Tuesday, 5:40am. I'm staring at the ceiling fan. I'm rather fond of this fan, especially in the stuffy summer months, and its just as well, because I've spent a lot of time inspecting it. There's a bit of dust on the blades I should climb up and remove before we start using it.
Lately, every night begins and ends the same way. I fall asleep like I haven't slept in days. I sleep soundly for better than half the night.
I wake up in clutching, mindless, irrational terror. Scarcity, "what ifs", work angst, generalized anxiety, mental accounting of the vague and terrifying variety.
I'm kinda tired of it. Here's a list of nice things that happened today.
1. I woke up with my face snuggled in a warm cat. When I lifted my head he put his paw on it as if to say, no no, sleep, and planted a kiss on my forehead.
2. I had a cup of tea.
3. The sun is out.
4. I actually laughed at work.
5. I like my socks. Good socks today.
Yeah, I'm hanging on by my fingernails. Underneath me is my old, currently broken down car, a career I don't want, a future that is murky and uncertain, and an impending 39th birthday.
But hey. There's also this. And this is about the only thing that's keeping me from hiding under a blanket with a bag of cookies and the cat.
25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? 28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? 31So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' 32For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Hey! I posted, though its over here at yonder blog, my blog for all things medical and some things icky.
I keep this place and that there place separate despite the Husband's strident pleas that I combine all. I do this because not everyone wants to hear stories about death and poop.
I took this excellent course last weekend, after a feverish three days of reading as much of the textbook as I could in 72 hours while still sleeping and giving a full time job due diligence. It was a great weekend, having practical time alongside Paramedics and RNs as well as EMTs from other stations was an excellent opportunity to sharpen skills, learn new things, and share what works with people from other departments. Even through I didn’t ‘get a weekend’ rest-wise, I came back Monday morning with my Patient Care batteries recharged. Hearing one of my former EMT instructors say how proud she was of her ‘graduated students’ reminded me what I like about doing this ‘free job’ I’ve got.
As usual, there were occasions for a few laughs.
During a lecture on ‘Patients Under the Influence’ our instructor told us a lot of things about what is going on in schools that convince me that I made the right decision limiting my children to the four legged, fur bearing variety. Apparently the ‘new and improved kegstand’ involves inverting oneself while beer is inserted into the anus. It would seem the alcohol crosses into the bloodstream faster and one can get drunk more quickly on less beer. Good grief, people. I feel like I’m taking a walk on the wild side when I eat a sleeve of Sprees and drink a Pepsi. Many questions spring to mind, as well, including but not limited to:
What about the carbonation? Is there a separate keg for people who want their beer the old fashioned way? Is there a surefire way to differentiate same that doesn’t involve sniffing the tap? If you can actually stand on your hands and let someone do that without falling over (or, even more compelling, do it YOURSELF) is there a better outlet for your talents that might be in some way financially lucrative? Oughtn’t you check this out?
We’re all shooting the breeze during lunch on day 3 of class, discussing other training opportunities. A student (who is frequently an instructor) was telling us about Wilderness EMS, and I said we should have that this summer. I volunteered to be the ‘S’Mores Officer’ for the weekend.
(I realize the last couple of anecdotes seem unrelated. Bear with me.)
Said student went on to say that when he took Wilderness EMS the ‘patient’ he had to ‘keep alive’ in his scenario was hypoglycemic and unconscious, and that they had considered ‘putting chocolate up his butt’ as a possible solution.
There was a moment of silence while this was considered. Then I said, "I guess that would be like a ‘S’mores Stand’. Though I don’t recommend using the graham crackers." (general laughter)
Aaaand…..scene.
Oh, and I passed. Not as high a grade as I’d like but I’m obsessive about such things. So if you wreck in the 'Boro on a Wednesday night, if you'd keep your injuries around a B+, I'd appreciate it.
The authority for all things English in my world has always been this:In middle school, junior high, and high school, Warriner's was my calculus. It was my holy book. My participles did not dangle, my modifiers were not misplaced, and my sentences were rigidly diagrammed with the help of a yellow ruler I kept clipped in my ring binder. My math skills may have been par to slightly sub-par, but when it came to words, I was double shifting. I was using all the crayons in the box. I was reading four years above my grade level. I 'hear' awkward sentence structure like an out of tune piano, a skill that earned me the silent treatment for two weeks in college after I red-penned the living hell out of a paper a friend asked me to proofread.
The Text Messaging Age has been hard on me. I know I'm not the only one who picks up on the general slippage in language skills. Whole blogs are dedicated to woefully written notes and unnecessary punctuation. Bloggers more popular than I have discussed it at length.
I may have upped the ante this morning with my email to the Wall Street Journal. I was glancing over the headlines when I saw this.
Treasurys? It leapt off the page, assaulting me with its wrongness. I read the article, thinking perhaps the title was put on later, by an editor, perhaps, but no, the author used 'treasurys' again. So I did what any other right thinking person would do at 9:15 on a Friday morning.
I emailed him and pointed out his error.
I didn't expect a reply, but I'd made an effort to pull the grammatical dress hem out of the pantyhose of the Wall Street Journal and that was enough for me. Imagine my surprise when Andrew Peaple emailed me right back.
Wsj style I thnk. Thanks for your comment though. (sic)
Seemed nice enough, he did, and since he replied to some random woman in a backwater town and acknowledged her picky observation, never mind the research that probably went into the article and the thousand things he had to understand to discuss the topic intelligently. So I emailed him again.
Ah. I forgot that sometimes the papers do things a little outside of Warriner's English Grammar. My husband is a writer/editor and I've been on the receiving end of his "Oh God, why didn't I see that" a few times so I just wanted to do you a solid and mention it.
Have a great day!
(See what I did there? Its called the benefit of the doubt. Even though I felt a little like Cindy Lou Who being told her Christmas tree had a light out and was being taken in for repairs.)
He sent back: Thank you. Stay in touch!
By the way, I'm british, so am constantly wrestling with american spellings....
Again, a sweetie. A sweetie who is also capricious with capital letters and blames his fine country of origin, which aside from using words like 'banger' and 'pram' and throwing the odd 'u' in words that don't need it doesn't play fast and loose with the rules. So I'm still left with the feeling that all writing, even in the august Wall Street Journal, is on the skids.
