i used to set New Year's resolutions in the past, but the last few years i haven't. i realized that it was always a disappointment when i didn't hold to them and i ended up even more discouraged. But this year is going to be different. i am resolved...and besides, i've set up resolutions that i am SURE i will be able to keep.
In 2011 jo will:
1-Spend many hours a week lost in literature
2-Eat at least one piece of chocolate a day
3-Stress about a clean house
4-Get a good dose of whining in once a day
5-Memorize everything on the Taco Bell menu
6-Procrastinate just a little more
7-Have a nervous breakdown once a month
8-Double the amount of shoes in my closet
Hey, when your expectations are not met, then you've probably set them too high :)
On a more serious note, i am quite determined to be a little more grateful this year. After all, i live a relatively charmed life. Happy New Year!
31 December 2010
21 December 2010
The Smell of Citrus
It seems there are so many Christmas stories about oranges. Oranges, clementines, tangerines stuffed in stockings. Children who had nothing for Christmas but this fruit, which became their treasure. Stories about sacrificing parents who worked hard to provide oranges for their families on this special day, or selfless friends and neighbors who brought the spirit of Christmas to others by means of orangey treats. Even my father remembers his socks stuffed with tangerines on each 25th of December. Because of his childhood tradition and memories, each of his kids finds a citrus surprise in the form of a tangerine of our own on Christmas morning. In spite of all these Christmas connections, oranges and their tangy smell don’t bring me memories of the birth of Christ or the joy of Christmases past. As I sit here in my house in Idaho, typing with fingers that smell of my freshly peeled clementine, I feel drawn back to a cold and grey February in Paris, France—far from my family, far from my home and far away from Christmas memories.
On that dreary afternoon I was doing my homework—to learn the streets of Paris, notice the architecture, and communicate with the people in their native tongue. Winter in Paris is drizzly and damp, a kind of cold that I had never experienced before. Knowing I would be outside walking all day, I left my apartment bundled in the warmest of coats, my new European scarf and gloves to protect my fingers from the chill. In my wanderings, I found myself on a narrow cobblestone road bordered with old, stone, and ivy-covered apartments. On the corners sat booths with vendors selling their wares. Knit hats, scarves and mittens, painted canvases, plates and vases, and fresh cheese, bread and produce all lay out across tables, tempting the passerby.
A younger merchant stopped me as I strolled past his tray of fresh fruit. In an attempt to keep my attention focused on his stand, he engaged me in conversation and was quick to notice that I was a foreigner (not at all hard to recognize when I practiced speaking French to him). After exchanging a few brief facts about where I was from and what I was doing in France, I attempted to excuse myself. However, the gentleman came around the other side of the table, told me that he was “enchanted” to have met me, that my French was coming along nicely, and that I was beautiful—for an American. As a parting gift, he pressed a beautiful, enormous orange into my gloved fingers and I continued on my way. Not wanting to expose my fingers to the icy air, I peeled and ate my juicy treasure without removing my gloves. For the rest of the day (and even a few days afterwards) every time I brought my hands close to my face, I could smell the citrusy smell on my gloves. Each time, I smiled and thought of my perfect orange.
Even now, four years later, the scent of citrus reminds me of that stunning European street, a friendly stranger, brief words exchanged in a foreign tongue that I once spoke so often, and a lingering aroma on my gloved fingers from a sweet and tangy treat.
On that dreary afternoon I was doing my homework—to learn the streets of Paris, notice the architecture, and communicate with the people in their native tongue. Winter in Paris is drizzly and damp, a kind of cold that I had never experienced before. Knowing I would be outside walking all day, I left my apartment bundled in the warmest of coats, my new European scarf and gloves to protect my fingers from the chill. In my wanderings, I found myself on a narrow cobblestone road bordered with old, stone, and ivy-covered apartments. On the corners sat booths with vendors selling their wares. Knit hats, scarves and mittens, painted canvases, plates and vases, and fresh cheese, bread and produce all lay out across tables, tempting the passerby.
A younger merchant stopped me as I strolled past his tray of fresh fruit. In an attempt to keep my attention focused on his stand, he engaged me in conversation and was quick to notice that I was a foreigner (not at all hard to recognize when I practiced speaking French to him). After exchanging a few brief facts about where I was from and what I was doing in France, I attempted to excuse myself. However, the gentleman came around the other side of the table, told me that he was “enchanted” to have met me, that my French was coming along nicely, and that I was beautiful—for an American. As a parting gift, he pressed a beautiful, enormous orange into my gloved fingers and I continued on my way. Not wanting to expose my fingers to the icy air, I peeled and ate my juicy treasure without removing my gloves. For the rest of the day (and even a few days afterwards) every time I brought my hands close to my face, I could smell the citrusy smell on my gloves. Each time, I smiled and thought of my perfect orange.
Even now, four years later, the scent of citrus reminds me of that stunning European street, a friendly stranger, brief words exchanged in a foreign tongue that I once spoke so often, and a lingering aroma on my gloved fingers from a sweet and tangy treat.
17 November 2010
Nothing Good Happens at 3am
When I was living with my parents, I had to be home by midnight and there was no exception to my curfew. Dad lived by several mantras, one of them being, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” These days, my question is as follows—at what point in the morning does it stop being “after midnight” of the night before and become “the next morning?” If this question doesn’t make sense to you, let me explain a little of what is going in our lives right now.
Jacob goes to school in Pocatello. We live 80 miles to the north. Luckily, I work for a transportation company that can shuttle him south to Pocatello. At the bus stop, he keeps his car parked so that he can drive himself from there to school. Unfortunately, his first class begins at 6am. In other words, Jacob has to leave our house at 3:15 in the bloody morning in order to catch his shuttle to get him to his car, to get him to his class on time. Thus, you can understand my question better. Does this 3am morning still count as “after midnight” since we have technically gone to bed and woken up again? Can anything good happen at this hour?
After a couple months of 3 o’clock mornings, I admit wholeheartedly that events are always more dramatic at that obscene time of the “day.” Emotions are high and rational thinking is low. Today I am grouchy—ridiculously yet justifiably so. Major lack of sleep. Here’s the story. Cue scene:
2:45am Jacob’s alarm clock goes off. I stayed up late reading after he went to bed, so I am very groggy. I somehow manage to slink off the bed long enough to use the restroom, gave him a quick hug and kiss goodbye. Unfortunately, I always have had a hard time falling asleep (even when I am exhausted) so after I make it back to the bed, it still takes some time before I finally get back to sleep.
