Ahh... you're here. It is so refreshing to know I can always count on you to be here. You have this peacefully calming affect on me...it's such a breath of fresh air in the midst of a hectic day.
My life is a bit more peaceful than it has been in the previous few weeks. The stress and physical strain of making a huge life-altering decision has come and gone. I have peacefully and comfortably turned down an incredible job offer. Alas, I am the only one who fills my shoes, and dare I say I chose Keens over Stilettos.
My mind is at peace, but my emotions and physical body have endured somewhat of a good ol' fashioned 'beat-down.' Many a-sleepless nights and nail biting daydreams of a potential and successful future in Houston left me in the groggiest of spirits. I've got all the symptoms: sore throat, scratchy voice, a seemingly endless supply of thick rubbery mucus that surfaces at the most convenient moments possible (delighted to know, I'm sure), and a fuzzy haze of lethargy.
What do you make of it, Doc?
"Well, Ms. Fogarty, stay here in this backless paper shirt and I'll be back in about 20 minutes to give you your diagnosis. Here, sit on this butcher paper until I return...and feel free to peruse this 'Highlights' magazine while I'm away. I recommend the hidden objects page; it can be quite tantalizing. "
(Little does he know that all but one of the hidden objects have already been circled by previous patients. One of these days, I will prevail in having the 'first crack' at it.)
"Okay Ms. Fogarty...you can put your shirt back on in a minute. The parchment paper robe is merely so I feel more authoritative. I have some bad news."
"Bad news? ...What is it?"
"Well...how should I put this...It's... news that's not good."
"No, I mean what is the bad news?"
"Oh. The bad news is someone has already circled all the hidden objects in all our Highlights magazines."
"Tell me something I don't know. What's the good news, then?"
"The good news is the results of your tongue depressor tests are in."
"Am I going to die?"
"Yes. We all die eventually, but there's no telling when or where."
"No, I mean what good news do you have to share?"
"Well, since you asked, I just saved money on my car insurance, but that's none of your business."
"Did you really? Oh wow, well who do you have insura--No, no, I meant what are the test results?"
Diagnosis: I've determined you to be...'drained.'
Prognosis: 100% chance of recovery...but it will be tough.
Prescription: Take one (1) nap, for ten (10) minutes each day, until gone. Do not take on an empty stomach."
No empty stomach, hmm? I think I can tackle that minor detail. Chocolate pudding is the herbal remedy for many weaklings. For others, ice cream (hard, soft, and the malted variety) has become a staple: the medicinal therapy of choice. My sick food? Planters Cheeseballs. I personally have come to believe that one whiff of the artificial cheese powder on circular puffs of crumbly air nurses my immune system back to health almost instantaneously. I have faith that this, in combination with the purest elixir found in nature - pulp-free pineapple orange juice- is the ancient tribal healing secret.
...And rest, I shall. I'll be blunt, there's no reason to hide: I milk it. I milk it like a maid. Being sick is an opportune time to let yourself be vulnerable and leave your well-being to others. People, I will share this with you one time, and one time only: If you don't milk it, you aren't taking advantage of all that being sick has to offer. This is your time to have everything you need to survive within arm's reach. Warm cozy blanket? Here, have four. I brought your pirate slippers with the googly eyes, too, to keep your feet snuggly. Big puffy pillow? Let me fluff it for you. Thirsty? Here's a sippy mug full of pineapple orange juice, there's an endless supply in the fridge, ring this little bell if you need more (I imagine those very words are being spoken in heaven on a regular basis). Tissues? I got you Kleenex, quilted, with lotion built right into each sheet. I'll even throw your snotty tissues away. Hug? No--gross, what are you trying to do, get us all sick?
It was quite an emotional dilemma, but through the magic of cheeseballs, I am miraculously and slowly nursing myself back to health.
Peace out,
H
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Houston, we have... a Heather??
Welcome Back! Something is different about you today... Did you change your hair? ...New outfit? ... Lost weight? ...I can't quite put my finger on it, but whatever it is, I love it.
My hair is a few shades lighter these days, thank you for noticing. A quick trip to a beauty salon, and a checking account deduction of 70 US Dollars yielded a hipper, trendier, me. Some hairs on my head are unquestionably more important than others, and I felt as though they should be highlighted as such...mission accomplished.
The reason for my sudden leap into the world of those who spend more than one minute on their hair in the mornings? The ominous and ever-intimidating "job interview." Yes, soon, I will be joining the ranks of the full-time, gainfully employed. I will uncharacteristically leave out the fine print of the whole ordeal, and give you the big scope: I was flown to Houston for a big bad job interview. It was quite the adventure to be whisked away to an all inclusive 3-day, 2-night job interview experience.
It's a pretty nifty little gig that I auditioned for... they are the hooligans responsible for the 3D imaging on google earth, and are also the little rascals that are contracted to expand the Panama Canal. The division of the company that yours truly would be gracing, is a division who markets geological oil basin and oil well drilling data to big wigs like Exxon Mobile, Texaco, Shell, Chevron, BP, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I had to wear my "big girl" clothes and "grown up" heels the whole time. Heck, I even accessorized. I can see you've inched (or for our Canadian readers: centimetered) closer to the edge of your seat; you should know by now that in this intricate little relationship of ours, you will be the absolute FIRST to know what the future holds for this little geological girl-wonder....don't you worry.
I often wonder what my life will evolve into after I enter the real world... is there life after graduation? I try to picture myself in a downtown highrise apartment, with my hip highlights and trendy new 'do, cleaning and putting away groceries, planning and organizing for the next work day. Then I snap out of it. "This is my life, here, not my delusion," I tell myself. It'll be more like watching TV in my apartment in sweats and a ponytail, eating chicken fingers I ordered in from Applebees with paper plates and plasticware. While in mid honey-mustard dip, I'll suddenly realize I have a presentation to a client the following morning, but nonetheless plan to pull an all-nighter after my chicken strips are thoroughly consumed.
Although, I may surprise myself (and my mother). There are times when I display a bizarre and twistedly unfamiliar bout of cleanliness around the house...I dare say there is a slight-albeit slight- chance that in some unthinkable way, bits and pieces of that behavior may be carried over into my soon to be new, grown-up life. Is it possible?
Come to think of it, you'll never believe this (I can barely conceive the notion, myself), but there have been times, whilst the family was away and I was left to fend for my own well-being, that the entire kitchen remained a sparkling, pearly spit-spot combination of cleanliness and Comet, with a hint of Palm Olive and bleach. Ladies and Gentlemen, let the records show: I, Heather, cleaned, on my own accord. This was not just for a minute, not just for a day, but I assure you, this was for the entire duration of my time alone in the home. If I wasn't there for the episode in person, I would have scoffed in disbelief at anyone who tried to convince me otherwise. Indeed, mere minutes after their arrival, I recall walking in the room to find it in a complete state of disarray. Every cupboard door was swung open. Drawers were no longer flush with the counters edge. A peanut-buttery aroma filled the air as I found our JIF jar in a new home near the toaster, lid unscrewed. Crumbs of every shape, color, size, and texture were strewn about the cutting board as if Hansel and Gretel one day needed to return to that very spot. Previously non-existent grocery items paraded the counter tops. A frying pan lay dormant upon the stove. A box of Saran plastic wrap was prepped and ready to pounce at any bowl of left-overs that dared not be fresh.