I finally got to ride in our sweet new ambulance Tuesday night. After countless bone jarring ambulance transfers in a 4WD vehicle that would have eventually resulted in breasts I could kneel on, we got a 2WD that offered a smooth ride and steps you can negotiate with a wide butt and short legs without looking like you just fell off a Mardi Gras float. Yaay for me!
It still has that 'new ambulance' smell, which is kind of like the 'new car' smell, if new cars came with extrication tools and the smell cost about $160,000 extra. Everything is shiny and unused.
We set off with a patient onboard who had difficulties that were not of the elimination variety, so I was alarmed when she had a whispered conversation with the nurse on board that ended with said nurse saying, "You have to POOP?" This was followed with a reassuring explanation of how very close we were to our destination, a place where she could do what needed done, possibly even without three onlookers in close quarters. This reassurance lasted exactly 45 seconds. I was at the head of the cot so I couldn't hear much of what was being said, only "Right NOW? Are you sure?"
A bedpan (which I prayed to the Patron Saint of Inopportune Defecation was actually IN the storage bin) was located, and we pawed through the layers of straps, tubing, non washable and very vulnerable-looking wool blankets, and ether blanketing to get to the patient and slip it in place.
Have you ever gotten on an elevator and experienced that awkward silence that settles in after the doors close? Or been witness to the 'party lull' where everyone stops talking at the same time for no particular reason? I would submit to you that these experiences run a distant seventy-third to dropping trou so you can poop in front of strangers in a moving vehicle.
We got the patient sorted out, then field tested something called the 'Power Vent'. (Ambulance manufacturers, whoever thought of a ceiling-mounted fan that sucks smells out of the back so they can hover malevolently over random municipalities, THANK YOU. It works like a champ.)
And nothing cheers up the staff of my favorite ER like walking in with a big red biohazard bag and saying, "Do you have someplace I can put this?" I wish I had one for them every day.
Here, I walk out of a movie that I couldn't stand, and pull up to the computer to have a little fun while I wait for it to be over, and I discover that once again I've managed to offend someone.
I made a comment on someone else's blog that had nothing to do with Canada. Only that a couple of folks from Canada had gotten hurt in a motorcycle accident. I didn't imply that being from there had anything to do with them having an accident. They could have been from Toledo. They could have been from Cheesequake, New Jersey. (Its a real place, one of my favorite towns EVAR.) They could have been from Pocatello, which is either in Iowa or Idaho. I think Idaho. As it happens they were from Canada. I'm sorry.
I once took a Canadian Politics class in college that I absolutely didn't need because:
1. I had a small crush on the professor (an occasional adjunct at Queens University) 2. I knew absolutely nothing about your system of government and very little of your history outside of the bit of Irish history that overlaps it and that at one time you had a PM named Trudeau and a couple of Brians. I got a free subscription to McLean's and a B+.
I was busted for shoplifting in Montreal once. They were lenient. I was four years old. I was sent as a youth delegate to a missions conference in Niagara Falls when I was 17 and I conducted myself with utmost decorum despite the fact that our chaperone dropped us off at the hotel and went back to Buffalo to hang out with his daughter. We had a very good pizza, went on the Maid of the Mist, and sang a lot of songs about Jesus.
So gentle Canadians, polite Canadians, warmly dressed Canadians, please accept my apologies.
Wednesday night again; I'm at the ambulance building waiting for potential wreckage and mayhem from the snow/sleet/freezing rain/plague of frogs NOAA has sort of accurately predicted. So far, only one call, a person whose wreckage and mayhem was of a pulmonary variety.
Just spent a couple of hours with a sweet person who never fails to share details about people that I really don't want to know. I still haven't figured out how to say, "um, I don't want to hear this" without offending, so I spent the last twenty minutes making what I hope is a 'please stop talking' face. She's done now, and has gone home.
My thoughts have been limping, cripply, and unfunny lately, hence the recent blog-hiatus. I can't claim any personal Dark Night of the Soul (I almost spelled that Dark Knight of the Soul, which would imply some deep searching of Christian Bale, an activity I could completely get behind, even with his anger issues and whatnot. Hey-- who hasn't had the sudden overwhelming urge to give a pesky AD a South Philly shoeshine during a particularly tense scene of Batman-emoting. We've all been there.)
I'm sorry, I was just distracted by a commercial wherein a gentleman wearing a seemingly unnecessary headset just declared "We're going to make America skinny again, one slap at a time!" There's no way to understand that statement that doesn't disturb me.
Where was I. Batman. Christian Bale. Souls. ShamWow eyebrow SlapChop guy. Oh, right. Winter
ennui.
I'm trying to recall what I've been doing with myself the last few weeks. Other than mainlining Jan Karon novels and eating multiple bowls of Malt-o-Meal fake Froot Loops, nothing comes to mind. Surely my winter has amounted to more than discount cereal and Christian chick-lit.
Not so far. Here's a quick list of the rest:
1. Battlestar Galactica on Netflix
2. Snow
3. Subzero cold
4. Work
5. More subzero cold
6. Fire banquet
7. More cold
8. A bit more snow
9. A Super Bowl or something
I have reconnected with a lot of high school friends on Facebook. That's been fun, though if I knew how many of them stood at the ready with pictures of me in glasses with Hubble telescope-sized lenses and big hair I might have mashed the 'Ignore' button a few more times.
Seriously, though, while I love talking to old friends I caught myself OD-ing on nostalgia a time or two. And we all know its a short stroll down Memory Lane to 'What I Have Done and What I Have Failed To Do' Street, which dead ends on 'Middle Age Panic' Circle, with its declining property values and tacky landscaping.
So I tread lightly and carefully, dreaming of Spring and more interesting tidbits to bring to my readers. Even my intrepid customers have been pleasantly banal, no amorous canines or strangers who urge me to wear their slippers. I close my eyes and imagine tulips tightly furled against the dark, frozen soil, the yards hiding fragrant lilac bushes, the stalks of mountain laurel that will line these roads in riotous display in a few short months. I dream of green, the dark blue-green of the pines, the soft yellow-green of new grass, the lush green of the canyon under the heavy heat of August, laced with butterflies, with its smell of sun-baked green that rises in waves and washes over me like sleep. My desperation in the dark and freezing night does not delay it a moment. People....
According to the Washington Post, Obama exercises 45-60 minutes a day, every day, no matter how busy he is. He scopes out gyms in cities and the Secret Service 'convinces' the owners to open early or stay open late, so he can get some time in.
