   My brother has been in Concepcion Chile for the last two years.This morning we watched the news as information about the earthquake unfolded. We found out Travis was unaccounted for. We made phone calls every 1/2 hour. Each half hour longer than the next. At 2:20pm we got a call from a stranger who let Travis use his cell phone so he could reassure us he is safe. I fell to my knees and talked to God for the first time in three years. Thank you God. |
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Someone was listening to my prayers
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Waiting Game
| I find myself walking on a fence Thanks to this wonderful economy, there is a possibility that I may be laid off. I should know by the 14th of March. Either way I'm planning on drinking lots and lots on St.Patrick's Day, whether it's in celebration or despair. What's worse then being laid off? Not knowing if you will be laid off. I can't make plans. How can I buy a plane ticket to visit my favorite people in D.C. when I don't know if I'll still be in Arizona in a month? How can I plan which concerts I want to see when I don't know if I should be saving every extra dollar? (who am I kidding, I don't know how to save). I can't buy things. I really want a new vehicle. Miss Havisham has a new perfume which smells suspiciously like burning. So a new set of wheels it is. I'm torn between a pretty motorcycle and a pretty jeep. Seriously. I've wanted a motorcycle for so long but I everywhere I look I see jeeps. And I believe in signs. And jeeps. But I don't dare spend the money because WHAT IF I GET LAID OFF! I just need to know. I'm good on my feet, if I lose my job I will find a way to deal. I'm good at dealing. And if I'm going to keep my job (please oh please) then I can move on with my life. But this waiting.... well it's worse then dieting. I would rather give up chocolate then keep waiting. Wait. Do you think the gods would accept me giving up chocolate as a sacrifice? Cause I'll totally burn chocolate on an alter while dancing and chanting in an bastardized version of latin. So here I am, balancing on this fence, unsure which way I'm going to land. Or fall. How did I get on this fence? I want down! |
Monday, February 8, 2010
Grumble Grumble Grumble
I'm slightly sick.
Not really sick. No sniffling, no coughing, no daggers in the throat. Just a slight fever, slight sore throat and a very difficult time focusing. On anything.
It's the kind of sick that may be gone in the morning. Or will mostly be worse come morning.
It's also the kind of sick that usually means I mope around the house, incapable of doing anything other then moping. And finding things that annoy me.
For instance. I'm annoyed at the fly that is treating my bathroom like a bachelor pad. For some reason I was under the impression that fly's only lived 24 hours, so I did not bother to go buy a fly swatter when I first noticed said fly. Now it's day three and the damn thing is as perky as ever.
I'm also mildly annoyed at The Boy. The over head light in my kitchen has gone out. Fixing lights is clearly The Boy's job. And when I realized I actually thought that the tiny little bit of feminist in me hung herself. Seriously, where did that thought process come from? I do everything myself and suddenly there is a boy around and all I'm capable of is lounging on the couch and eating chocolates? Then I look around me, realizing I am lounging on the couch eating chocolates.
Dove chocolate to be exact. Yum yum.
But I had to. I needed something to wash down the icky medicine.
icky
icky
medicine.
You know what also helps when I'm sick? Andrea Bocelli. I don't know what he's singing, but I'm sure it's a lullaby mixed with healing magic.
I have to be better by Saturday. Saturday is the Renaissance Festival. And I have a pretty dress to wear.
I'm never growing up.
Not really sick. No sniffling, no coughing, no daggers in the throat. Just a slight fever, slight sore throat and a very difficult time focusing. On anything.
It's the kind of sick that may be gone in the morning. Or will mostly be worse come morning.
It's also the kind of sick that usually means I mope around the house, incapable of doing anything other then moping. And finding things that annoy me.
For instance. I'm annoyed at the fly that is treating my bathroom like a bachelor pad. For some reason I was under the impression that fly's only lived 24 hours, so I did not bother to go buy a fly swatter when I first noticed said fly. Now it's day three and the damn thing is as perky as ever.
I'm also mildly annoyed at The Boy. The over head light in my kitchen has gone out. Fixing lights is clearly The Boy's job. And when I realized I actually thought that the tiny little bit of feminist in me hung herself. Seriously, where did that thought process come from? I do everything myself and suddenly there is a boy around and all I'm capable of is lounging on the couch and eating chocolates? Then I look around me, realizing I am lounging on the couch eating chocolates.
Dove chocolate to be exact. Yum yum.
But I had to. I needed something to wash down the icky medicine.
icky
icky
medicine.
You know what also helps when I'm sick? Andrea Bocelli. I don't know what he's singing, but I'm sure it's a lullaby mixed with healing magic.
I have to be better by Saturday. Saturday is the Renaissance Festival. And I have a pretty dress to wear.