I remember smiling, knowing that it was not I (this ONE time), that made a mess and left it there. Furthermore, this was in fact proof, that there could be other times it may not have been me, as well (it's a bit of a stretch, but evidence is evidence, your honor).
I suppose whether I am ready to grow up or not, I will eventually have no choice. Am I ready to give up my relaxed jeans and Keens in lieu of fancy pants and accessories in the heat of Houston? ...Let's just say I have five days to figure that out. Wish me luck in the decision! It's a doozy!
Peace out,
H
My hair is a few shades lighter these days, thank you for noticing. A quick trip to a beauty salon, and a checking account deduction of 70 US Dollars yielded a hipper, trendier, me. Some hairs on my head are unquestionably more important than others, and I felt as though they should be highlighted as such...mission accomplished.
The reason for my sudden leap into the world of those who spend more than one minute on their hair in the mornings? The ominous and ever-intimidating "job interview." Yes, soon, I will be joining the ranks of the full-time, gainfully employed. I will uncharacteristically leave out the fine print of the whole ordeal, and give you the big scope: I was flown to Houston for a big bad job interview. It was quite the adventure to be whisked away to an all inclusive 3-day, 2-night job interview experience.
It's a pretty nifty little gig that I auditioned for... they are the hooligans responsible for the 3D imaging on google earth, and are also the little rascals that are contracted to expand the Panama Canal. The division of the company that yours truly would be gracing, is a division who markets geological oil basin and oil well drilling data to big wigs like Exxon Mobile, Texaco, Shell, Chevron, BP, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I had to wear my "big girl" clothes and "grown up" heels the whole time. Heck, I even accessorized. I can see you've inched (or for our Canadian readers: centimetered) closer to the edge of your seat; you should know by now that in this intricate little relationship of ours, you will be the absolute FIRST to know what the future holds for this little geological girl-wonder....don't you worry.
I often wonder what my life will evolve into after I enter the real world... is there life after graduation? I try to picture myself in a downtown highrise apartment, with my hip highlights and trendy new 'do, cleaning and putting away groceries, planning and organizing for the next work day. Then I snap out of it. "This is my life, here, not my delusion," I tell myself. It'll be more like watching TV in my apartment in sweats and a ponytail, eating chicken fingers I ordered in from Applebees with paper plates and plasticware. While in mid honey-mustard dip, I'll suddenly realize I have a presentation to a client the following morning, but nonetheless plan to pull an all-nighter after my chicken strips are thoroughly consumed.
Although, I may surprise myself (and my mother). There are times when I display a bizarre and twistedly unfamiliar bout of cleanliness around the house...I dare say there is a slight-albeit slight- chance that in some unthinkable way, bits and pieces of that behavior may be carried over into my soon to be new, grown-up life. Is it possible?
Come to think of it, you'll never believe this (I can barely conceive the notion, myself), but there have been times, whilst the family was away and I was left to fend for my own well-being, that the entire kitchen remained a sparkling, pearly spit-spot combination of cleanliness and Comet, with a hint of Palm Olive and bleach. Ladies and Gentlemen, let the records show: I, Heather, cleaned, on my own accord. This was not just for a minute, not just for a day, but I assure you, this was for the entire duration of my time alone in the home. If I wasn't there for the episode in person, I would have scoffed in disbelief at anyone who tried to convince me otherwise. Indeed, mere minutes after their arrival, I recall walking in the room to find it in a complete state of disarray. Every cupboard door was swung open. Drawers were no longer flush with the counters edge. A peanut-buttery aroma filled the air as I found our JIF jar in a new home near the toaster, lid unscrewed. Crumbs of every shape, color, size, and texture were strewn about the cutting board as if Hansel and Gretel one day needed to return to that very spot. Previously non-existent grocery items paraded the counter tops. A frying pan lay dormant upon the stove. A box of Saran plastic wrap was prepped and ready to pounce at any bowl of left-overs that dared not be fresh.
I remember smiling, knowing that it was not I (this ONE time), that made a mess and left it there. Furthermore, this was in fact proof, that there could be other times it may not have been me, as well (it's a bit of a stretch, but evidence is evidence, your honor).
I suppose whether I am ready to grow up or not, I will eventually have no choice. Am I ready to give up my relaxed jeans and Keens in lieu of fancy pants and accessories in the heat of Houston? ...Let's just say I have five days to figure that out. Wish me luck in the decision! It's a doozy!
Peace out,
H
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Trick or Treason
This is so weird... I dreamed about you being here, reading this very blog, just last night. And here you are! ...Spooky!
Dentists and orthodontists should not be allowed to celebrate Halloween if they're going to get all tooth-doctory on us. Do not bring your work home with you, folks! We all have a personal responsibility to brush, and maybe some of us will forget, but your complimentary bristles on a stick (instead of a Snickers) will not help us remember. It will make us despise you and your trade.
2) Raisins
Usually, foods on a stick are yummy (corn dogs, ice pops), but Dum Dums just can't be included on that list. Not even if they were breaded and deep-fried and served at a fair. A quick rule of thumb: If you're A) drooling out more than you swallow, or B) feel like you need a wet wash cloth mid-way through... kids don't want it, either.
Evil people have long been handing out apples even before "poisoned candy" scares. Ever seen Snow White? Avoid anything that does not come in its own wrapper. And no, adding your own cutesey wrapper with those "offical halloween markings" on it does not count.
Halloween is supposed to be a holiday for children and young people alike, not senior citizens who suck on hard candies all day. Something about the strawberry-shaped strawberries, gold-wrapped butterscotch, and peppermint in cellophane that just screams "I'm past the expiration date." (These usually get set aside for Granny.)
10) Anything Fun-Sized
Who started calling it this? Since when is one bite fun? Indulgence and a teeth-rotting sugar rush: that's what's fun. Portion control doesn't need to start this young. A normal-sized candy bar will make you the most popular house on the block. A king-sized candy bar will have you calling in for back-up. Want to really watch their heads spin? Whip out a soft carbonated beverage...they'll never know what hit 'um.