Somehow, I doubt its hard to resist them, when they ask.
While I admire it, his dedication to the whole fitness thing, it sort of makes that 'Yes We Can' thing seem a little annoying. A little gym-teachery, if you like. I can see him in a golf shirt and knee shorts and those little slouchy socks, with the folded arms and benevolent bemusement, explaining to an athletically challenged ninth grader (perhaps one with glasses and newly applied orthodontia) that if she keeps her eye on the ball, she doesn't have to worry about getting hit in the head with it, truly. He'd probably even say, "Look." and make that intensely concentrated 'I'm going to explain it to you again' face.
Weirdly, when I try too hard to imagine it, he morphs into this guy. So I try not to try too hard.
Trying not to try is a bit of a credo for me. If I had to pick a president that personified my own fitness policy, I'd probably fall somewhere in between here
and here. (That's Bill before his ticker suggested he back off on the In-n-Out Burgers. The other guy? William Howard Taft. He got stuck in a bathtub once. Awesome!)
Still, I guess I need to do better. We've been called on to roll up our sleeves and dig in. So my walking challenge starts on February 1, where I will be undertaking to walk 30 minutes a day, every day, from February 1 to March 31, thanks to these folks, who are in Nome, Alaska and don't tolerate any guff about it being too cold, since they live in the land of perpetual frozen-bits-falling-off danger. I'll keep you posted on my ventures into the frozen tundra, and I'll be honest about the days when I stay inside and do this instead.
Recently I was reading a blog I subscribe to where the author was lamenting having said something that hurt someone's feelings. She described herself as someone who takes pains to be kind, and not do things like that, but despite her best efforts, failed in this one instance. I remember thinking, 'Man, I hate when that happens.'
No one likes to admit doing something dumb, thoughtless, and unkind.
I did something dumb, thoughtless, and unkind.
A few weeks ago I was stuck at the ambulance station. On New Year's Eve, to be exact. It was cold, I didn't want to be there, and I was passing the time watching TV, which I rarely do, Twittering and doing paperwork, waiting for something bad to happen so I could justify my presence there.
Jeopardy was on, which I haven't seen in forever, and I made fun of one of the contestants. I said mean things about how she looked, despite the fact that I know being on TV sometimes makes people look not-themselves, and despite the fact that my own appearance on TV when I was 17 was laughably awkward.
I have no excuse. It was simply unkind. Sometimes we forget that people we see on TV are actually PEOPLE. And I am glad that this particular person saw what I had written and called me on it, because I was reminded of that important lesson.
So formally, I apologize to Isis Uptown for the things I said. I have no excuse and a world of life experience that reminds me I should know, and do, better.
....sometimes, I wish my several readers could pile in the van with me when I'm on the road.
Not just because your presence would alleviate the boredom that causes compulsive license plate memorization and the effort to sing entire Broadway shows, but because some of the special, shimmery weirdness of certain moments is lost in translation when I bring them home to you.
I have a miniature one of these in my purse. I keep it there to jot down things that happen or that I see, so I can bring them to you later. A combination of various illnesses, travel, and the Apocalypse Now-like disorientation that accompanies Christmas (without as much psychopathic demagoguery or Marlon Brando) prevented me from writing out of my wee composition book. As I turn the pages, I find the following gems:
Archibald Pothole State Park. LOL!! This was less funny when I looked it up and discovered that the Archibald Pothole is a geological formation and NOT a guy named Archie Pothole.
Do Not Taunt Happy Fun Christmas I stopped for lunch in Shamokin Dam at your run-of-the-mill Chinese buffet, but it didn't take me long to figure out that this one had very, very special music for the Christmas season. Or rather, someone locked a group of aspiring Chinese pop stars in a room with a handful of 'Christmas phrases' and encouraged them to write some songs, accompanied by holiday-tinged drum machine tracks that said less 'Happy Holidays' to me and more 'Gitmo punishment cell'. Every song sounded like the instruction manual to electronics bought at the dollar store. I accepted a special dose of karma in a version of 'O Happy Day' that was obviously learned phonetically by non-speakers of English. I am abundantly repaid for walking around circa 1985 singing '99 Luftbalons' in German.
The Twisted Bitterness of the Non-Fat I popped into a local coffee shop on a very cold, miserable day to treat myself to something hot. I placed my order and chatted with the barista while she made it, and just as she was fitting the lid on the cup a woman walked up to the counter.
"What did you just make for her?" she said, jerking her thumb in my direction.
"Hot chocolate," the barista replied.
"I figured it was too good to be true. Give me a fat free, sugar free, vanilla soy latte."
The hell? I was sort of dumbfounded. WHAT was too good to be true? Had she hoped to lick the little metal pitcher? Was she going to offer to go halfsies? Why was she so angry?
Dog Dominance and the Brinkmanship of Ducks I had an appointment way out on the rim of the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. I thought it'd be kind of neat; most of the houses out there are little cabins and I hadn't been out there in a while. The neatness wore off as the elevation increased and it began to snow. The weather gets crappy up there fast. I find the little dirt road, find the cute little cabin with the laughably narrow driveway, and park. The snow is coming down in earnest and as I climb the porch and greet my customer, she says she just wants to smoke a 'quick cigarette'. Um, okay. I shift nervously from foot to foot while she languidly draws on a cigarette the length of a CB antenna and tells me all about moving to Savannah, and I exclaim my wonder at her good fortune just loudly enough to mask the sound of my clipboard making contact with the skull of a patchy, smelly akita that has just mounted my leg. Its a bit like getting humped by a frat house sofa.
"Oh, " she said, smoking, "don't worry about him. He's just establishing dominance."
I put lawn furniture between myself and the dog and grab the screen door handle with a "WELL! Let's get started." After a torturously slow process and lots of asides that made me want to alternately go to church or take a nap, the customer looks out the window after another Springer-esque anecdote about her family and says, "Gee, you'd probably better go, hadn't you? Its getting bad out there. " Uh, yeah, thanks. I make a k-turn in the driveway, coming within an inch of her chimney and slide back out of her lane onto paved road, which is by now completely covered. Creeping down miles of empty road, with no company except steadily increasing snow and moaning, frigid wind, I am lost in thought. Then there are ducks. Right in the middle of the lane. They'll fly away. Won't they? WON'T THEY? I get within 10 feet and they are still both just standing there. Does duck sepukku usually involve the 1999 Dodge Caravan? I hit the brakes and skid around them. The ducks remain, gray shadows in the whirling snow.
