originated in nineteenth-century Britain, where antidisestablishmentarians were opposed to proposals to remove the Church of Englan's status as the state church of England forwarded principally by both Payne and Tuffin.
is a serious bacterial illness. It is the leading cause of bacterial meningitis in children 2 through 18 years old in the United States. Meningitis is an infection of fluid surrounding the brain and spinal cord.
Is a type of subatomic particle.
Is an outer garmet worn by rural workers, especially shepards and waggoners, in parts of England and Wales from the early eighteenth century.
Impossible to comprehend or grasp fully.
is the common American English term for the plant, while "swede" is the preferred term used in much of England, Wales, Australia, New Zealand and India. The swede is a root vegetable that originated as a cross between the cabbage and the turnip. Its leaves can also be eaten as a leaf vegetable.
are tropical and subtropical vines comprising the genus Luffa. The fruit of at least two species, Luffa acutangula and Luffa aegyptiaca, is grown to be harvested before maturity and eaten as a vegetables, popular in Asia and Africa. The fruit of L. aegyptiaca may also be allowed to mature and used as a bath or kitchen sponge after being processed to remove everything but the network of xylem.
I am addicted to paper.
Something about it draws me. It is that missing link, the connection between the mind and the written word.
With this addiction comes a compulsion. I must buy paper. I love it. A new pack of lined notebook paper, a bundle of notebooks, note cards, journals, books, paper plates, anything made of compressed tree pulp. I even get upset in public restrooms when I find that in order to save the environment, they have gotten rid of paper towels.
I say that I hesitate to call it a problem, but I am beginning to wonder. I find that lately, I have begun to see a downside to my addiction. I have three copies of one of my favorite books, four or more copies of Treasure Island (which I have never read), six to seven types of note cards (of which I have only ever use three types, and never gave out most of those I filled out) somewhere around fifty notebooks ranging between full, empty, and page less. Yet, whenever I find a copy of my favorite book, I want to buy it. I feel that classic books such as Treasure Island should be rescued when found in thrift stores, and bargain shops -- like homeless puppies. The other day at a store I loaded my cart with things I needed for my apartment, then at the end of my trip, put almost everything back to save money unfortunately on the way to the register I passed the card isle and left with two new packs of cards -- one blank, one thank you -- for which I have no use, but they were so cool. My family and friends look at me strangely when they find me burring my nose in a musty old book, or breathing deeply as I flip the pages of a new notebook.
But I cant help it, the look, the smell, the feel of it beneath my fingertips. I keep a pad of paper and a few pens beside my desk, and there are some night when I cannot sleep for the urge to write, to get my thoughts down on paper, then there are other nights when I need to sleep, but stay awake just to fill a blank page with ink. I write the alphabet, practice cursive, make lists.
What am I saying? I don't know. I have issues. Who doesn't. But that's all I can write right now, Walmart is having a sale on notebooks and I should probably go stock up.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The idea that interests me most in the blogging world is the idea that is so entirely different from the world of diaries. People are supposed to read this. Perhaps, that fact alone may rescue my little project. That aspiring author in me will never be happy with an incomplete work (the two dozen books I've started aside). So I will treat this blog, like the title claims as a work, soon to be published. That is to say that I will live with some roughness of technique and grammar, spelling errors will be assured, in exchange for completeness.
Basically I shall endeavor to end anything that i start on here, whether or not I begin to hate it halfway through.
So saying, I shall now try to write that which I consider to be one of the most important parts of any published work. . . the dedication. I am one of those people who will pick up a book and judge. I judge not the book, but the author through four things. Cover. What did you let them print your work in. First sentence. Does it intrigue me? Last sentence. Does it make me want to read the whole book just to get to that sentence? And Dedication.
I think the author revels more about him/her self than in any other part of the book. biography included. Who cares where you live or how many cats you have? I want to know who you thank. Here are some examples of good dedications:
By Lemony Snickets/ A Series of Unfortunate Events
To Beatrice -
darling, dearest, dead.
By C.S. Lewis/ The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe
My Dear Lucy,
I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand, a word you say, but I shall still be
your affectionate Godfather,C.S. Lewis
I could never endeavor to write such striking prose, but I have often lain awake at night wondering who, if I should ever finish and publish a book I should dedicate it to. Here are a few samples, varying mostly by mood.
~I dedicate this book to my sister Tiffany, as pay back for all those chapters of disjointed stories, the half poems, excerpts and snitches I have made you read. You did it grudgingly but I appreciate it none the less.
~I was going to dedicate this book to family, but I am not speaking to them at present. Then I was going to dedicate it to my dog, but he ate a page of my manuscript. Then I was going to dedicate it to the hamster, which we bought for my little brother but has to live with me to avoid the cat, but he is running on that stupid little wheel and its driving me crazy. Then I thought why not dedicate it to you, my reader, whom I cannot yet dislike because I have never met you. But then I thought what if you did not buy my book? And so, this book is dedicated to no one.
As you can see, it is best not to write dedications during heightened emotion. However, as one of my favorite Bible School Presidents often says, I said all that to say this.
This blog is dedicated to whomever reads it. To those who like it, dislike it, don't understand it, or just don't care. Also to those, who never read it, but share my sentiments, and my passion for the written word. It is dedicated to dreamers, authors, poets, artist, and to the people who feel, that though they themselves are not artists, they can at least appreciate art.You who are the starving artist, and you who buy ridiculously priced art, so that the artist will not starve. To you.