Speaking of spooks, (ooh, nice segue) on halloween night, some houses struggle with the concept of "candy." Let me enlighten you:
There are "good" houses, and there are "bad" houses. The best trick-or-treaters know to avoid the latter. We all love Halloween, but wish certain homes would just stop handing out the classically bad "treats." They weren't good last year, the year before that, or now....and don't kid yourself: Word spreads fast. Once you've been identified as a "bad" house, it's virtually impossible to redeem yourself. Whispers will spread like wildfire through every child in every neighborhood in town. One wrong treat, and you'll find witches, ghosts, princesses, and firemen avoiding your house like the plauge. Take the big orange marshmallow shaped like a peanut for example: handing out one of these doorstops will dishevel your home from trick-or-treaters for a minimum of five (5) years. And stencils? ...You're looking at ten to life.
If you want to be the cool house on the block, you'll know better than to hand out any of these eye-rollers:
1) Toothbrushes
Dentists and orthodontists should not be allowed to celebrate Halloween if they're going to get all tooth-doctory on us. Do not bring your work home with you, folks! We all have a personal responsibility to brush, and maybe some of us will forget, but your complimentary bristles on a stick (instead of a Snickers) will not help us remember. It will make us despise you and your trade.
2) Raisins
Little boxes of stuck-together shriveled globs are not what little kids schlep around the neighborhood for all night. When they say trick-or-treat, they want candy that will rot their teeth, not wrinkled grapes. No preservatives? No thank you. (Using an empty box as a kazoo-like instrument, though, is kinda fun.)
Ah, the fruitcake of halloween; it just never goes away. If you love them, fine. But don't subject the rest of us to the sickeningly sweet triangle that tastes like neither candy nor corn. It's the exact same rock-hard candy corn you had sitting in a dish by the door LAST halloween-- you're not fooling anyone.
These chalky candies are supposedly "fruit-flavored," but no fruit I know tastes like hard dust -- and makes everything eaten after that taste like hard dust, too.
Usually, foods on a stick are yummy (corn dogs, ice pops), but Dum Dums just can't be included on that list. Not even if they were breaded and deep-fried and served at a fair. A quick rule of thumb: If you're A) drooling out more than you swallow, or B) feel like you need a wet wash cloth mid-way through... kids don't want it, either.
Evil people have long been handing out apples even before "poisoned candy" scares. Ever seen Snow White? Avoid anything that does not come in its own wrapper. And no, adding your own cutesey wrapper with those "offical halloween markings" on it does not count.
It looks like chocolate and sort of smells like chocolate, but the mini brown tubes are not real chocolate. They taste like watered-down chocolate, and have a chewy texture that will strip the fillings right off your molars. It's also the cheapest possible option for candy givers. Kids know it. They resent you for it.
Halloween is supposed to be a holiday for children and young people alike, not senior citizens who suck on hard candies all day. Something about the strawberry-shaped strawberries, gold-wrapped butterscotch, and peppermint in cellophane that just screams "I'm past the expiration date." (These usually get set aside for Granny.)
I do not laffy when I get these. I sobby. I get depressedy. Because it gets all stucky to my teethy and doesn't even taste that goody.
10) Anything Fun-Sized
Who started calling it this? Since when is one bite fun? Indulgence and a teeth-rotting sugar rush: that's what's fun. Portion control doesn't need to start this young. A normal-sized candy bar will make you the most popular house on the block. A king-sized candy bar will have you calling in for back-up. Want to really watch their heads spin? Whip out a soft carbonated beverage...they'll never know what hit 'um.One last word to the wise: Don't even THINK about handing out those disgusting peanut butter flavored chewy candies wrapped in orange or black waxed paper. It's a death sentence. You might as well leave a basket outside your home marked "free eggs, fire at will."
Happy Halloween, everybody... and good luck.
Peace out,
H
Peace out,
H
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Make Marriage, Not War
Hooray! You're here! I was hoping and wishing that you'd still be here when I got back from my trip... and here you are! I'm glad you made it because you are cordially invited as my guest, via pictures, to the wedding of Molly Petrik to Chris Healow.
This past weekend I traveled afar to a beautiful place called Missoula, quietly nestled in the mountains of Montana, hippies abounding around every street corner. Sarah and Adam Rassier, Kyle, and myself, headed to the land of the very free on Thursday morning. The occasion? An outdoor wedding of a childhood friend, Molly Petrik, to her beau, Chris Healow. It was well-worth the 13 hour drive in our tan Camry.
Adam's road rage driving techniques made for some interesting moments along the way, but we miraculously all made it there in one piece. These questionable instances include, but are not limited to: flying past a frightened student driver on the highway, profuse horn-honkage, a death-defying grizzly bear encounter, getting a little too up-close and personal with the median ("Is this a lane? Are we in a lane?" .... "Oh whoops, no, this isn't a lane at all"...[quick sudden jerk to the right]..."There."), and seemingly attempting to break the sound barrier (between you and me, let's just say we made excellent time). For all you mothers out there: our seat belts were in-tact the entire time. We arrived at the Mountain Valley Inn in Missoula Montana, precisely at 5:10pm. Here are some pictures of the weekend's events, as promised...a story board, if you will (and indeed, you will):
1) The rehearsal dinner in the park. Shortly after checking into the Mountain Valley Inn (heretofore known as the MVI), we revitalized our butt-to-seat laden bodies and found our way to the park for a pig roast feast. I like to call it a feastival. A party, as you all are well aware, is simply not a party until a deliciously meaty pig carcass arrives in the back of a rickety old Jeep, driven by a portly yet jolly gentleman in suspenders.
2) The North Dakota Gang. North Dakota was generously represented at the rehearsal dinner. From left to right: Sarah Rassier, Adam Rassier, Kyle Labrecque, I am the stunning vision in white, Jake Carolan, Jenny Carolan, Kris Smetana, Jason Nisbet's head, and Matt Nisbet.
3)The world's best pants. After the rehearsal "feastival", we putted back to the MVI. Before turning in for the evening, we stopped by a friend's hotel room, where, much to our astonishing elation, we were greeted with a gift of fleece pants. I refer to mine as "Heather and the amazing technicolor fleece pants." I am uncertain as to whether these pants are actually as amazing as they appear in the photo, or if the pant models are merely "working the pants" all too well.
4) Here Comes the Bride. The creek-side wedding the next afternoon was held at a beautiful estate nestled into the mountain-side. The guests and groom sang George Harrison's "Here comes the sun," while the wedding party and bride walked down the grassy aisle. The sun did indeed make an appearance, and temperatures soared to over 90 degrees. Fear not, however, this little white Norwegian-Irish girl applied SPF 50, as well as a double dose of Secret (it's strong enough for a man, but PH balanced for a woman).
5) Bring on the Funk. The girls were decked out in little silk halter knee-length numbers, while the boys donned brown linen pants, a striped blue shirt, and brown suspenders. The officiant was the couple's music professor (Dr. Funk, appropriately). Molly and Chris wrote their own heartfelt vows, and there wasn't a dry eye for miles.