I always forget to ask, but please stop on over to Humor Blogs.com, throw me a vote (or smiley me above) and check out the other folks (like Himself) who are ranked much, much higher than me because they always remember to shake what their mamma gave 'em. (Heck, sometimes they'll show it to you!)
Oh, good lord. Is this the day I should be writing the post I should have written weeks ago, yet have either been to busy, too lazy, or too sick to write? To quote a blogger dear to me, I'm sure I don't know.
Anyhoodle, Friday night I left work, went to the grocery store, came home and made dinner, and ate, oblivious to the fact that my 96 hours of house arrest had begun. We started to watch a movie, and I tried to ignore the intensifying feeling that all was not well in my GI region. Grape juice and DiGiorno thin crust supreme is less tasty on the revisit, and I will now forever associate Plan 9 from Outer Space with the intense nausea and cramping of January Virus Weekend 2009. The only upside is that we got a crap ton of snow, none of which I had to shovel, and Himself went out to buy me tea and other nice things. I slept a lot, and generally did my best Beth in 'Little Women' impression. Only I didn't die. (Sorry about the spoiler, for those of you who haven't read it in the 141 years since its publication.)
I tried to do a few things to make me feel better, though I learned that if you are going to do your nails during a movie, you should pick one without subtitles. You miss things. Just sayin'. I mixed up a fancy organic masque sample I had and applied it to my pasty face in an attempt to 'pamper' myself. It smelled like potting soil, bad breath, and vaguely toxic art supplies. The cat eyed me warily, as if he was silently chanting some feline incantation of rebuke and protection.
Monday, I stayed home, since a shower still required a two-hour nap recovery. Watched the two movies that make me feel better; Little Women and Enchanted April. Took more naps. Came to work today because the view from my bedroom window was starting to make me feel a little insane. (Tiny beige house. Tiny beige house. Tiny beige house. A car! Tiny beige house. Tiny beige house.) Fortunately today involves mostly sitting and doing things with my brain, and I think I can handle it.
I promise to post again very soon. I have dog dominance, duck brinkmanship, and strange overhearings at the coffee shop to tell you about.
I was tagged by fabulous fellow blogger Needless to Say for this ‘Seven Things’ Meme. I’m not sure if I did this one before, and I’m experiencing a medically induced laziness to check, so I’ll just off and do it again, shall I?
Seven things about me that I may or may not have shared previously in some form, known only by some family and a few friends who are probably sick of my stories and secretly think me a bit full of myself though they’d never say so because I have Many Endearing Qualities:
1. I was the lead singer in a terrible band in college. We did one show. There IS video evidence. Fortunately I lack the VHS to web technology to share it and ANYWAY you would never see it because, good God, its terrible. If I am really that awkward I should not leave the house.
2. I was on PBS in high school (Channel 12, for youse in Philly) fake sight-reading my way through Handel’s Messiah on live TV. I was sporting a red sweatshirt with a teddy bear on it, giant Jeanine-from-Ghostbusters glasses, with all my hair pulled back drum-tight with a giant tortoise-shell barrette. I’m right in the front row by the harpsichord so I got a lot of camera time and didn’t realize how painfully short bus I looked until my grandmother popped the tape in for all the relatives to see at a family gathering. They showed it EVERY Christmas Eve for years until Pavarotti and the Vienna Boys Choir became the go-to music program and the greater Philadelphia area was spared my dorkiness.
3. I own firearms and a sword and have been trained to use both.
4. I have socialized with people who were either expelled from this country or refused entry here. I had guns pointed at me and visited two different prisons on the same trip. I will likely never be hired by the Department of Homeland Security for these and other related reasons. I’m now slightly paranoid that this whole item has tripped some sort of flagging program and my blog will now be monitored.
5. I was once caught shoplifting in the Province of Quebec and was convinced that the store owner had the legal authority to imprison me because he had an accent. I was four years old.
6. I married the second person I ever dated. My husband married the first person he ever dated. We did not live together before we were married. We have been married for twelve years.
7. I’m a firefighter and an EMT. I do more EMT-ing than firefighting, mostly because half our firefighters hang out at the station and I’d have to have the power of by-location to get there in time to make the first or second truck. So I usually only end up going if it’s a huge fire and we dump the station. There aren’t many of those. But I have the nifty coat with my name on the back in yellow reflective letters, which still feels badass even though when I put the whole rig on with the boots and suspenders I am pretty sure that if you knocked me over I’d roll back and forth on the ground and yell "Hey guys! I CAN’T get UP!!" Like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story. But I’ve been on 107 ambulance calls this year. Of those, only five involved the patient being zipped into a plastic bag. (One stroke, one massive MI, one motorcycle vs. Various Stationary Objects, two suicides.)
I know I'm supposed to tag others, but since most of you have already done this one, feel free to throw interesting anecdotes into the comments, so I can break my big record of like, eleven comments on one post. Just make sure you vote for me so I can feel the love.
I usually pride myself on knowing, at least in a dim and rudimentary sense, about pop culture. True, the strength of my knowledge lies in the John Hughes era, but I am at least somewhat familiar with what's hot, enough that I could be filled with equal parts despair and amusement while trying to explain to my mother on the phone what a Wii is, and how its different from the last video gaming system she purchased and was familiar with (an Atari 2600).
Another gibbet of evidence that I'm creeping toward middle age (other than last week, when I bought birth control pills AND reading glasses at Walmart on the same day) is that I'm starting to let things go by. Things I realize I don't get and I'm okay with not getting.
In junior high I got together with a bunch of guys every other Friday night or so for a game. We all had our own dice, we all had folders full of sheets with our characters written out by hand in pencil. We sat together 'IRL' at a table, and a guy with a huge binder sat behind a trifold paper castle wall and determined our fate as we moved painstakingly painted lead figurines around on a piece of grid paper. We talked, ate Cheetos, and laughed our butts off. No one had seizures from playing 24 hours straight without sleep or food, though at least one bad movie was made about people taking it too far. By age 15, when we discovered things like extracurricular activities and the opposite sex, roleplaying tapered off sharply, with the exception of one live RPG excursion that ended in, as my doctor put it, 'The single worst case of poison oak he's ever seen" plus various minor blunt force and Ronsonol misfire injuries. (Hint: never run with a tiki torch.)