I'm never growing up.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
She's a predator posing as a house cat.
As a 911 dispatcher I work 3 twelve hour shifts. I sit at a desk that has 6 monitors, 3 keyboards and 3 mouses (mice?). As a 911 dispatcher I spend twelve hours a day listening to people complain, fight, hurt, cry, bitch, argue, coax, yell, and collapse. I sit all day yet when I go home I am exhausted. Body, Soul and Brain. Over the last few months I've found that in addition to being exhausted there is pent up frustration. Frustration at the person yelling at me for the ticket he got last night. Frustration at the mother who's child called me because she overdosed. Frustration that I can't reach through the phone and comfort the girl that was assaulted last night. And hurt the man who hurt her.
So I did the only logical thing. I joined a UFC gym.
Admitting this next part might be blasphemy, but I have to get it off my chest. I don't even think I've watched even one match in UFC. Or do they just call it a fight?
So why was joining a UFC gym the only logical choice you ask? Because Yoga doesn't do shit for me. I can't clear my head by controlling my breathing. And I loathe running with an intensity usually reserved for red headed step children. However, what I have found is that doing things that destroy my body wipes my mind completely blank. Rock climbing, swimming,dancing(don't believe me? attend a dance class for 1 hour and tell me how you feel afterwards), kickboxing...Anything intensely physical that turns my body pretty black and blue colors.
Only after disaster can we be resurrected.
So I joined a club exclusively dedicated to making my body, and someone else's, hurt.
Over the last two weeks I've attended a few kickboxing classes. Classes that make the kickboxing I took at 24 hour fitness look like Baby Einstein workout video. The drills alone left me out of breath. The class starts off with jumping rope. For fifteen minutes. After one and a half minutes my feet refused to jump that whole inch off the floor for the rope to pass under. So I spent roughly thirteen minutes trying to jump ON my rope. I succeed in convincing the teacher I had a brain injury. Recently.
Then the class divides into groups. Everyone who's been there a month plus gets to pair up and practice drills. Everyone who's been there less then a month gets to learn the drills. Everyone else is me and a 12 year boy.
Doesn't matter. I still love the classes. I come home tired. I don't have nightmares on the nights I go to class. That alone is worth the gym fee.
WARNING: I don't know how to write this next part without sounding dirty. If you wish to keep your minds pure and continue seeing me as an innocent do not continue reading.
Tonight was the first time I attended the Submission Wrestling class. I had a close friend who did brazilian jiu jitsu and it always looked like a lot of rolling around on the ground. Which I am all about. I mean, I'm all about having fun and the rolling around on the ground looked fun. Is fun. No wait. What I mean is, you know how being tickled by your boyfriend is fun? You roll around and play fight? Brazilian jiu jitsu is just like that. Except normally it's two really scary looking dudes having the tickle fight. And this tickle fight will end with someone's arm broken.
Cool.
My first mistake of the night: I walked in, ask the clerk, "is this the submissive wrestling class?"
After blushing a deep red I scuttled in as the class was warming up. I found a dignified spot in the back of the class where no one could see me and proceeded to act nonchalant. Which is difficult when you are on your back stretching your legs over your head. This position places your bottom straight up in the air. Like I said, nonchalant.
Then the sit ups start. Each boy takes a turn counting to ten aloud for the class as we redeem ourselves for that hamburger we ate at lunch. I was worried that my voice would be kind of high because of the exhaustion so I deliberately lowered my voice when it came to my turn. The result? My second mistake of the night: my voice came out husky and slightly out of breathe, panting 1,2,3... Every male head stopped bobbing and turned. In unison.
Did I mention I was the only girl in the submission wrestling class?
I was the only girl in the submission wrestling class.
Who sounded like a porn star.
Great first impression Sam.
Once the actual training got started it wasn't so bad. I learned quite a few new things. I learned how to roll on one shoulder. I learned how to fall on my butt, making a very loud smacking sound. I learned how to ignore the hair, sweat and skin follicle on the map. Ok I didn't really learn that one yet, I mostly close my eyes really tight and pretend the mat was freshly washed.
I learned that men who fight, who train to fight, have the bodies of demigods. They wear Under Armour tshirts that fit like gloves. You know what? The minute, the minute I'm in the shape they are in, so will I. And they work hard to get those bodies. Not by lifting weights. Just from the workout they get doing these classes. The way they manipulate their bodies, deflecting blows and taking hits.
I learned that as much as I want to be considered "just one of the guys", I am still one of the girls. One of the starting positions is called "the guard". In it, one person is on their back with their legs wrapped around the other persons back. Take a second to picture it. That's right. When two guys do it it looks questionable. When a guy and a girl do... well, I learned that to avoid the awkwardness everyone just pretends not to notice. My third mistake of the night: I asked "I think I'm doing the guard wrong. do I need to spread my legs wider?" without first saying it in my head. I think my blush spread on to the poor boy teaching me cause he turned pretty damn red.