6) The Other Happy Couple. Kyle and I after the wedding, just steps from the ceremony site. I wore my hair down, and slightly curled, for as long as any sane human can tolerate in that magnitude of heat...21 minutes, 38 seconds exactly.
7) Things are Heating Up. When beads of perspiration began to overcome my cotton smock, I gathered my locks and threw them up in a pony tail, as seen here.
8) Down Came the Rain. Clouds loomed over the area not long after, but the rain just missed us. The welcoming cloud cover cooled off the event to a comfortable 75 degrees. Check out that gorgeous view! I checked for ticks at least four times after coming back down the hill; I am happy to report that I was and still am tick-free.
9) Let them eat Buffalo. The wedding feast consisted of salmon, roasted buffalo with huckleberry sauce, asparagus stalks, some sort of cous-cous/quinoa concoction, iced dill potatoes, and a bun. I decided that it doesn't matter where you come from or what walk of life you choose to take, everyone loves a good bun. I, myself, am no exception to that rule.
10) SPEECH! SPEECH! Upon the commencement of the meal, the microphone was open for well wishes or stories for the new couple. Here, the parents of the bride look on. As a high school friend, I felt as though it was my utter obligation to share an embarrassing story of dear Molly. I stormed the mic and received an uproarious applause. Kyle greeted me back to my seat with "You really know how to work a crowd!" Thanks babe!
11) The Garter Toss. When the speeches came to a close, a few people insisted on speaking a bit more. When the speeches came to a close again, the evening's festivities were soon underway. To kick off the night, the bouquet was thrown, and the garter tossed.
12) Reunited and it Feels So Good. We Three Amigos: Sarah, Jenny and Myself, workin' it at the reception...kissin' the boys and makin' 'em cry! Yowsa!
13) Dancing the Night Away. After the Citronella Tiki Torches were activated, Molly and Chris had their first dance as husband and wife to the music of a live folk band. The music was oh-so contagious. By the second or third song, the driveway dance floor was filled with swirling, twirling bodies until the wee hours of the evening. To listen to the bride and groom's song, click here.
14) So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, See ya Later. We said our sorrowful good-byes, and headed back to the MVI for the night. Kyle and I were starving and ordered a delightful pizza at 2:00am, when pizza tastes best. We dined on our usual pepperoni and cheese until our bellies could take no more. After checking out of the hotel the next morning, (You're forever in our hearts, MVI) our tummies were yet again eager for sustenance. "What better place to fill your gut than Famous Dave's BBQ?" we all thought. And so we dined on ribets and chicken baskets until our little hearts were content.
It was quite a delightful trip, and I thoroghly enjoyed myself during the entire adventure...it was hard to say goodbye. If e'er you need advice on how to survive hippies or renegade drivers, look me up. I have plenty of pointers.
Peace out,
H
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Missoula or Bust!
Welcome back! Seeing you here is the best part of my day.
Thursday morning I am off to beautiful Missoula, Montana. In case you aren't familiar with the area, it's just 3 miles left of NoMansLand, and 560 miles west of MiddleofNowhere. Hang a right immediately after the vast expanse of NothingForMilesandMiles ...just look for signs, you can't miss it.
I will be attending a wedding there, clad in bare feet. I got a pedicure this morning, just for the occasion. My toenails are now a luscious pearly pink. I feel pretty... oh so pretty...
You can assuredly expect a full report on my outing (complete with photographs in full technicolor) when I return home early next week. I can hardly wait to share them with you...the suspense is already killing me!
As previously stated in an earlier post, my procrastinating ways have yielded packing until this evening, mere hours before the trip ... just think of all the time I saved doing absolutely nothing for all those hours! I must get to packing. Alas, time is slowly creeping away and I must cut short our meeting here this fine evening. I have so much to tell you, but it simply must wait.
Feel free to catch up on past blog posts until I return. I would love to hear what your favorites are! Have a wonderful weekend! Until we meet again...
Peace out,
H
Thursday morning I am off to beautiful Missoula, Montana. In case you aren't familiar with the area, it's just 3 miles left of NoMansLand, and 560 miles west of MiddleofNowhere. Hang a right immediately after the vast expanse of NothingForMilesandMiles ...just look for signs, you can't miss it.
I will be attending a wedding there, clad in bare feet. I got a pedicure this morning, just for the occasion. My toenails are now a luscious pearly pink. I feel pretty... oh so pretty...
You can assuredly expect a full report on my outing (complete with photographs in full technicolor) when I return home early next week. I can hardly wait to share them with you...the suspense is already killing me!
As previously stated in an earlier post, my procrastinating ways have yielded packing until this evening, mere hours before the trip ... just think of all the time I saved doing absolutely nothing for all those hours! I must get to packing. Alas, time is slowly creeping away and I must cut short our meeting here this fine evening. I have so much to tell you, but it simply must wait.
Feel free to catch up on past blog posts until I return. I would love to hear what your favorites are! Have a wonderful weekend! Until we meet again...
Peace out,
H
No Further Questions, Your Honor.
You're back! You never cease to amaze me!
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I am at liberty to say that after weeks of endless rain, I can now declare the sun: officially shining!
"But Heather," you say, "Why are you at liberty to say so?"
My, but how funny you should ask. My fellow citizens--and Kyle--I have been potentially selected to honorably represent all that is peaceful and just in this fair county of ours...to serve, and protect...to keep those innocent who have not yet been proven guilty by penalty of law, and to lock up the poor sap who so much as looks at me the wrong way. My congressmen, my Americans, my census talliers, and my proven felons: you have potentially chosen me to represent you in your time of treachery and need. Yes, I am a potential juror--ready to report for duty.
The trials and tribulations of a juror's duty sentence are far less than that of the accused lug in the hot seat. I will do nothing but my best to ensure that justice has been fulfilled. I can see it now... I am quite positive that my defendant/plaintiff (thank you, Judge Wapner) experience will be exactly like that of a movie courtroom scene. If not, I intend on making it as such.
I will walk in with glasses on. My hair will be loosely tossed in a messy bun, held up by a yellow number 2 pencil. This, I assume to believe, is known as "lawyer chic." My fellow Americans--and Kyle-- let it be known: there is no time for such nonsense as "hair ties" when a young man's life is at steak. Banana clips and scrunchies of every color and texture are immediately meaningless in such a consequential event...even the holy grail of hair ties--the velvet scrunchy--suddenly pales into insignificance. The number 2 pencil has been, and always be, a symbol of authority of utmost importance. Veteran attorneys scoff at those donning any other number. Also, in any question of authority or status of rank: bite-marks always beats no bite-marks.
I will, no doubt, be sporting a simple dark brown pant-suit circa 1991, with black clod-hopper dress shoes. My pant-legs will be precisely 2 inches too short, and my black nylons will have a run in them, exactly 6 inches long.