Today my Gmail ad du jour was from this company. Apparently, I can get a t-shirt with my 'Guild Tabard' on it. So when you do finally pry your ass out of the chair and grab a Big Gulp and a microwaved burrito, everyone can see what realm battlegroup and faction you belong to. Also: why your virginity is safe and secure.
2. Twilight
I didn't get it the first time, either. Did we have to start it all over again because Anne Rice found Jesus? (Be glad she did. Some of her pseudonymous stuff was, yikes. Just, yikes.)
3. Compulsive text messaging
Yeah, I use it. Mostly when I'm someplace too noisy to talk, and only when I have to tell Himself I'm on my way home. My one attempt to drunk text while at a friend's going away party ended in three very unintelligible and never sent messages that all started 'Hey bebby...' Which is probably why the party ended with breakfast at McDonald's at 7am. But is there really any reason why a guy has to stand around with a phone in his pocket that declaims "Apple bottom jeans and the boots WITH THE FUR" every twelve seconds? Does texting make you seem LESS like a 14 year old girl than just PICKING UP THE DAMN THING and talking to whoever it is that keeps sending you cryptic mini-missives that subject the rest of the free world to your questionable taste in music?
I keep seeing girls in these sweatshirts that are basically a hood, sleeves, and about 8 inches of body, with a zipper that starts somewhere in the ziphoid process region. I beg anyone with mercy and sense to explain to me what the heck the point of this is, beyond making you look like you raided a toddler's closet.
Is it a reality show? Is it a drama? Are there any other people in the world more in need of a savage kicking?
6. The Jonas Brothers
Methinks we've been here before. Let's see....
Oh, or
Or these guys, who disabled embedding so you'll just have to click on through to the otha side for all the hair-swinging goodness.
Look, I remember coveting my sister's Tiger Beat with Shaun Cassidy on the cover. I know from tweeny lust. But I look at these guys and all I see are the charter members of my high school Latin Club.
Hey, do a girl a favor and vote for me over to Humor Blogs, eh? While my husband hobnobs with the blogging elite I'm about five scrolls down the page. Its embarassing and precipitates haughty lectures from him about how I need to update my template and otherwise pimp myself out. I don't care if he's right. Its still annoying.
Ah, the station. I probably spend more time here than I should. In fact, I'm writing this here. Mostly because we have a big flatscreen monitor on the computer and the keyboard isn't full of crumbs like the one at home. (I'm not to blame. I'll leave it at that.) Anyway, the station is a little like college. You sometimes share close quarters with other people of whom you have a certain fondness. A certain camaraderie. Okay, you tolerate them. Sometimes.
We don't have a live-in program or anything, so there isn't a full kitchen, though we do have a bunkroom that has been used now and again. I camp here myself in inclement weather, since I have a car that isn't the best handler in snow and ice. I'd rather be here already if its really bad out.
Some time ago it was decided that someone should be cleaning this place on a regular basis. I won't get into why. Just trust me. It was necessary. A price was negotiated, and the job fell to myself. I don't really mind it. Twice a week I chase away the cobwebs, wipe up the smudges, and clean the bathroom. This is a pretty uneventful experience about 98% of the time. Today was a two-percenter. I performed an intervention. Then left this note.
Some Thoughts to Ponder
1. The throne on which you are sitting delivers water at the rate of 1.6 gallons per flush. 2. Despite the impressive WHOOSH it makes when you pull the handle, it is a LOW FLOW TOILET. 3. If you, in the course of business here, believe that the payload you are delivering will not be sufficiently moved into the sewage system of Our Fine Borough by 1.6 gallons of water, a mid-transaction courtesy flush is in order. 4. The average human anus is approximately the size of a dime. It does not require FIFTEEN YARDS OF PAPER to clean. 5. Should you experience a plumbing emergency worthy of intervention, a plunger can be found across the street (in the firehouse) in the ladies room. Knock first; it’s a one-seater. 6. Should I ever have to clear a plumbing emergency like the one I found tonight, and the perpetrator does not make an effort to solve the problem, and leaves it to me, and said perpetrator can be positively identified, they might find what they left behind in the pockets of their turnouts.
Brothers and sisters, this holiday season, if you stop at the station for a little 'You Time'....just make sure all systems are clear before you go about your day. That's all I'm sayin'.
Whoo hoo, sounds like a spicy one, eh? I grabbed this the other day and stuck it in my draft file, aka the doomed to never be published if I don't do it now file (Still sitting on one about my first attempt at canning, making fundraiser 'bread in a jar' for an organization I've since quit, complete with disturbingly glistening photos.)
Since, let's be honest, we're all pretty much pretending to work today, I figured I'd make today a two-fer. Because this article, from the Fount of All Dubious Advice, needed to be mocked. The sister-in-law had one not long ago about whether its okay to cry at work. This one is equally insightful.
So this is what MSN believes one needs to keep one's man.
1. Your backing when he takes a risk. Guys need to keep in touch with adventure—why else would Man Vs. Wild be a TiVo staple? “When I wanted to switch careers, my girl said to go for it,” says Will, 30. “Having her in my corner gave me the courage to try.”
2. The right to keep Secrets. Why should he have to tell you his friend is having an affair, or that his cousin lost his job and hasn’t told his wife yet? If it’s not integral to your relationship, don’t feel threatened. His discretion shows he’s a grown-up.
3. A guilt-free boys’ night out. The cure for “girly-man” syndrome is contact with other high-fiving men. This may mean a trip to the bar or an Ultimate Fighting Championship—but it’s definitely without you, and that’s OK. “See me off with a smile,” says Al-Teriq, 38. “That trust is critical.”
4. The green light to actually have sex, should the opportunity arise, with someone on his Celebrity List of Five. And by all means, hop on Brad Pitt if you ever get the chance.
5. Some space when his team loses the big game. And you can save your “maybe next year” optimism; just give us time alone to weep.
6. A heads-up when you just need us to listen. Sometimes all you really want to do is vent to us about something. A simple warning in advance and we promise we’ll stay quiet and let you talk it out.
7. Patience when he says the wrong thing. Like when you ask, “How’s my hair?” and we say, “Fine,” instead of “Amazing!” Give us a break: We’re trying.
8. Big guffaws and tiny giggles. We like to hear laughter—preferably following one of our silly jokes. We know, we know: Chris Rock and Jerry Seinfeld we are not, but anything you offer will be very much appreciated.