3:10am I have just drifted away and the bedroom door opens. Jacob is digging through his dresser. He informs me that he can’t locate his keys for his vehicle that is sitting in Pocatello. Without them, he can’t get from the bus stop to the school. This has happened many mornings before and he always manages to find them, so I am unalarmed. After minor rummaging, Jacob leaves the room and I roll over to once again to try to fall back asleep.
3:15am Jacob reenters the bedroom and continues his search through the bedroom. At this point I realize he must need help if he still hasn’t found the keys. So I give up on sleeping for the moment and get up to help in the search.
3:25am After 10 minutes of desperate searching, I opened the front door to see if perhaps Jacob had left the keys in the door when he unlocked it yesterday (which he hadn’t) and I see his shuttle sitting in front of the house. Shortly thereafter we get a call from the driver, who can no longer wait for him and keep to his schedule. Driver leaves.
3:45am Still no keys. Up to now we have been (mostly) tiptoeing around the living room and using hallway lights only to avoid waking up the bird, Belle. She has the habit of making a high pitched squeal or a loud squawk if we are awake and she is still locked in her cage and covered up. (Side-note: until this morning I didn’t realize where she learned the squeal. Now, after having opened and closed the front and back door a million times this morning while trying desperately to be quite so as not to wake up the upstairs and downstairs neighbors, I am quite aware and embarrassed at the awful squeak both doors make—which I am sure my bird has learned to imitate). At this point we can no longer search without the main lights off. We turn lights on. The following conversation ensues:
Belle: “SQUAWK!!!”
Jacob, in a furious whisper: “Belle! Knock it off!”
Jennifer, directed at Jacob: “It’s not her fault! She is confused at what’s going on. Let her be!”
Belle: “SQUAWK. SQUEAL. WHISTLE. SQUAWK!!!”
Jennifer shouting at the top of her lungs: “SHUT THE HELL UP, BELLE!!!!”
Unjust on my part? Obviously. Like I said, high emotions and low rationale.
4:00am My house is completely turned upside down. The original keys are still AWOL and spare keys haven’t been located. Jacob has dumped out everyone of his who-knows-how-many junk drawers and boxes, as well as some of my very well organized storage boxes. We have looked on every shelf, in every drawer, under the beds and couches, emptied his backpack and gone through the whole laundry basket. The bird is dancing around on my shoulder and pecking at my ear, begging to be scratched. I am sitting on the bed trying my hardest not to make snide comments about Jacob’s “organizational” skills (by the way, my hardest wasn’t good enough and I failed miserably at being nice).
Jacob: “Why don’t you just go back to bed?”
Jennifer: “Oh sure! I’m positive I will sleep through all the ruckus and lights. Especially since I’ll be wondering what you are going to do now. Why don’t you just take my Mini and drive yourself there? You are going to miss your class if you don’t leave soon.”
Jacob: “How are you going to get to work, then?”
Jennifer: “I’ll ride my bike.”
Jacob: “In the ice and snow?”
Jennifer: “I will figure it out later. Can you please just go so I can go to bed?”
4:10am Jacob is outside scraping the ice off of the car. I feel guilty for being so rude, so I run outside to give him a hug and kiss goodbye and ask one more question about the last time he saw his keys. He tells me that he swears they were on the table. I go back inside and back to bed. As I lie there thinking about the missing keys, I realize that the last time we saw them on the table was before we left for dinner—and we left the house unlocked when we left. Now my imagination goes wild and I am picturing someone that has come into my house, stolen only the keys and is planning a mass break-in and theft later. I can imagine the guy watching the house and seeing Jacob driving away. Now I am never going to sleep.
4:15am In an attempt to stop thinking about the man who has stolen my keys and is now planning to rob all my possessions, rape and kill me, I run through the events of the evening (while praying vigorously) to try and remember any pertinent information surrounding the keys. All of the sudden, I remember Jacob taking out the trash and making a joke about going outside in his bathrobe. Leaping out of bed, I went straight to the keys. It would be a much better story if I could say the keys were in the trash, but they weren’t. They were, however, in the pocket of his bathrobe which was hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I call Jacob and he turns around to head back to the house.
4:20am Jacob no longer has a shuttle that will get him to his class on time. He sets up a shuttle which will leave at 6:15ish and get him to his next class at 9:00. Being such a loving husband, he volunteers to sleep the rest of the “night” in the guest room so that I don’t have to wake up to his alarm in an hour and a half. Great! Sacrifice accepted.
5:20am I am lying in bed, still awake. My body is pumped with adrenaline, along with traces of frustration, anxiety, and anger from the previous saga and impatience at not being able to sleep. On top of that garbage, I can feel bile bubbling in my stomach. Every night before bed I take a medication that has the tendency to make me nauseous. Normally I would sleep right through this wave of nausea. Not so this morning! In fact, I think the mad-dashing increased the symptoms and I now find sleep impossible.
6:10am Sleep had finally found me. Then my bedroom door opens and the light of a cell phone falls directly across my face. I snap awake. Jacob is standing in the doorway.
Jennifer: “Why did you come in here?!”
Jacob: “I just wanted to tell you I loved you before I left for the day.”
Oops. There I go again. Bye, sweetie! Have a good day and I love you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Now I will lie in bed stewing over losing my temper (once again) when he was just trying to leave on a good note.
6:30am My alarm clock goes off. Good morning!!! And I think it’s gonna be a long, long day.
The conclusion is this: Nothing good happens after midnight and before the sun rises the next morning.
Jacob goes to school in Pocatello. We live 80 miles to the north. Luckily, I work for a transportation company that can shuttle him south to Pocatello. At the bus stop, he keeps his car parked so that he can drive himself from there to school. Unfortunately, his first class begins at 6am. In other words, Jacob has to leave our house at 3:15 in the bloody morning in order to catch his shuttle to get him to his car, to get him to his class on time. Thus, you can understand my question better. Does this 3am morning still count as “after midnight” since we have technically gone to bed and woken up again? Can anything good happen at this hour?
After a couple months of 3 o’clock mornings, I admit wholeheartedly that events are always more dramatic at that obscene time of the “day.” Emotions are high and rational thinking is low. Today I am grouchy—ridiculously yet justifiably so. Major lack of sleep. Here’s the story. Cue scene:
2:45am Jacob’s alarm clock goes off. I stayed up late reading after he went to bed, so I am very groggy. I somehow manage to slink off the bed long enough to use the restroom, gave him a quick hug and kiss goodbye. Unfortunately, I always have had a hard time falling asleep (even when I am exhausted) so after I make it back to the bed, it still takes some time before I finally get back to sleep.
3:10am I have just drifted away and the bedroom door opens. Jacob is digging through his dresser. He informs me that he can’t locate his keys for his vehicle that is sitting in Pocatello. Without them, he can’t get from the bus stop to the school. This has happened many mornings before and he always manages to find them, so I am unalarmed. After minor rummaging, Jacob leaves the room and I roll over to once again to try to fall back asleep.