I will walk to the jury bleachers with my clip-board in tact, and a black clicky-pen in hand. There will be a low murmur of "is-he-or-isn't-he?" whispers that fill the air. No one will speak above 5 decibels. The room will be a floor to ceiling cherry/walnut wood facade, with a fan radiating every 5 feet across the ceiling. The windows will have vertical blinds that sway with the circulating air of the fans, and the light that passes through each length of blind will cast dusty light beams across the room, one of which, shining directly into my left eye. While no smoking is permitted in the building, cigarettes will be smoldering in ashtrays in random spots throughout the room, drawing swirly gray mists up to the walnut ceiling.
When the trial commences, I will cross my legs, and rotate my clicky-pen upwards, 90 degrees, and, with a furrowed brow, begin to chew. This action subconsciously dictates to all parties involved, that I am heretofore primed and prepared to heed opening arguments. If the pen has not yet crossed the oral threshold, I am not yet attentive, nor alert. Every two minutes, I will uncross, and recross my legs in the opposite direction. Once opening arguments indeed proceed, I will squint, and listen, occasionally nodding my head. I will not actually be listening, as I tend to daydream within minutes, but that is irrelevant.
I will stand proudly and announce a verdict: "GUILTY! HANG HIM! TRAITOR!"
The judge will reprimand me: "Miss, the trial just started! Take your seat or we'll have you escorted out of here."
I will, indeed take my seat, and proceed with the rest of the obligatory "fair trial." Guilty or not, my mind is already made.
I will embrace the potential experience. Some ask, 'is it worth it?' ...Is missing a few days work worth a minimal $40 dollars a day? If it's good enough for Rachel Ray, by gum, it's good enough for me. Is it worth being isolated from society for a week? I consider it a perk. Is it worth sitting on a walnut bench all day to grant some stranger a chance at freedom? If it means I get to wear a hand-me-down pants-suit: you betcha.
It is my American duty, and my dear dear pleasure to serve, honor... and convict. Calling all Potential Felons: See you on the stand...and good luck...you'll need it.
Peace out,
H
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I am at liberty to say that after weeks of endless rain, I can now declare the sun: officially shining!
"But Heather," you say, "Why are you at liberty to say so?"
My, but how funny you should ask. My fellow citizens--and Kyle--I have been potentially selected to honorably represent all that is peaceful and just in this fair county of ours...to serve, and protect...to keep those innocent who have not yet been proven guilty by penalty of law, and to lock up the poor sap who so much as looks at me the wrong way. My congressmen, my Americans, my census talliers, and my proven felons: you have potentially chosen me to represent you in your time of treachery and need. Yes, I am a potential juror--ready to report for duty.
The trials and tribulations of a juror's duty sentence are far less than that of the accused lug in the hot seat. I will do nothing but my best to ensure that justice has been fulfilled. I can see it now... I am quite positive that my defendant/plaintiff (thank you, Judge Wapner) experience will be exactly like that of a movie courtroom scene. If not, I intend on making it as such.
I will walk in with glasses on. My hair will be loosely tossed in a messy bun, held up by a yellow number 2 pencil. This, I assume to believe, is known as "lawyer chic." My fellow Americans--and Kyle-- let it be known: there is no time for such nonsense as "hair ties" when a young man's life is at steak. Banana clips and scrunchies of every color and texture are immediately meaningless in such a consequential event...even the holy grail of hair ties--the velvet scrunchy--suddenly pales into insignificance. The number 2 pencil has been, and always be, a symbol of authority of utmost importance. Veteran attorneys scoff at those donning any other number. Also, in any question of authority or status of rank: bite-marks always beats no bite-marks.
I will, no doubt, be sporting a simple dark brown pant-suit circa 1991, with black clod-hopper dress shoes. My pant-legs will be precisely 2 inches too short, and my black nylons will have a run in them, exactly 6 inches long.
I will walk to the jury bleachers with my clip-board in tact, and a black clicky-pen in hand. There will be a low murmur of "is-he-or-isn't-he?" whispers that fill the air. No one will speak above 5 decibels. The room will be a floor to ceiling cherry/walnut wood facade, with a fan radiating every 5 feet across the ceiling. The windows will have vertical blinds that sway with the circulating air of the fans, and the light that passes through each length of blind will cast dusty light beams across the room, one of which, shining directly into my left eye. While no smoking is permitted in the building, cigarettes will be smoldering in ashtrays in random spots throughout the room, drawing swirly gray mists up to the walnut ceiling.
When the trial commences, I will cross my legs, and rotate my clicky-pen upwards, 90 degrees, and, with a furrowed brow, begin to chew. This action subconsciously dictates to all parties involved, that I am heretofore primed and prepared to heed opening arguments. If the pen has not yet crossed the oral threshold, I am not yet attentive, nor alert. Every two minutes, I will uncross, and recross my legs in the opposite direction. Once opening arguments indeed proceed, I will squint, and listen, occasionally nodding my head. I will not actually be listening, as I tend to daydream within minutes, but that is irrelevant.
I will stand proudly and announce a verdict: "GUILTY! HANG HIM! TRAITOR!"
The judge will reprimand me: "Miss, the trial just started! Take your seat or we'll have you escorted out of here."
I will, indeed take my seat, and proceed with the rest of the obligatory "fair trial." Guilty or not, my mind is already made.
I will embrace the potential experience. Some ask, 'is it worth it?' ...Is missing a few days work worth a minimal $40 dollars a day? If it's good enough for Rachel Ray, by gum, it's good enough for me. Is it worth being isolated from society for a week? I consider it a perk. Is it worth sitting on a walnut bench all day to grant some stranger a chance at freedom? If it means I get to wear a hand-me-down pants-suit: you betcha.
It is my American duty, and my dear dear pleasure to serve, honor... and convict. Calling all Potential Felons: See you on the stand...and good luck...you'll need it.
Peace out,
H
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
HOLD EVERYTHING!
Welcome back to the blog. I can't remember the last time you looked so stunning... and you smell fantastic.
Had I known you'd show up looking so fabulous, I'd have run a comb through my hair (maybe even have fired up the curling iron), and made myself look a bit more presentable. Although, looks can be deceiving: even though I may be donning an old pair of worn out blue jeans and a scraggly ragamuffin tee, I am nonetheless "dressed for success." Ladies and gentlemen, today I came face to face with a pivotal national crisis--a potential catastrophe to all mankind: a terror so perilous, it would have driven a lesser man to solemn tears of defeat... and through all unspeakable odds, I victoriously prevailed!
Today... yes, today...I lost my Visa check card. And that's not the only thing I lost--I went crazy trying to find it. I looked absolutely everywhere, including places I knew, with absolute certainty, that it was not. There is a general process that every person goes through when they have lost something of significant importance:
You complete your shopping routine and head to the checkout counter, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that is about to rear its ugly head. After unloading your items, the clerk gives you a total. You open your wallet and realize disaster has stricken. This is known as the "oh crap" moment. Whether or not you have anyone with you, you always declare your misfortune-- and always out loud:
"Where's my check card?" you say. "I know it was in here yesterday...?"