9. Frequent (and enthusiastic) trips downtown. Yes, we all request this, but that’s because it really is that good. We’re happy to return the favor.
10. A GPS for the car. You want this too. It will end those “where the *#!? are we?” arguments once and for all.
11. The freedom to be himself. It’s important for people in a relationship to retain a sense of self, and for guys that’s achievable in some unexpected ways; leaving the toilet seat up or spending the weekend in boxers. <><><><><><><><><> Good God. Where to begin. First off, is changing careers really on par with staggering through the desert swathed in a t-shirt cooled with your own pee? If your job is that demanding perhaps your girl would do better to be in your corner while you go buy some term life and name her as the primary beneficiary. I'm so glad that going without pants is enough to help a man retain his sense of self, especially since he is apparently one missed trip to the bar and a denied celebrity 'do' list away from becoming a screaming queen, which would actually be good, since MY sense of self revolves around whether or not he can appropriately assess my hairdo and maybe if he did bat for the other team I'd get some honest feedback. I can't mock these separately because all together they form this giant ball of stereotypey goodness that just gets stuck in my intellect like cotton candy with hair in it. So here's my own list.
1. Let's not fancy up the reality of things by calling it a 'Celebrity List of Five'. Its a wank bank. You know he has one. He knows you know he has one. Better to not speak of such things. Also: Brad Pitt gives me the heebies and he's starting to look like an unkicked jack o' lantern that has been on the front step about a week too long. And given his present company, if you apply the 'you sleep with everyone that person has ever slept with' theorem we're talking about a sexual history roughly the length of the OED. So, no. Also, ick.
2. I'm all for frequent and enthusiastic trips downtown. After all, its less than a mile and that's where the restaurants are. And the post office. And the park with the disturbing statue. And 19 churches. After that, its all deer and trees.
3. He cares about your hair about as much as you care about fantasy football. There. You're even.
4. Don't ask him why the underwear is in the trash. Just leave it there. No, really. You have bleach but he has plenty. Just leave it there.
5. Don't get a GPS if you think he'll dink with it WHILE he's driving. Rims are expensive.
6. If you don't want to touch the seat to put it down, clean the bathroom. Otherwise, shut up about it.
7. Just empty his pockets yourself. At least you get to keep the money you find. Yeah, its irritating. So is picking bits of tissue off your black pants.
8. Men do like to hear laughter. Just maybe not right after they run to you claiming something is terribly wrong with their gums, when actually they just discovered that weird little connector between their top lip and the rest of their face.
9. Regarding the sex thing, have some.
10. Operate on the general principle that your man is not an ornament or an accessory. He does not exist to get you stuff. He is a person that you've been given the opportunity to care for in a way that you care for no one else. Remember that he is a human being with an immortal soul and should be cherished accordingly when you are arguing with him in the cat litter aisle at Walmart.
I've had some stuff wandering around my brain that, while amusing (at least to me) was too short for a whole post here, and too long for Twitter. Others call it their 'Sock Drawer' or some kind of 'Meandering', I call it 'something to do to look like I'm working while I pass the time at the office because no one wants to work and anyway my boss is making me breakfast even as we speak'. Which is admittedly unwieldy and not particularly clever. I had intended to have some interesting photos each week also, but lately the camera has stayed in its case because there is precious little of interest going on while I drive the same stretch of NYS Route 17 trying to find a radio station that isn't playing country-music Christmas songs that pick me up and toss me into the gaping maw of depression. (What is WITH that, anyway? If I want separation and death I'll watch a Disney movie.)
(Pause to take a big bite of a bagel sandwich with cheese and Canadian bacon and a perfectly cooked egg)
Where was I?
Oh, okay. So this morning I'm driving to work, listening to NPR. Because that's what I do, Obama lovin' tree-hugger that I am. Since National Public Radio is, as the name implies, public, it is supported by various foundations, charitable trusts, and, say it with me, "Listeners like YOU." Every morning, the important-sounding fellow says something like 'Support for NPR comes from (fill in the foundation, charitable trust, or vague guilt-inducing implication that you should send us SOME MONEY)'
Today was special. "Support for NPR comes from the Department of Homeland Security."
What??
Yes, I'd heard correctly. Apparently they are hiring, because I was encouraged to 'visit their website at http://www.dhs.gov/ '.
Thanks, guys, but my past is sufficiently checkered that you would probably give me a pass. But you already know that, don't you? <><><><><><><><><><>
The other day I was sitting at my desk watching a co-worker earnestly try to fill out an online form. (I wasn't spying on her, she has a giant flat-screen monitor.) I didn't know what it was about, only that she'd been flogging away at it for a good half hour. When I got up to get coffee she waved me over. She was trying to enter a contest online that she'd read about in Cosmogirl.
"I'm so frustrated! How can I get this password to be orange? I don't have the toolbar to change it when I'm in this form!"
"Why does it have to be orange?"
"Because look," she says, pointing to the page in the magazine, "the directions say to go to this website and enter the password in orange."
"I think they are showing you what to enter, not what color it has to be entered in."
"Oh."
This woman is thirty-two years old.
<><><><><><><><><>
I listened to a story earlier that started out:
"This guy and his wife were over my house one night...and she ain't got any teeth either...."
<><><><><><><><><>
I was drivng back from Syracuse the other day listening to 80's music, contemplating the awesomeness of this lyric:
You know I feel so dirty when they start talking cute, I want to tell her that I love her but the point is probably moot......
Never at any point during my big-glasses and docksiders time of life did I stop and say, jeez, this has got to be the stupidest song I've ever heard. You know why? Because its awesome. Give it a listen while you make stuffing or whatever-it-is you are supposed to do the night before Thanksgiving.
Also... Rick Springfield was SMOKIN' HOT. I forgot about that.
Tomorrow is my 12th wedding anniversary. Twelve years ago tomorrow, on the 34th Sunday in Ordinary Time (aka Christ the King Sunday) and five years to the day after I became a real live Cath-o-lick, Himself and Myself got married, at St. Patrick's church in a little South Jersey town.