3:15am Jacob reenters the bedroom and continues his search through the bedroom. At this point I realize he must need help if he still hasn’t found the keys. So I give up on sleeping for the moment and get up to help in the search.
3:25am After 10 minutes of desperate searching, I opened the front door to see if perhaps Jacob had left the keys in the door when he unlocked it yesterday (which he hadn’t) and I see his shuttle sitting in front of the house. Shortly thereafter we get a call from the driver, who can no longer wait for him and keep to his schedule. Driver leaves.
3:45am Still no keys. Up to now we have been (mostly) tiptoeing around the living room and using hallway lights only to avoid waking up the bird, Belle. She has the habit of making a high pitched squeal or a loud squawk if we are awake and she is still locked in her cage and covered up. (Side-note: until this morning I didn’t realize where she learned the squeal. Now, after having opened and closed the front and back door a million times this morning while trying desperately to be quite so as not to wake up the upstairs and downstairs neighbors, I am quite aware and embarrassed at the awful squeak both doors make—which I am sure my bird has learned to imitate). At this point we can no longer search without the main lights off. We turn lights on. The following conversation ensues:
Belle: “SQUAWK!!!”
Jacob, in a furious whisper: “Belle! Knock it off!”
Jennifer, directed at Jacob: “It’s not her fault! She is confused at what’s going on. Let her be!”
Belle: “SQUAWK. SQUEAL. WHISTLE. SQUAWK!!!”
Jennifer shouting at the top of her lungs: “SHUT THE HELL UP, BELLE!!!!”
Unjust on my part? Obviously. Like I said, high emotions and low rationale.
4:00am My house is completely turned upside down. The original keys are still AWOL and spare keys haven’t been located. Jacob has dumped out everyone of his who-knows-how-many junk drawers and boxes, as well as some of my very well organized storage boxes. We have looked on every shelf, in every drawer, under the beds and couches, emptied his backpack and gone through the whole laundry basket. The bird is dancing around on my shoulder and pecking at my ear, begging to be scratched. I am sitting on the bed trying my hardest not to make snide comments about Jacob’s “organizational” skills (by the way, my hardest wasn’t good enough and I failed miserably at being nice).
Jacob: “Why don’t you just go back to bed?”
Jennifer: “Oh sure! I’m positive I will sleep through all the ruckus and lights. Especially since I’ll be wondering what you are going to do now. Why don’t you just take my Mini and drive yourself there? You are going to miss your class if you don’t leave soon.”
Jacob: “How are you going to get to work, then?”
Jennifer: “I’ll ride my bike.”
Jacob: “In the ice and snow?”
Jennifer: “I will figure it out later. Can you please just go so I can go to bed?”
4:10am Jacob is outside scraping the ice off of the car. I feel guilty for being so rude, so I run outside to give him a hug and kiss goodbye and ask one more question about the last time he saw his keys. He tells me that he swears they were on the table. I go back inside and back to bed. As I lie there thinking about the missing keys, I realize that the last time we saw them on the table was before we left for dinner—and we left the house unlocked when we left. Now my imagination goes wild and I am picturing someone that has come into my house, stolen only the keys and is planning a mass break-in and theft later. I can imagine the guy watching the house and seeing Jacob driving away. Now I am never going to sleep.
4:15am In an attempt to stop thinking about the man who has stolen my keys and is now planning to rob all my possessions, rape and kill me, I run through the events of the evening (while praying vigorously) to try and remember any pertinent information surrounding the keys. All of the sudden, I remember Jacob taking out the trash and making a joke about going outside in his bathrobe. Leaping out of bed, I went straight to the keys. It would be a much better story if I could say the keys were in the trash, but they weren’t. They were, however, in the pocket of his bathrobe which was hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I call Jacob and he turns around to head back to the house.
4:20am Jacob no longer has a shuttle that will get him to his class on time. He sets up a shuttle which will leave at 6:15ish and get him to his next class at 9:00. Being such a loving husband, he volunteers to sleep the rest of the “night” in the guest room so that I don’t have to wake up to his alarm in an hour and a half. Great! Sacrifice accepted.
5:20am I am lying in bed, still awake. My body is pumped with adrenaline, along with traces of frustration, anxiety, and anger from the previous saga and impatience at not being able to sleep. On top of that garbage, I can feel bile bubbling in my stomach. Every night before bed I take a medication that has the tendency to make me nauseous. Normally I would sleep right through this wave of nausea. Not so this morning! In fact, I think the mad-dashing increased the symptoms and I now find sleep impossible.
6:10am Sleep had finally found me. Then my bedroom door opens and the light of a cell phone falls directly across my face. I snap awake. Jacob is standing in the doorway.
Jennifer: “Why did you come in here?!”
Jacob: “I just wanted to tell you I loved you before I left for the day.”
Oops. There I go again. Bye, sweetie! Have a good day and I love you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Now I will lie in bed stewing over losing my temper (once again) when he was just trying to leave on a good note.
6:30am My alarm clock goes off. Good morning!!! And I think it’s gonna be a long, long day.
The conclusion is this: Nothing good happens after midnight and before the sun rises the next morning.
02 November 2010
The Autumn Leaves Drift By My Window
Remember when i said i loved Halloween? Part of the reason is because Halloween comes in the fall. And i love Autumn. Crisp mornings. Gold and red leaves (and, oh! to crunch them under foot!) Pumpkins in the windows. Sweaters, hats and scarves come out (but don't have to hide under a heavy coat yet). Most of all, i love fall food. It's warm, comforting, flavorful and brightly colored. This fall i did more cooking than last year. Maybe because i have a husband to cook for this season. i baked zucchini bread, made squash soup, shared apple and yam bake with my co-workers...and then there have been the apple pies.
One of my friends had a small orchard overflowing with apples. Jacob, my sister Stephanie, her husband, and i went and picked a huge laundry basket full of apples. I've made quite a few pies from those apples already. Today i will have my first attempt at canning and can the rest of the apples as pie filling for later. When we were apple-picking, we couldn't resist capturing some of the colors in photos. Happy Autumn! I hope you enjoy the sights, smells and tastes of the season!
Photos by Stephanie Patterson
01 November 2010
This is Halloween
i love Halloween! i love the decorations. i love the costumes. i love the fall food. i love the candy. i love everyone running around looking ridiculous. and i love parties. My sister and a couple of friends threw a Halloween party at my house. What a blast. The best part was showing off our superb costumes (thanks, mom, for all the help!) i thought i ought to show them off here too!