You look to the cashier for emotional support--she's not having it, she's witnessed this on 3 separate occasions this morning alone. Realizing this is a troublesome situation, you turn to the person standing in line behind you with that uneasy "I'm not sure how this happened" smile. He doesn't care either, he's got places to be and people to see. He returns your non-verbal communication and responds with the standard "Lady, you better figure out something real quick" eyebrow lift and eye-roll (this is also accompanied with an intentionally louder than normal inhale/exhale combination). Your attention now revolves back to the clerk, but you don't have to murmur a word, as she's already putting your bagged belongings below the counter for re-shelving. When a quick but thorough body check yields no results, you admit defeat and head back to the parking lot.
As your mind races with possible Visa card locations, you furrow your eyebrows in worry and quickly walk back to your vehicle. At each intersection, one eye is kept on the changing stoplight while the other frantically searches the console of the front seat. At major intersections, both hands come entirely off of the steering wheel, and a full vehicle cavity search is performed within an arms-length radius. The process continues the entire way: searchsearchsearchsearchsearch--green light! ... ... ... ... searchsearchsearchsearchsearch--green light! ... ... ... ... searchsearch--where on earth is this th--green light!
When you reach your final destination, you mumble incessantly...repeatedly recalling aloud each and every step taken since you last saw your plastic life-source...
"Okay. I know I had it at Walmart yesterday. I'm almost sure I remember putting it back in my purse after that. Did I go anywhere else? Oh yeah, I swung through the drive-through. I'm sure I would have realized if I didn't get it back from him, you'd think I would have noticed. Walmart, drive-through... I mean where else could it be? I know I had it at the checkout counter last time, and I'm sure I put it back...".
Immediately marching inside,you check every possible nick and cranny of your home, in this order:
1) your wallet.
2) your car.
3) your wallet.
4) the kitchen table.
5) the table by the door.
6) your car.
7) every pocket of the pants you are currently wearing.
8)the couch cushions.
9) every pocket of the pants you wore yesterday.
10) the computer desk.
11) your wallet.
12) the refrigerator.
13) the kitchen cupboards.
14) every pocket of the pants you wore 2 days ago.
15) the car.
--pause to yell at everyone for not helping you look--
16) the computer desk.
17) the junk drawer in the kitchen.
18) your winter coat.
19) the garbage.
20) your bedroom floor.
21) every pocket of every pair of pants you've ever worn.
22) your wallet.
23) the computer desk.
24) the couch cushions.
25) the kitchen cupboards.
26) the laundry room, including the washing machine, dryer, and lint trap.
27) your underwear drawer.
28) your car.
29) your wallet.
30) the refrigerator.
Then, as if a bulb literally bursts into light above your noggin, it dawns on you--the exact location of your beloved Visa Check Card: the top dresser drawer, precisely 2 inches from where you last placed it. Immediately upon retrieval, the card is hoisted into the air, and from the bellows of your innards, you triumphantly shout: "I FOUND IT!!!" In a voice so loudly that those you've corralled to double check the basement can hear your victorious battle cry. Family members roll their eyes and continue on in their normal lives. As a calming relief soothes every fiber of your being, you feel as though you can conquer anything.
With another crisis averted, I can now ease into bed, knowing I'll be able to charge another day. Attention world: you have my permission to start spinning again.
Peace out,
H
Had I known you'd show up looking so fabulous, I'd have run a comb through my hair (maybe even have fired up the curling iron), and made myself look a bit more presentable. Although, looks can be deceiving: even though I may be donning an old pair of worn out blue jeans and a scraggly ragamuffin tee, I am nonetheless "dressed for success." Ladies and gentlemen, today I came face to face with a pivotal national crisis--a potential catastrophe to all mankind: a terror so perilous, it would have driven a lesser man to solemn tears of defeat... and through all unspeakable odds, I victoriously prevailed!
Today... yes, today...I lost my Visa check card. And that's not the only thing I lost--I went crazy trying to find it. I looked absolutely everywhere, including places I knew, with absolute certainty, that it was not. There is a general process that every person goes through when they have lost something of significant importance:
You complete your shopping routine and head to the checkout counter, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that is about to rear its ugly head. After unloading your items, the clerk gives you a total. You open your wallet and realize disaster has stricken. This is known as the "oh crap" moment. Whether or not you have anyone with you, you always declare your misfortune-- and always out loud:
"Where's my check card?" you say. "I know it was in here yesterday...?"
You look to the cashier for emotional support--she's not having it, she's witnessed this on 3 separate occasions this morning alone. Realizing this is a troublesome situation, you turn to the person standing in line behind you with that uneasy "I'm not sure how this happened" smile. He doesn't care either, he's got places to be and people to see. He returns your non-verbal communication and responds with the standard "Lady, you better figure out something real quick" eyebrow lift and eye-roll (this is also accompanied with an intentionally louder than normal inhale/exhale combination). Your attention now revolves back to the clerk, but you don't have to murmur a word, as she's already putting your bagged belongings below the counter for re-shelving. When a quick but thorough body check yields no results, you admit defeat and head back to the parking lot.
As your mind races with possible Visa card locations, you furrow your eyebrows in worry and quickly walk back to your vehicle. At each intersection, one eye is kept on the changing stoplight while the other frantically searches the console of the front seat. At major intersections, both hands come entirely off of the steering wheel, and a full vehicle cavity search is performed within an arms-length radius. The process continues the entire way: searchsearchsearchsearchsearch--green light! ... ... ... ... searchsearchsearchsearchsearch--green light! ... ... ... ... searchsearch--where on earth is this th--green light!
When you reach your final destination, you mumble incessantly...repeatedly recalling aloud each and every step taken since you last saw your plastic life-source...
"Okay. I know I had it at Walmart yesterday. I'm almost sure I remember putting it back in my purse after that. Did I go anywhere else? Oh yeah, I swung through the drive-through. I'm sure I would have realized if I didn't get it back from him, you'd think I would have noticed. Walmart, drive-through... I mean where else could it be? I know I had it at the checkout counter last time, and I'm sure I put it back...".
Immediately marching inside,you check every possible nick and cranny of your home, in this order:
1) your wallet.
2) your car.
3) your wallet.
4) the kitchen table.
5) the table by the door.
6) your car.
7) every pocket of the pants you are currently wearing.
8)the couch cushions.
9) every pocket of the pants you wore yesterday.
10) the computer desk.
11) your wallet.
12) the refrigerator.
13) the kitchen cupboards.
14) every pocket of the pants you wore 2 days ago.
15) the car.
--pause to yell at everyone for not helping you look--
16) the computer desk.
17) the junk drawer in the kitchen.
18) your winter coat.
19) the garbage.
20) your bedroom floor.