I also learned that I don't just love Fight Club for the social commentary.
But then, I knew that already.
After fighting, everything else in your life gets the volume turned down.
God do I need those phone calls turned down.
So I did the only logical thing. I joined a UFC gym.
Admitting this next part might be blasphemy, but I have to get it off my chest. I don't even think I've watched even one match in UFC. Or do they just call it a fight?
So why was joining a UFC gym the only logical choice you ask? Because Yoga doesn't do shit for me. I can't clear my head by controlling my breathing. And I loathe running with an intensity usually reserved for red headed step children. However, what I have found is that doing things that destroy my body wipes my mind completely blank. Rock climbing, swimming,dancing(don't believe me? attend a dance class for 1 hour and tell me how you feel afterwards), kickboxing...Anything intensely physical that turns my body pretty black and blue colors.
Only after disaster can we be resurrected.
So I joined a club exclusively dedicated to making my body, and someone else's, hurt.
Over the last two weeks I've attended a few kickboxing classes. Classes that make the kickboxing I took at 24 hour fitness look like Baby Einstein workout video. The drills alone left me out of breath. The class starts off with jumping rope. For fifteen minutes. After one and a half minutes my feet refused to jump that whole inch off the floor for the rope to pass under. So I spent roughly thirteen minutes trying to jump ON my rope. I succeed in convincing the teacher I had a brain injury. Recently.
Then the class divides into groups. Everyone who's been there a month plus gets to pair up and practice drills. Everyone who's been there less then a month gets to learn the drills. Everyone else is me and a 12 year boy.
Doesn't matter. I still love the classes. I come home tired. I don't have nightmares on the nights I go to class. That alone is worth the gym fee.
WARNING: I don't know how to write this next part without sounding dirty. If you wish to keep your minds pure and continue seeing me as an innocent do not continue reading.
Tonight was the first time I attended the Submission Wrestling class. I had a close friend who did brazilian jiu jitsu and it always looked like a lot of rolling around on the ground. Which I am all about. I mean, I'm all about having fun and the rolling around on the ground looked fun. Is fun. No wait. What I mean is, you know how being tickled by your boyfriend is fun? You roll around and play fight? Brazilian jiu jitsu is just like that. Except normally it's two really scary looking dudes having the tickle fight. And this tickle fight will end with someone's arm broken.
Cool.
My first mistake of the night: I walked in, ask the clerk, "is this the submissive wrestling class?"
After blushing a deep red I scuttled in as the class was warming up. I found a dignified spot in the back of the class where no one could see me and proceeded to act nonchalant. Which is difficult when you are on your back stretching your legs over your head. This position places your bottom straight up in the air. Like I said, nonchalant.
Then the sit ups start. Each boy takes a turn counting to ten aloud for the class as we redeem ourselves for that hamburger we ate at lunch. I was worried that my voice would be kind of high because of the exhaustion so I deliberately lowered my voice when it came to my turn. The result? My second mistake of the night: my voice came out husky and slightly out of breathe, panting 1,2,3... Every male head stopped bobbing and turned. In unison.
Did I mention I was the only girl in the submission wrestling class?
I was the only girl in the submission wrestling class.
Who sounded like a porn star.
Great first impression Sam.
Once the actual training got started it wasn't so bad. I learned quite a few new things. I learned how to roll on one shoulder. I learned how to fall on my butt, making a very loud smacking sound. I learned how to ignore the hair, sweat and skin follicle on the map. Ok I didn't really learn that one yet, I mostly close my eyes really tight and pretend the mat was freshly washed.
I learned that men who fight, who train to fight, have the bodies of demigods. They wear Under Armour tshirts that fit like gloves. You know what? The minute, the minute I'm in the shape they are in, so will I. And they work hard to get those bodies. Not by lifting weights. Just from the workout they get doing these classes. The way they manipulate their bodies, deflecting blows and taking hits.
I learned that as much as I want to be considered "just one of the guys", I am still one of the girls. One of the starting positions is called "the guard". In it, one person is on their back with their legs wrapped around the other persons back. Take a second to picture it. That's right. When two guys do it it looks questionable. When a guy and a girl do... well, I learned that to avoid the awkwardness everyone just pretends not to notice. My third mistake of the night: I asked "I think I'm doing the guard wrong. do I need to spread my legs wider?" without first saying it in my head. I think my blush spread on to the poor boy teaching me cause he turned pretty damn red.
I also learned that I don't just love Fight Club for the social commentary.
But then, I knew that already.
After fighting, everything else in your life gets the volume turned down.
God do I need those phone calls turned down.
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