Here is what we were going for:
Here is our version:
and my sister looked stunning as Rainbow Bright
i hope you had as fun of a Halloween as we did!
Here is what we were going for:
Here is our version:
and my sister looked stunning as Rainbow Bright
i hope you had as fun of a Halloween as we did!
26 October 2010
Losing faith in humanity
At work there is a back room where all the drivers check in and out. Located in that room is our lost and found. On Friday, my husband rode the shuttle and left a very nice book on the van. i immediately called the driver who confirmed that he had the book. He wasn't scheduled to arrive back at the office until 8pm...a few hours after i check out of work. i asked him to leave the book in this back room in the lost and found so that i could pick it up the next day. Jacob and i stopped by the next day to recover his lost novel. Upon arriving, the book was nowhere in the room. i called the driver and confirmed that, indeed, he HAD left Sherlock Holmes in the driver's room. How disheartening. This is the note that i now have posted in their room. i hope that i see positive results ::sigh::
Dear Current Possessor of my Sherlock Holmes Book,
I am aware that my Sherlock Holmes book was in the back driver’s room all by itself. If you decided to adopt it into your own library, please note that it was NOT orphaned, merely momentarily abandoned. I would like to bring it home again. Please return it.
Thank you,
jo
P.S. At least return the bookmark inside—it has sentimental value.
Dear Current Possessor of my Sherlock Holmes Book,
I am aware that my Sherlock Holmes book was in the back driver’s room all by itself. If you decided to adopt it into your own library, please note that it was NOT orphaned, merely momentarily abandoned. I would like to bring it home again. Please return it.
Thank you,
jo
P.S. At least return the bookmark inside—it has sentimental value.
20 October 2010
As for me and my house
i know i promised Jacob's stories, and i AM working on them. Until then, here is a short story (that i received straight from the babysitter's mouth) that i simply had to share. Although the story is true, the names are changed by request of the somewhat embarrassed parents. Hope you get a laugh!
...After a couple of hours in the house with 6 & 7 year old Laurie and John, the babysitter decided that perhaps they would behave better if he let the kids run around outside for a bit. John was quickly ready to go, but Laurie dilly-dallied and wouldn't put her shoes on. Even with much beseeching from the babysitter, she was uncooperative and hiding in odd corners rather than getting her shoes on. John, anxious to get outside and play, finally lost patience with his sister and yelled, "Laurie, just put your damn shoes on!"
The shocked babysitter quickly pulled John aside and explained, "John! We don't say that word in this house!" The little boy looked up at the babysitter with an expression that conveyed both confusion and frustration and said, "Yes we do!" Now how do you respond to that?
...After a couple of hours in the house with 6 & 7 year old Laurie and John, the babysitter decided that perhaps they would behave better if he let the kids run around outside for a bit. John was quickly ready to go, but Laurie dilly-dallied and wouldn't put her shoes on. Even with much beseeching from the babysitter, she was uncooperative and hiding in odd corners rather than getting her shoes on. John, anxious to get outside and play, finally lost patience with his sister and yelled, "Laurie, just put your damn shoes on!"
The shocked babysitter quickly pulled John aside and explained, "John! We don't say that word in this house!" The little boy looked up at the babysitter with an expression that conveyed both confusion and frustration and said, "Yes we do!" Now how do you respond to that?
12 October 2010
Gratitude
Here are some things for which i am grateful this week:
*For words like xu, zit and qat which enable me to spectacularly win at Scrabble.
*That this talented girl is not only my sister, but one of my best friends.
*That the extremely fit girl on the treadmill in front of me at the gym finished her workout just as i started mine. Therefore, i didn't have to watch her skinny butt the whole time i sweated away.
*For a mom who gets just as excited about my Halloween costume as i do.
*For classic literature. And the fact that in reading it this time around, i can enjoy the novels on my own agenda instead of a teacher's.
*That pregnancy is not contagious.
*For zucchinis that are large enough to make four loaves of bread.
*For secret forts built in the living room so that Jacob and i can escape from "the world" for an evening.
*For puffs super soft, super plus tissues with lotion.
*For words like xu, zit and qat which enable me to spectacularly win at Scrabble.
*That this talented girl is not only my sister, but one of my best friends.
*That the extremely fit girl on the treadmill in front of me at the gym finished her workout just as i started mine. Therefore, i didn't have to watch her skinny butt the whole time i sweated away.
*For a mom who gets just as excited about my Halloween costume as i do.
*For classic literature. And the fact that in reading it this time around, i can enjoy the novels on my own agenda instead of a teacher's.
*That pregnancy is not contagious.
*For zucchinis that are large enough to make four loaves of bread.
*For secret forts built in the living room so that Jacob and i can escape from "the world" for an evening.
*For puffs super soft, super plus tissues with lotion.
01 October 2010
Cleaning Up My Act
Every fall, the leadership of my church gives us an incredible opportunity to receive instructions and revelations meant specifically for the women of the church. In this internationally broadcasted meeting, the President of the Church, President Monson, spoke about focusing on charity and being non-judgmental. He began his talk with an anecdote to show how often, when people judge, they do so unjustly--not knowing the whole story or seeing the other person through “tainted” eyes.
As I sat there in the meeting, President Monson’s words flooded over me, and this particular wave of a story almost knocked me over. With a quick assessment of the past months, I KNEW that something in my life needed to change. Contemplating the words spoken, I made a decision on how I needed to alter certain aspects of my daily living.
And so I went home and immediately implemented this change. I washed my windows. If I’m going to judge my neighbor, I sure as hell am going to do it through sparkling windows.
A young couple, Lisa and John, moved into a new neighborhood. One morning while they were eating breakfast, Lisa looked out the window and watched her next-door neighbor hanging out her wash.
“That laundry’s not clean!” Lisa exclaimed. “Our neighbor doesn’t know how to get clothes clean!”
John looked on but remained silent. Every time her neighbor would hang her wash to dry, Lisa would make the same comments.
A few weeks later Lisa was surprised to glance out her window and see a nice, clean wash hanging in her neighbor’s yard. She said to her husband, “Look, John—she’s finally learned how to wash correctly! I wonder how she did it.”
John replied, “Well, dear, I have the answer for you. You’ll be interested to know that I got up early this morning and washed our windows!”
-President Monson
As I sat there in the meeting, President Monson’s words flooded over me, and this particular wave of a story almost knocked me over. With a quick assessment of the past months, I KNEW that something in my life needed to change. Contemplating the words spoken, I made a decision on how I needed to alter certain aspects of my daily living.
And so I went home and immediately implemented this change. I washed my windows. If I’m going to judge my neighbor, I sure as hell am going to do it through sparkling windows.