21) every pocket of every pair of pants you've ever worn.
22) your wallet.
23) the computer desk.
24) the couch cushions.
25) the kitchen cupboards.
26) the laundry room, including the washing machine, dryer, and lint trap.
27) your underwear drawer.
28) your car.
29) your wallet.
30) the refrigerator.
Then, as if a bulb literally bursts into light above your noggin, it dawns on you--the exact location of your beloved Visa Check Card: the top dresser drawer, precisely 2 inches from where you last placed it. Immediately upon retrieval, the card is hoisted into the air, and from the bellows of your innards, you triumphantly shout: "I FOUND IT!!!" In a voice so loudly that those you've corralled to double check the basement can hear your victorious battle cry. Family members roll their eyes and continue on in their normal lives. As a calming relief soothes every fiber of your being, you feel as though you can conquer anything.
With another crisis averted, I can now ease into bed, knowing I'll be able to charge another day. Attention world: you have my permission to start spinning again.
Peace out,
H
Monday, June 9, 2008
When life hands you lemons...
Oh, hi there! I didn't see you come in. This really is a pleasant surprise! Come on in out of the rain and dry off ...stay a while.
According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)'s National Severe Storms Laboratory (NSSL) based in Norman, Oklahoma, and also renowned Weather Channel Meteorologist Kristina Abernathy: it rained today. I suspected such an atmospheric behavior when I looked out my window this morning, and that suspicion has indeed since been
confirmed. While I do adore a ferocious thunderstorm (although the concept of "hail" was much more exhilarating before I upgraded from "big wheels" to 4wheel drive), I do believe it is time yet again, for bright and cheery skies.
The summer season seems to bring with it a nostalgic feeling of simpler times. I have always looked forward to the warmth of the sun, and carefree days spent soaking in it. When the sweltering sun is too much to bear, and cash is sparse, 6 year old marketing geniuses line the streets with refreshing beverages, for a mind-blowing 10 cents a cup. The real money makers will charge extra for the straws... that's where the real profits are. I know this, because I, too, was a young sidewalk entrepreneur.
Take my advice, kids, because I learned the ropes the hard way, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life:
Years ago, on a peaceful summer day, I drug our old wooden kiddie-sized picnic table (hey whatever happened to that thing, anyways?) to the corner slab of boulevard outside our house. This spot had huge potential - a corner lot - catching traffic not only travelling north to south, but east to west, as well. The stage was set; all I needed was the perfect elixir of sugar, water, and an "ade." The most important decision: would it be "lemon"? The safe choice? Or dare I make a clever switch to "kool"? The general public would surely never see it coming! I threw on my star-shaped sunglasses, hopped on my pink flowered banana seat and sped off to B&D Market. The faster I rode, the 'tinking' sound of plastic flowers sliding up and down my spokes dwindled to the mere whir of rubber on concrete.
By the time I reached the store, I had already confidently pinpointed the perfect summer potion: pink lemonade. How could I go wrong?? I threw my purchase in my plastic faux wicker basket, and rode home with the same raw fury as before. My mother (under my instructions, of course) carefully mixed the rosy concoction to a tee. It was as though she had done this a thousand times. Meanwhile, I grabbed the finest white lined paper money could buy, and the necessary Crayolas to accurately portray my product. In mere minutes, I created a masterpiece: "Lemonade - 10 cents." In my eyes, the adjacent depiction of a glass of pink lemonade was uncanny. The ice cubes seemed to dance on the page. What simple-minded passerby with any common sense could pass up such an irresistible bargain? I grabbed a jar of change and boldly marched into place.
It was a hot day... I knew it would be hook, line, and sinker. A short moment had passed, and I quickly made my first sale (not surprisingly). Shortly thereafter, a young couple stopped to quench their thirst-- already I was up 30 cents!! Then... I saw it... bright, shiny, and green: the station wagon of all station wagons; and she was packed full of parched men, women, and children. JACKPOT! I waited there on the curb, cool and collected, pretending not to notice as the mother approached my humble stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I estimated at least 8 bodies in the backseat of the car, give or take a few - I can't be sure, this was no time to gawk.
"It's 10 cents?" she asked.
"Yep!" I said. "10 cents."
"Ooh, looks pretty good!" she kindly remarked. On the outside, I smiled and accepted the compliment. On the inside, I thought,
"Of course it looks good, lady, this is the best lemonade stand within 5 blocks of here. You'd be hard pressed to come across nectar this good again in a very long time."
[On a side note, sometimes my perception of myself in my own thoughts takes on a "newsies" character, standing on a dim-lit alley corner flipping a nickel in the air with one hand, the other in my pocket, talking out the side of my mouth-- I'm not sure why.]
"I'll take 6 cups!" She said with delight. I vigorously began to fill 6 cups of pink lemonade 3/4 of the way full, handing her each one as I finished. Soon, every child in the wagon had a cool drink. I awaited my prize. She opened her black snap coin purse as I extended my hands in anticipation. As she placed a shimmering dime in my hand, I reached for my jar of change to seal transaction number one. I placed the silver in the jar and began to extend my hand once more, (by now, giving her plenty of time to rummage for 5 more coins) only to find the coin purse not only closed, but hastily being stuffed back into its larger counterpart...I was speechless. I stood there in disbelief, my mind stirring - She couldn't possibly think that it was all 10 cents!? Could She?? She knew it was 10 cents a cup - didn't she?? How could she make that mistake? It's so obvious! Maybe she's getting more change in her car?? I gave her the benefit of the doubt while I stood there, stunned.
"Thank-you!!" She waved, as she closed her car door.
"Thank you!" I answered back, unable to come up with anything better to say.
I was duped! A cute little 6 year old like me! Taken advantage of, by a nice lady in a Ford Station Wagon! I waited until the car was out of sight to pull the sign from the table. I marched back inside, enraged by the previous events. I grabbed my trusty Crayola Marker and altered the sign to it's true intentions: "Lemonade - 10 cents a cup." I sold a few more lemonades before wrapping up sales for the day. I gathered up my meager profits and closed up shop. The recollection of that day's tragic events will forever haunt my memory. I like to think that at some point, sometime, somewhere, she remembers me too - a cute little girl with pigtails, just trying to make ends meet, in the sweltering heat of summer.
Sometimes when life hands you lemons, it's not so easy to make lemonade...I guess you have to hope life also hands you a whole lot of sugar.
Peace out,
H
According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)'s National Severe Storms Laboratory (NSSL) based in Norman, Oklahoma, and also renowned Weather Channel Meteorologist Kristina Abernathy: it rained today. I suspected such an atmospheric behavior when I looked out my window this morning, and that suspicion has indeed since been
confirmed. While I do adore a ferocious thunderstorm (although the concept of "hail" was much more exhilarating before I upgraded from "big wheels" to 4wheel drive), I do believe it is time yet again, for bright and cheery skies.