I had the requisite South Jersey Catholic Big Hair, courtesy of a can of spray that requires a license and a hazmat certification to use and a hairdresser so fiercely bent on day-long perfection that not a single strand moved all day. (Nor, for that matter, for three days afterward. )
I was never one of those little girls who sprawled on her pink canopy bed fantasizing about her wedding. Once we picked the date, something I referred to as a 'Bridal Dictatorship' was initiated. Pick it, buy it. Say yes, say no. No foo foo nonsense. No quietly dying inside while someone else insisted on something you didn't give a toss about. When dress buying time came about, I purchased 1 (one) bridal magazine, picked an Alfred Angelo bridesmaid's dress that was under $150 and wouldn't cause any of my 3 (three) bridesmaids to do the Guantanamo Bay detainment diet, and I drove to 1 (one) David's Bridal and had this conversation with my mom in the parking lot:
"Okay, here's how this is going to go. I'm going in there, I'm going to find a dress, and I'm going to buy it."
"Okay."
I bought tried-on dress number three, once the helpful salesgirl realized that the DRESS was okay, but the ivory material made me look like I had decreased liver function. We tried the white, Mom cried, it was the right one, they shoved it into a pink wardrobe bag, and away I went.
I only really had one wedding image in my head that guided me. The one above. I wanted a big ol' train to drag down the aisle just like Maria. (Not so much the instant family and singing nuns. Just the train.) So I got it. For the uninitiated or not-as-insane its referred to as "a Cathedral Length Train".
So began a small problem that, if it had a Sound of Music-type song for it, would need a song called 'How do you solve a problem like a giant caboose and a bustled Cathedral Length train crammed into a folding chair'. Which isn't nearly as musical as 'a problem like Maria', but every bit as disconcerting. And for the record, you 'catch a chair and pin it down' by putting it against the wall behind the head table, perching on the edge, and jamming your feet against the floor. 'How do you solve a mark-ed lack of traction' is another story altogether.
I used the ladies' room exactly once during the reception. I took the dress completely off. It was easier. Plus I could readjust my foundational garments. (Read: briefly re-establish blood circulation to my thighs and various ladyparts.)
Still, it was a lovely day. Last Saturday, I took the Bustle of Doom to a consignment shop, hanging it up for the ladies to sigh over while I shamelessly reminisced about November 23, 1996. I felt a little sad as I left it with strangers. Oh well, I still have the best part of that day anyway.
Tomorrow: Perhaps scanned photos if I can get himself to hook the scanner back up. And sage advice from MSN about 'pleasing your man', complete with snarky heckles.
I have no kids. Some might say I have no business dispensing advice to kids. I'm going to anyway. Its not particularly loving or kind. Too bad.
List of Realities For A Seventeen Year Old Male
1. You are too young to drink. 2. Anywhere. Anytime. Four more years to go. Wait. 3. Drinking anyway makes you a lawbreaker. 4. Drinking and driving makes you a selfish dickhead lawbreaker. 5. Such decisions are expensive. No one is impressed, least of all your parents, or the person whose rather new sportscar you totalled. 6. See #4 re: selfish dickhead 7. That body you are walking around in is essentially an animated bag of meat. It is fairly easy to break and poke holes in, particularly when you are too stupid to wear a seatbelt. 8. We all know that you know better. Since you aren't dead you get a chance to prove it. Don't screw it up.
Or, how my day started with him: And ended with him.
Friday was a grrreat day. It started with an emergency appointment in Bushkill, PA. I moved some things around to accommodate it, and three more quickly queued up to completely fill the day. First, the gentleman I missed on Tuesday owing to the Scranton area's Ice Age Drill grabbed the top spot at 9am. Then we slid a Forest City right behind it, followed by Mr. Bushkill, and just for good measure, one more in East Stroudsburg. For you geography kids, this is one hell of a loop that starts about three an a half hours to the Southeast of me. So I got up at Ye Daemon Houre of Sorrows. (about 4:30am). I slapped on my Velma glasses and threw a bag of randomly chosen cosmetic items and a toothbrush in my tote, intending to improve my appearance as soon as the sun came up or I gave a crap, whichever came first.
I have my nappin' spots when I drive long distance, when I start out that early I usually need about a 10 minute snoozaroo about 2-3 hours into the day. I pulled into my last-spot-back-lot Dunkin Donuts parking place in Tunkhannock and set my alarm for 10 minutes. I settled into the seat, wondered briefly how I'd fall asleep 500 yards from a concrete plant and zzzzzzz......10 minutes later I sat up and looked around, as the drive-thru coffee-goers eyed me curiously. I gave my hair a brisk brush and looked purposefully into my vanity mirror just long enough to assure them I was neither homeless nor insane and I was on my way.
I sat at a crosswalk smiling in Carbondale as a dad led a diminutive Buzz Lightyear across the street to his preschool Halloween party. I thought about the crisp fall evenings where I set out in some product of my imagination with a plastic pumpkin to collect goodies from my grandparents' neighbors. Even then the lure of having a look around someone else's house nearly trumped the candy in terms of interest. My Carbondale guy was nice shoes, expensive cologne, and ego; it was a divorce situation and I got the condensed version of what happens when Beautiful People must divide their spoils and go in separate directions, their house was a blur of Pottery Barn, exercise equipment, and ornamental dogs. It was spookily clean. I was glad to leave.
Number Two was in a small Scranton-y village 15 minutes to the north, nice people, I managed to smile as I grabbed a bag of parts off a shelf in their basement to explain what washer locks look like, only to discover too late that the bag had been used repeatedly by the cat for claw sharpening and the odd piss. I just talked and talked while I Lady Macbethed my hands in their basement sink with a squirt of whatever laundry detergent they had sitting there. My powers of denial and moving on are strong; one of those things a couple years of volunteering in emergency services will get you. I'm sure I'll be puked on by a random customer child at some point; I'm waiting for it.
Lunch break, then on to Number Three. Number Three lived in a state park. No. Really. IN a state park. I got to try out all the roadblock avoidance functions on my GPS since the route that it chose for me took me down the ONE road that has been washed out for two years that they decided to fix THAT DAY. I pulled into the steep driveway and glanced at the piles of plastic toys that littered the yard, topped here and there by a scroungy bad-tempered cat. I suspected I had arrived at The House The Neighbors All Talk About. I was not disappointed. The living area of the house looked like it had been filled with toys and household items from a hatch located in the ceiling, perhaps with a backhoe. I broke things I stepped on. I couldn't help it. They stood and sort of giggled while I attempted to calculate the approximate number of boxes the piles might be efficiently shoveled into, while considering how I might be kind in my report when the ready vocabulary for the mess included words like 'squalid' and 'disaster' and 'mind-boggling sh*thole'.