21 September 2010
Jacob’s Stories: Hero Complex
First of all, I should preface my “mini-series” with this statement: I LOVE MY HUSBAND.
We were having a conversation the other day about our individual eccentricities and how we love them in each other. For example, he commented on my drama; according to him, I often flop myself over the arm of the couch, throw my hand over my face, bewailing my life and moan, “I don’t want to do it anymore!” (“It” can mean anything and everything all at the same time). Apparently, he thinks this is entertaining. I will refrain from affirming whether his perspective of my actions is accurate or not.
One of the oddities of Jacob that I love (besides his obsessive accumulation of junk drawers—ok so maybe “tolerate” is a better word than “love” in that example) is what I like to call his “Hero Complex.” In other words, whether consciously or subconsciously, Jacob always seems to be pulled with a need to play the “good guy,” save the “damsel in distress,” destroy the “evil forces” and in all other ways save the universe. Carl Jung would delve deeply into Jacob’s brain, analyzing his familial situation, his dreams, and the society he was surrounded by to discover why Jacob developed this obsession. I simply say that it came from watching too many Indiana Jones flicks and then setting up Harrison Ford’s character as his ideal. (As a side note, Jacob even developed a strong aversion to snakes).
I can think of no better way to describe this complex than giving examples (true examples, mind you). A friend needs money—lots of it. Without hesitating, Jacob “loans” them the sum. Undoubtedly, the money is not returned but he shrugs it off. Then the situation repeats itself with a different friend and he does the same thing. After all, they are in distress. Someone repeatedly asks to borrow his jeep for various important situations (wooing a girl, going off-roading, getting around town when their vehicle is out of commission, etc). Each time the jeep is returned, it comes with a new problem to be fixed. You know, typical things like a new hole in the body, a leak in the radiator, a burnt out battery or a blown up transmission. Jacob repairs it only to turn around and lend it out again. Whenever I get hurt or sick, I know that I will need to console Jacob—he just gets so angry at himself for not protecting me from stubbing my toe or getting the flu. Who else besides someone with a hero complex actually VOLUNTEERS for a deployment? And then wants to go back for more? What an astoundingly superior man.
The point I was eventually aiming to hit with all of this verbosity is this: Because of his hero complex, Jacob has found himself in a plethora of interesting situations. In fact, between a mission, two deployments, working at the jail and his exciting, selfless life in general, he has mounds of stories—funny, exciting and disgusting. However, Jacob doesn’t generally tell his stories and I feel that they need to be told. Quite obviously, I am happy to write, and write, and write. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself in the next couple of weeks to write some of Jacob’s better accounts—with the vow to keep them as accurate and unexaggerated as possible. :) Keep your eyes open for the “mini-series” of Jacob’s stories!
We were having a conversation the other day about our individual eccentricities and how we love them in each other. For example, he commented on my drama; according to him, I often flop myself over the arm of the couch, throw my hand over my face, bewailing my life and moan, “I don’t want to do it anymore!” (“It” can mean anything and everything all at the same time). Apparently, he thinks this is entertaining. I will refrain from affirming whether his perspective of my actions is accurate or not.
One of the oddities of Jacob that I love (besides his obsessive accumulation of junk drawers—ok so maybe “tolerate” is a better word than “love” in that example) is what I like to call his “Hero Complex.” In other words, whether consciously or subconsciously, Jacob always seems to be pulled with a need to play the “good guy,” save the “damsel in distress,” destroy the “evil forces” and in all other ways save the universe. Carl Jung would delve deeply into Jacob’s brain, analyzing his familial situation, his dreams, and the society he was surrounded by to discover why Jacob developed this obsession. I simply say that it came from watching too many Indiana Jones flicks and then setting up Harrison Ford’s character as his ideal. (As a side note, Jacob even developed a strong aversion to snakes).
I can think of no better way to describe this complex than giving examples (true examples, mind you). A friend needs money—lots of it. Without hesitating, Jacob “loans” them the sum. Undoubtedly, the money is not returned but he shrugs it off. Then the situation repeats itself with a different friend and he does the same thing. After all, they are in distress. Someone repeatedly asks to borrow his jeep for various important situations (wooing a girl, going off-roading, getting around town when their vehicle is out of commission, etc). Each time the jeep is returned, it comes with a new problem to be fixed. You know, typical things like a new hole in the body, a leak in the radiator, a burnt out battery or a blown up transmission. Jacob repairs it only to turn around and lend it out again. Whenever I get hurt or sick, I know that I will need to console Jacob—he just gets so angry at himself for not protecting me from stubbing my toe or getting the flu. Who else besides someone with a hero complex actually VOLUNTEERS for a deployment? And then wants to go back for more? What an astoundingly superior man.
The point I was eventually aiming to hit with all of this verbosity is this: Because of his hero complex, Jacob has found himself in a plethora of interesting situations. In fact, between a mission, two deployments, working at the jail and his exciting, selfless life in general, he has mounds of stories—funny, exciting and disgusting. However, Jacob doesn’t generally tell his stories and I feel that they need to be told. Quite obviously, I am happy to write, and write, and write. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself in the next couple of weeks to write some of Jacob’s better accounts—with the vow to keep them as accurate and unexaggerated as possible. :) Keep your eyes open for the “mini-series” of Jacob’s stories!
08 September 2010
A Few Confessions
*i am a nose picker. There are some boogers that you just can’t get out any other way.
*i love cool bookmarks so much that when i get a new one, it makes me want to read just so i can start using it. (Sometimes it takes me just as much time to pick the bookmark i'm going to use as it does to pick the book i'm going to read).
*i really don't like it when people call me "jenn"
*i like flipping through magazines almost as much for the feel of the glossy pages as for the actual content.
*When my nail polish chips, i paint over it in a darker color rather than taking the time to remove it.
*i love when my dirty laundry basket is empty (i mean, it makes me so happy that sometimes i actually giggle).
*i wish i could live in an apartment complex like in “Rear Window” so that i could make up stories about my neighbors lives. (Yes i am aware that this is a creeper quality).
*i don’t think farting jokes are funny.
*i still sleep with a teddy bear some nights when Jacob isn’t with me.
*i wish someday someone will read my journals, care about what I wrote, know who i really was and get a glimpse into my soul…even long after I am gone.
*When i walk into my house, the first thing i notice is whether the floor needs to be swept or not.
*i think Eminem is hot.
*i love cool bookmarks so much that when i get a new one, it makes me want to read just so i can start using it. (Sometimes it takes me just as much time to pick the bookmark i'm going to use as it does to pick the book i'm going to read).
*i really don't like it when people call me "jenn"
*i like flipping through magazines almost as much for the feel of the glossy pages as for the actual content.
*When my nail polish chips, i paint over it in a darker color rather than taking the time to remove it.
*i love when my dirty laundry basket is empty (i mean, it makes me so happy that sometimes i actually giggle).
*i wish i could live in an apartment complex like in “Rear Window” so that i could make up stories about my neighbors lives. (Yes i am aware that this is a creeper quality).
*i don’t think farting jokes are funny.
*i still sleep with a teddy bear some nights when Jacob isn’t with me.
*i wish someday someone will read my journals, care about what I wrote, know who i really was and get a glimpse into my soul…even long after I am gone.
*When i walk into my house, the first thing i notice is whether the floor needs to be swept or not.
*i think Eminem is hot.
04 September 2010
Enetophobia
Needles. Oh how I despise them. Such pointy, skinny, little nasties.
I was seven years old. My mother was going to have a baby. She took us three girls to the hospital to see where the baby would be born. She showed us the wing where all the mom’s-to-be go. She showed us the nursery where the new babies were wrapped in the blankets of pink or blue. We looked through the window into the room with all of the premature babies. They were so tiny, lying there in their little beds. A nurse approached the baby closest to where I had my forehead pressed against the glass. Then, she did the unimaginable—pulled out a syringe and (right there in front of me!) she stuck the baby's foot and drew blood. At the first sight of red, I felt my head begin to spin, my arms begin to shake and spots floated in front of my eyeballs. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a gurney with people surrounding me. I felt like I had been asleep for hours. My family informed me that I had completely passed out, fallen straight backwards and hit the tile floor.
I was seventeen years old. The blood bank parked a trailer in the high school parking lot. Juniors and seniors were encouraged to be selfless, head out during their lunch break and donate some of their precious blood. All of my friends were excited—no one had ever done this before and they felt like they were helping a good cause (which, of course, they were). Several of my friends were jealous of my type O blood. “Oh!” they exclaimed, “You can bless so many more people since anyone with a positive blood type can use your blood!” Peer pressure. And I really did want to help too. So I geared myself up and entered the trailer, prepared to not think about what I was doing and save someone’s life. The nurse led me into a small room of the trailer to ask me questions about my health and to prick my finger to make sure I wasn’t anemic. She informed me that she only needed a drop of blood to test my iron levels. Feeling a little queasy (I think I’ll blame it on the small space and heat) I held out my finger. One prick, that’s it. And I woke up, sprawled on the floor out in the main part of the trailer with my friends (bags of their life giving blood attached to their arms) looking down on me. Needless to say, they would NOT let me give blood, even though I tried to convince them that I surely wouldn’t black out twice.
I was twenty-one years old. The First Presidency of my church had called me to serve as a missionary in Santiago, Chile. Even though I had already accepted my assignment, I almost didn’t go on a mission. Do you KNOW how many shots you have to get?! Especially when you are headed to South America. I took my mom with me to the health district, to the doctor, to the airport—everywhere I needed to go to get stuck. They looked at me funny. So what? I needed the support. I asked to lay down every time. Did you know that you can’t pass out when you are laying down? The elementary kids there to get their school shots looked at me funny. I’m sure they were thinking “She’s a grown-up! Why is she so white and shaky?” I didn’t pass out. But I would have if I had been sitting up.
I was twenty-three, coming home from my mission. They said that I needed to get a TB test done when I got back to the States. HA! No way was I going to voluntarily get pricked. Then I found out that BYU freaking Idaho wouldn’t let me register for my classes until I proved that I didn’t have TB. Apparently this is standard procedure for all missionaries returning from foreign missions. Damn. My mom went with me again. They made her sit in the waiting room. All they had to do was put 0.1mL of Tuberculin right under my skin. That’s it. There was only a chair in the room; I had no place to lie down. I was convinced I could handle this. I was an adult who had visited a plethora of countries by herself, almost graduated from college and gosh dangit I could handle this. It was only supposed to take two minutes. When I emerged from the room (pale and shaking—and with a juice box) fifteen minutes later, my mom said, “So, you passed out, huh?” ::sigh:: So much for handling it.
Last week I was booking it through Walmart. The greyhound passengers would be arriving any moment at the depot and I had been told that they were out of paper towels there. On the clock and in a rush, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around me—just enough to steer the cart around the shuffling Grandmas and children screaming on their mothers’ legs. In the aisle in front of me, someone had set up a table all draped in white paper and there were several people clustered around. Without registering what they were doing, I started to swerve my paper towel loaded cart out of the way. The next thing I knew, I realized that a man in white gloves has just jabbed a needle into the arm of a teenage girl. There they were, in the middle of a crowded Walmart isle, giving flu shots. Who honestly does that to unsuspecting shoppers?! They ought to warn people or something. I felt the tale-tell symptoms begin to sweep over me; I started to perspire, breath shallowly, and feel dizzy. So I did the only thing I could think of. I sat down. Right there. In the isle. Busy shoppers be damned. They all looked at me funny. The screaming kids stopped yelling. I wasn’t the one who got the shot. What was my problem? And I couldn’t even think of anything to say.
I think that until flu season is over, I will be avoiding Walmart. I hate needles.
I was seven years old. My mother was going to have a baby. She took us three girls to the hospital to see where the baby would be born. She showed us the wing where all the mom’s-to-be go. She showed us the nursery where the new babies were wrapped in the blankets of pink or blue. We looked through the window into the room with all of the premature babies. They were so tiny, lying there in their little beds. A nurse approached the baby closest to where I had my forehead pressed against the glass. Then, she did the unimaginable—pulled out a syringe and (right there in front of me!) she stuck the baby's foot and drew blood. At the first sight of red, I felt my head begin to spin, my arms begin to shake and spots floated in front of my eyeballs. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a gurney with people surrounding me. I felt like I had been asleep for hours. My family informed me that I had completely passed out, fallen straight backwards and hit the tile floor.
I was seventeen years old. The blood bank parked a trailer in the high school parking lot. Juniors and seniors were encouraged to be selfless, head out during their lunch break and donate some of their precious blood. All of my friends were excited—no one had ever done this before and they felt like they were helping a good cause (which, of course, they were). Several of my friends were jealous of my type O blood. “Oh!” they exclaimed, “You can bless so many more people since anyone with a positive blood type can use your blood!” Peer pressure. And I really did want to help too. So I geared myself up and entered the trailer, prepared to not think about what I was doing and save someone’s life. The nurse led me into a small room of the trailer to ask me questions about my health and to prick my finger to make sure I wasn’t anemic. She informed me that she only needed a drop of blood to test my iron levels. Feeling a little queasy (I think I’ll blame it on the small space and heat) I held out my finger. One prick, that’s it. And I woke up, sprawled on the floor out in the main part of the trailer with my friends (bags of their life giving blood attached to their arms) looking down on me. Needless to say, they would NOT let me give blood, even though I tried to convince them that I surely wouldn’t black out twice.