Task completed, I set out across the Poconos for my last appointment. I was sitting at a traffic light when the college radio station I found played this, and made my day.
You know, it was kind of warm Friday. And I had my window down. And I probably should have considered that before yelling "WHO THE F--- IS STEVE REEVES??" At a traffic light. There were stares. It was college all over again.
Number Four was small, the appointment brief, and I was happy to be heading at last in a Northwesterly direction. By the time I got back on Route 6 I was just chanting a mantra to myself: "I'm going to make dinner. Then I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm going to put my jammies on. I'm going to make dinner. Then I'm going to take a shower. Then I'm going to put my jammies on." I was hungry. I was tired. I was anxious to take off the Work Pants and scrub off the dirty house cooties. I was tired of the radio. I slapped in my headphones and was tapping the steering wheel listening to this when I looked in my rear view mirror.
Crap.
Was I speeding? Did he see my oh-so-inconspicuous white iPod headphones? Was I SPEEDING? I didn't think so. He walked up to my window and informed me that 'this conversation is being recorded'. Oh, jeez. Here's my license and registration, Captain Serious. The whole time he is telling me that the police are out IN FORCE because its one of the 'most celebrated holidays' and I'm all like, "What??" I recognize him. His sawed-offedness. The space between his teeth. The Barney Fifery. This was not your typical crew-cut, disarmingly handsome and usually good-smelling Pennsylvania State Trooper. This was a local dude, and more than that, the very SAME local dude who gave me my FIRST SPEEDING TICKET EVER.
Flashback: thirteen years ago. I'm driving too fast through a very small town trying to get to my boyfriend's house before it starts snowing for reals. I get pulled over. $117, thank you very much. I cried for miles afterward and generally felt dirty. I wanted to write an apology letter to send with my check. (Yes. Sometimes us Good Girls are sad and a little ridiculous. Sue us.)
He explains to me that Halloween brings out all the drunks. I nod politely and want to say, I'm not a drunk, I'm a 38 year old woman in a minivan, for crying out loud, who has been driving for umpteen hours and I just want my honey and olive oil soap and my jammies and some supper. I sign my ticket and drive 43.5 miles an hour all the way back to Mansfield, then 4.35 miles an hour THROUGH Mansfield, cursing the trick or treaters and the empty gas tank that forced my interaction with them as I pulled into the station for a fill.
I see my little house. There it is. I pull in the driveway, stagger into its inviting warmth, and drop all my junk in a heap. And walk straight into Himself having a girlfit because his cell phone isn't working. Also, he lost his credit card.
Some very uninteresting screaming ensued, followed by an angry shower and his retreat to the grocery store to get some nachos to throw in my cage. Followed by some more screaming, because I started to write this Friday and he had Girlfit II because I was using the computer. You know what knocks the wind out of stress/anger/anxiety mixed together with a stupid high histamine level, complete with spontaneous hives? Three Benadryl. I passed out and slept for 10 hours, awaking refreshed and altogether ready to panic clean my entire house in three hours for unexpected overnight guests.
Its a new week, and I am rested and ready! Whether or not things go your way tomorrow, history will be made and the river rolls on. Go easy on the candy.
As my husband often complains, I never have my camera when I see stuff. But I took a couple of snaps like this on my cell phone.
Yesterday.
I had an appointment in Hallstead, PA, then another in Port Jervis, NY. For those of you playing along at home without an offhand knowledge of Pennsylvania geography, it's the right hand half of the rectangle kinda near the top, then aaaallll the way off the edge back into NY where the Delaware is merely a creek. I travelled down Route 81 and noted with amusement that it was getting progressively worse. Cue the wadded up station wagon against the guardrail.
Then I hit 84. Route 84 goes through the Pocono Mountains. Usually its a lovely, pleasant drive through towns with names like 'Promised Land' and the ever-giggle inducing 'Dingman's Ferry'.
Yesterday it was like crossing Caradhras with an elf and a bunch of cranky hobbits.
I made 45 miles in just over 2 1/2 hours, with the van in low gear, creeping along flanked by trucks who were going as slow as I was. Truckers are the flight attendants of bad weather driving for me. If I'm on a plane and there is turbulence but the attendants don't look concerned, I don't worry. If its snowing like a bastard and truck drivers are still hauling ass, I don't worry. When my Schneider guys and my North American guys and my big dumptrucks are going 20, I want to panic a little.
Almost to Matamoras (I love the name of that town, though the name is the most interesting thing about it; it needs a snazzy Mexican restaurant. SOMETHING. Though the welcome center bathroom is obsessively clean.) the road clears up a little and I am cheered. Perhaps its passing. I do my thing in Port J and get back on 84, ready to patiently brave the creeping traffic back toward the Scranton area. The electronic billboard is flashing CAUTION CAUTION CAUTION/ROAD CLOSED MM37 /USE ALTERNATE ROUTE.
I think to myself, where is Route 37? Never heard of it. Oh well. I don't have to drive on it.
(sound of penny dropping)
Oh. MILE MARKER 37. Crap.
I get off the highway, and plan my escape route. Because my THIRD appointment, the one I was most assuredly going to be late to, was in Carbondale, and I was hearing that they were having some sort of apocalyptic ice age and thank ya no, I wasn't going to risk my neck getting there. So I followed my second customer's advice and jumped on 209 north because "It'll put you right on 17, and you can run right on in to Binghamton!".
She left out the part about it being 98 MILES from Binghamton. And the fact that I'd have to drive through the Catskills. But it turned out to be not so awfully bad, I just continued my stress management technique of driving in low gear singing songs from the 70s at the top of my lungs and eating string cheese for the extra 98 miles and got back to familiar territory. Total workday: 6:30am-8:15pm.
In middle school, junior high, and high school, Warriner's was my calculus. It was my holy book. My participles did not dangle, my modifiers were not misplaced, and my sentences were rigidly diagrammed with the help of a yellow ruler I kept clipped in my ring binder. My math skills may have been par to slightly sub-par, but when it came to words, I was double shifting. I was using all the crayons in the box. I was reading four years above my grade level. I 'hear' awkward sentence structure like an out of tune piano, a skill that earned me the silent treatment for two weeks in college after I red-penned the living hell out of a paper a friend asked me to proofread. 
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