I was twenty-one years old. The First Presidency of my church had called me to serve as a missionary in Santiago, Chile. Even though I had already accepted my assignment, I almost didn’t go on a mission. Do you KNOW how many shots you have to get?! Especially when you are headed to South America. I took my mom with me to the health district, to the doctor, to the airport—everywhere I needed to go to get stuck. They looked at me funny. So what? I needed the support. I asked to lay down every time. Did you know that you can’t pass out when you are laying down? The elementary kids there to get their school shots looked at me funny. I’m sure they were thinking “She’s a grown-up! Why is she so white and shaky?” I didn’t pass out. But I would have if I had been sitting up.
I was twenty-three, coming home from my mission. They said that I needed to get a TB test done when I got back to the States. HA! No way was I going to voluntarily get pricked. Then I found out that BYU freaking Idaho wouldn’t let me register for my classes until I proved that I didn’t have TB. Apparently this is standard procedure for all missionaries returning from foreign missions. Damn. My mom went with me again. They made her sit in the waiting room. All they had to do was put 0.1mL of Tuberculin right under my skin. That’s it. There was only a chair in the room; I had no place to lie down. I was convinced I could handle this. I was an adult who had visited a plethora of countries by herself, almost graduated from college and gosh dangit I could handle this. It was only supposed to take two minutes. When I emerged from the room (pale and shaking—and with a juice box) fifteen minutes later, my mom said, “So, you passed out, huh?” ::sigh:: So much for handling it.
Last week I was booking it through Walmart. The greyhound passengers would be arriving any moment at the depot and I had been told that they were out of paper towels there. On the clock and in a rush, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on around me—just enough to steer the cart around the shuffling Grandmas and children screaming on their mothers’ legs. In the aisle in front of me, someone had set up a table all draped in white paper and there were several people clustered around. Without registering what they were doing, I started to swerve my paper towel loaded cart out of the way. The next thing I knew, I realized that a man in white gloves has just jabbed a needle into the arm of a teenage girl. There they were, in the middle of a crowded Walmart isle, giving flu shots. Who honestly does that to unsuspecting shoppers?! They ought to warn people or something. I felt the tale-tell symptoms begin to sweep over me; I started to perspire, breath shallowly, and feel dizzy. So I did the only thing I could think of. I sat down. Right there. In the isle. Busy shoppers be damned. They all looked at me funny. The screaming kids stopped yelling. I wasn’t the one who got the shot. What was my problem? And I couldn’t even think of anything to say.
I think that until flu season is over, I will be avoiding Walmart. I hate needles.
01 September 2010
One day I'd like to...
* Live on a street named “Wildflower Avenue”
* Wear something truly and obviously expensive and then (when i get the inevitable compliment) say, “This old thing? Why, i only wear it when i don’t care how i look!”
* Watch all the movies in my “501 Must See Movies” book (except maybe the really scary ones)
* Lie on a blanket in a meadow for a picnic or to read a book and have no one else around for miles
* Dance in front of a wall of lights (if you don't know what i mean, look up "Speed of Sound" by Coldplay or "Riding Solo" by Jason Derulo. And please note that the Jason Derulo song is mentioned not for its musical quality, but rather for the wall in front of which he dances during the music video)
* Be mistaken for a celebrity
* Have something i’ve written published
* Attend a ball
* Win something on a radio show
* Find (or invent if needed) a candle that smells just like Barnes and Nobles—-new books and coffee
* Get my name changed so that it's legally in all lower-case letters
"jennifer olson"
* Wear something truly and obviously expensive and then (when i get the inevitable compliment) say, “This old thing? Why, i only wear it when i don’t care how i look!”
* Watch all the movies in my “501 Must See Movies” book (except maybe the really scary ones)
* Lie on a blanket in a meadow for a picnic or to read a book and have no one else around for miles
* Dance in front of a wall of lights (if you don't know what i mean, look up "Speed of Sound" by Coldplay or "Riding Solo" by Jason Derulo. And please note that the Jason Derulo song is mentioned not for its musical quality, but rather for the wall in front of which he dances during the music video)
* Be mistaken for a celebrity
* Have something i’ve written published
* Attend a ball
* Win something on a radio show
* Find (or invent if needed) a candle that smells just like Barnes and Nobles—-new books and coffee
* Get my name changed so that it's legally in all lower-case letters
"jennifer olson"
30 August 2010
Attn: Mr. Jacob Olson
30 August 2010
Mr. Jacob Olson
Head of Household
Olson Family Corp
Rexburg, Idaho
Re: Bed-sharing Terms and Conditions
Dear Mr. Olson,
On the 15th of August, 2008 we entered into a contract which enabled us to merge our separate assets and liabilities to form our familial corporation. Although we took the obvious financial, mental and emotional risk that all partners take upon entering into such a contract, I believe that up to this point our endeavors have been mostly successful. However, due to recent activities which have severely disturbed my sleep, I would ask you to once again review the Terms and Conditions of sharing the bed (see enclosed).
I feel confident that if we both comply with these rules and regulations, our further association will remain strong and we will be successful in obtaining the proper amount of sleep.
Sincerely yours,
Mrs. Jennifer Olson
Terms and Conditions
1. Under no circumstances should your feet ever touch any part of my body. It would behoove you to keep them at least 6 inches away from me at all times.
2. The bed is not divided in half--it is divided into thirds. The “thirds” on the edges of the bed belong to each of us respectively. The middle third is neutral territory. Whoever can gain, and hold, this ground has fair claim. Any snuggling can only happen on this neutral ground. No part of the others’ body should cross onto their spouses’ claimed third, thus enabling a retreat if one party desires to evade snuggling maneuvers.
3. The blankets are mine. If I choose to share them, I am being generous. Chances are you’d get too hot with them anyway.
4. Snoring is not permitted. Period. Once you snore, you forfeit your third of the bed to invasion. In other words, your spouse now has the right to use whatever means necessary to stop your snoring. This includes, but is not limited to, poking, kicking, wet willies, pillows in the face, and shoving off the bed.
5. Talking in the sleep is acceptable only if you are spouting hilarious phrases, revealing embarrassing personal facts about yourself, or mumbling sweet somethings quietly.
6. Pillows are sacred. I will not drool on yours, you may not drool on mine.
7. The last person out of the bed has the duty to make it. This includes all replacement of discarded blankets and decorative pillows.
8. While a “goodnight” kiss is expected and often appreciated, a “good morning” kiss is rarely desired (morning breath being one of the foulest of odors). A pleasant greeting in the morning is contingent on your keeping very potent mints on the bedside table or taking a moment to cleanse your mouth before attempting to breathe even in the general direction of the other side of the bed.
9. Please note that we do not have to go to bed and most definitely do not have to wake up together each day. Consider this when turning lights on and off, moving around in the bedroom, listening to music and hitting the snooze button.
Mr. Jacob Olson
Head of Household
Olson Family Corp
Rexburg, Idaho
Re: Bed-sharing Terms and Conditions
Dear Mr. Olson,
On the 15th of August, 2008 we entered into a contract which enabled us to merge our separate assets and liabilities to form our familial corporation. Although we took the obvious financial, mental and emotional risk that all partners take upon entering into such a contract, I believe that up to this point our endeavors have been mostly successful. However, due to recent activities which have severely disturbed my sleep, I would ask you to once again review the Terms and Conditions of sharing the bed (see enclosed).
I feel confident that if we both comply with these rules and regulations, our further association will remain strong and we will be successful in obtaining the proper amount of sleep.
Sincerely yours,
Mrs. Jennifer Olson
Terms and Conditions
1. Under no circumstances should your feet ever touch any part of my body. It would behoove you to keep them at least 6 inches away from me at all times.
2. The bed is not divided in half--it is divided into thirds. The “thirds” on the edges of the bed belong to each of us respectively. The middle third is neutral territory. Whoever can gain, and hold, this ground has fair claim. Any snuggling can only happen on this neutral ground. No part of the others’ body should cross onto their spouses’ claimed third, thus enabling a retreat if one party desires to evade snuggling maneuvers.
3. The blankets are mine. If I choose to share them, I am being generous. Chances are you’d get too hot with them anyway.
4. Snoring is not permitted. Period. Once you snore, you forfeit your third of the bed to invasion. In other words, your spouse now has the right to use whatever means necessary to stop your snoring. This includes, but is not limited to, poking, kicking, wet willies, pillows in the face, and shoving off the bed.
5. Talking in the sleep is acceptable only if you are spouting hilarious phrases, revealing embarrassing personal facts about yourself, or mumbling sweet somethings quietly.
6. Pillows are sacred. I will not drool on yours, you may not drool on mine.
7. The last person out of the bed has the duty to make it. This includes all replacement of discarded blankets and decorative pillows.
8. While a “goodnight” kiss is expected and often appreciated, a “good morning” kiss is rarely desired (morning breath being one of the foulest of odors). A pleasant greeting in the morning is contingent on your keeping very potent mints on the bedside table or taking a moment to cleanse your mouth before attempting to breathe even in the general direction of the other side of the bed.
9. Please note that we do not have to go to bed and most definitely do not have to wake up together each day. Consider this when turning lights on and off, moving around in the bedroom, listening to music and hitting the snooze button.
26 August 2010
...and so it begins
I don’t know what I am doing, really. And I have no idea what this blog will turn into. But sometimes I question the point of my education, my classes, my writing assignments, my degree, if I’m not writing and then sharing what I have written. However, I feel the need to write a disclaimer so that my readers (if I actually accumulate followers) know what they are—and what they aren’t –getting themselves into.
*I like to make lists. I am an obsessive lister. Even in my daily conversations I am listing. In fact, my little 3 year old neighbor picked up a phrase from me, “First of all…..” As such, my blog will most likely be chocked full of lists.
*I am NOT a blogger; I am a writer. Ok, so maybe calling myself a writer is stretching things a bit. The point I am trying to make is that I don’t know how to make my blog “cutesy.” Besides the basics, I have no clue how to mess with my headers and footers and sidebars. I don’t take creative pictures of all the things I’m doing, edit them to make them look amazing, and post them mixed in with clever quotes, etc. Sorry. If that’s what you are looking for, you are in the wrong place. I imagine that 90% of this will be words.
*If you are going to be offended, don’t read my blog. When I write, I tend to do one of two things: tell things the way they are or greatly exaggerate the situation. Unfortunately, both of these situations tend to offend the people I write about (and I may write about anyone I come in contact with). People either don’t want to face the truth about themselves or they cannot understand my gross exaggeration. My intention is not to lose friends over my blog and I also don’t want to spend time “explaining” or apologizing for what I write. Therefore, if your feelings would be hurt, refrain from reading :)
*I am not expecting that this will turn into a chronological account of what is happening in my life. Maybe. I’m sure I’ll post some of that type of information. But I’m mostly thinking that I’ll blog what I am writing—whether it’s about something in my past, present or future. Anyhow, this definitely will not be a “journal,” from my journal or anything that I usually write in my journal.
My disclaimer sounds as if my blog is going to be sarcastic, cynical and a bit of a downer. That’s not my intent in the least. I hope that it will be amusing, upbeat and a place where someone can go to get a good laugh and feel better about life.
Welcome. Read. Laugh. Comment. Enjoy!
*I like to make lists. I am an obsessive lister. Even in my daily conversations I am listing. In fact, my little 3 year old neighbor picked up a phrase from me, “First of all…..” As such, my blog will most likely be chocked full of lists.
*I am NOT a blogger; I am a writer. Ok, so maybe calling myself a writer is stretching things a bit. The point I am trying to make is that I don’t know how to make my blog “cutesy.” Besides the basics, I have no clue how to mess with my headers and footers and sidebars. I don’t take creative pictures of all the things I’m doing, edit them to make them look amazing, and post them mixed in with clever quotes, etc. Sorry. If that’s what you are looking for, you are in the wrong place. I imagine that 90% of this will be words.
*If you are going to be offended, don’t read my blog. When I write, I tend to do one of two things: tell things the way they are or greatly exaggerate the situation. Unfortunately, both of these situations tend to offend the people I write about (and I may write about anyone I come in contact with). People either don’t want to face the truth about themselves or they cannot understand my gross exaggeration. My intention is not to lose friends over my blog and I also don’t want to spend time “explaining” or apologizing for what I write. Therefore, if your feelings would be hurt, refrain from reading :)
*I am not expecting that this will turn into a chronological account of what is happening in my life. Maybe. I’m sure I’ll post some of that type of information. But I’m mostly thinking that I’ll blog what I am writing—whether it’s about something in my past, present or future. Anyhow, this definitely will not be a “journal,” from my journal or anything that I usually write in my journal.
My disclaimer sounds as if my blog is going to be sarcastic, cynical and a bit of a downer. That’s not my intent in the least. I hope that it will be amusing, upbeat and a place where someone can go to get a good laugh and feel better about life.
Welcome. Read. Laugh. Comment. Enjoy!
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