The summer season seems to bring with it a nostalgic feeling of simpler times. I have always looked forward to the warmth of the sun, and carefree days spent soaking in it. When the sweltering sun is too much to bear, and cash is sparse, 6 year old marketing geniuses line the streets with refreshing beverages, for a mind-blowing 10 cents a cup. The real money makers will charge extra for the straws... that's where the real profits are. I know this, because I, too, was a young sidewalk entrepreneur.
Take my advice, kids, because I learned the ropes the hard way, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life:
Years ago, on a peaceful summer day, I drug our old wooden kiddie-sized picnic table (hey whatever happened to that thing, anyways?) to the corner slab of boulevard outside our house. This spot had huge potential - a corner lot - catching traffic not only travelling north to south, but east to west, as well. The stage was set; all I needed was the perfect elixir of sugar, water, and an "ade." The most important decision: would it be "lemon"? The safe choice? Or dare I make a clever switch to "kool"? The general public would surely never see it coming! I threw on my star-shaped sunglasses, hopped on my pink flowered banana seat and sped off to B&D Market. The faster I rode, the 'tinking' sound of plastic flowers sliding up and down my spokes dwindled to the mere whir of rubber on concrete.
By the time I reached the store, I had already confidently pinpointed the perfect summer potion: pink lemonade. How could I go wrong?? I threw my purchase in my plastic faux wicker basket, and rode home with the same raw fury as before. My mother (under my instructions, of course) carefully mixed the rosy concoction to a tee. It was as though she had done this a thousand times. Meanwhile, I grabbed the finest white lined paper money could buy, and the necessary Crayolas to accurately portray my product. In mere minutes, I created a masterpiece: "Lemonade - 10 cents." In my eyes, the adjacent depiction of a glass of pink lemonade was uncanny. The ice cubes seemed to dance on the page. What simple-minded passerby with any common sense could pass up such an irresistible bargain? I grabbed a jar of change and boldly marched into place.
It was a hot day... I knew it would be hook, line, and sinker. A short moment had passed, and I quickly made my first sale (not surprisingly). Shortly thereafter, a young couple stopped to quench their thirst-- already I was up 30 cents!! Then... I saw it... bright, shiny, and green: the station wagon of all station wagons; and she was packed full of parched men, women, and children. JACKPOT! I waited there on the curb, cool and collected, pretending not to notice as the mother approached my humble stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I estimated at least 8 bodies in the backseat of the car, give or take a few - I can't be sure, this was no time to gawk.
"It's 10 cents?" she asked.
"Yep!" I said. "10 cents."
"Ooh, looks pretty good!" she kindly remarked. On the outside, I smiled and accepted the compliment. On the inside, I thought,
"Of course it looks good, lady, this is the best lemonade stand within 5 blocks of here. You'd be hard pressed to come across nectar this good again in a very long time."
[On a side note, sometimes my perception of myself in my own thoughts takes on a "newsies" character, standing on a dim-lit alley corner flipping a nickel in the air with one hand, the other in my pocket, talking out the side of my mouth-- I'm not sure why.]
"I'll take 6 cups!" She said with delight. I vigorously began to fill 6 cups of pink lemonade 3/4 of the way full, handing her each one as I finished. Soon, every child in the wagon had a cool drink. I awaited my prize. She opened her black snap coin purse as I extended my hands in anticipation. As she placed a shimmering dime in my hand, I reached for my jar of change to seal transaction number one. I placed the silver in the jar and began to extend my hand once more, (by now, giving her plenty of time to rummage for 5 more coins) only to find the coin purse not only closed, but hastily being stuffed back into its larger counterpart...I was speechless. I stood there in disbelief, my mind stirring - She couldn't possibly think that it was all 10 cents!? Could She?? She knew it was 10 cents a cup - didn't she?? How could she make that mistake? It's so obvious! Maybe she's getting more change in her car?? I gave her the benefit of the doubt while I stood there, stunned.
"Thank-you!!" She waved, as she closed her car door.
"Thank you!" I answered back, unable to come up with anything better to say.
I was duped! A cute little 6 year old like me! Taken advantage of, by a nice lady in a Ford Station Wagon! I waited until the car was out of sight to pull the sign from the table. I marched back inside, enraged by the previous events. I grabbed my trusty Crayola Marker and altered the sign to it's true intentions: "Lemonade - 10 cents a cup." I sold a few more lemonades before wrapping up sales for the day. I gathered up my meager profits and closed up shop. The recollection of that day's tragic events will forever haunt my memory. I like to think that at some point, sometime, somewhere, she remembers me too - a cute little girl with pigtails, just trying to make ends meet, in the sweltering heat of summer.
Sometimes when life hands you lemons, it's not so easy to make lemonade...I guess you have to hope life also hands you a whole lot of sugar.
Peace out,
H
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The Room Was Filled With Clapter
HERE YOU ARE! I've been looking for you everywhere! ...I should have known you were here all along.
Let me first address the hideous elephant in the website: It has been a while since my last post. I was swamped. I still am, but you are far more important to me than that, and nothing should ever come between us like that again, don't you agree? You made dinner for two and set the table; I said I would call if I was going to be late, and I never did. I do sincerely apologize. I feel as though we are at that place in this literate relationship of ours, where we can forgive and move on...a year from now I imagine we'll all think of this silly happenstance and laugh--you'll see.
In order to regain your gracious trust and faithful attendance, I give a nod today, to you, the reader. Give yourselves a round of applause. Rarely in life do you get the opportunity to applaud your own self, so I suggest you really let loose and give yourself a downright standing ovation; really let yourself have it, really make a scene. You deserve it. Throw in a cheer--a little "woo, woo!" There's no need to explain your completely rational behavior to others. Proudly applaud, and let applaud.
I think there are 3 times in life when we can deservedly and acceptably applaud our behavior...
The first phase of rooting for ourselves begins in our first years of existence, from womb to age 2. As infants, small accomplishments become seemingly enormous and practically super-human feats of strength and agility to our nurturers. The mumbling of a little one's first comprehensive words engages parents, now elated by their little prodigy's new talent, into a raging fit of encouragement--"Look how smart you are! Momma's little Punkin! Yayy!! [clap-clap-clap] Can you say it again? Can you say it again? Yayy! [clap-clap-clap]" Again, the young bundle of joy delivers an encore performance and applauds his new-found skill. The glorious cycle of praise, clapping, and laughter (clapter, if you will), continues: a valid excuse for self-applause.
Perhaps had I known, at such a young age, that being "so big!" was merely an amusing game, I may not have vigorously applauded myself as I did, each time I threw my drool laden hands in the air.
Let me first address the hideous elephant in the website: It has been a while since my last post. I was swamped. I still am, but you are far more important to me than that, and nothing should ever come between us like that again, don't you agree? You made dinner for two and set the table; I said I would call if I was going to be late, and I never did. I do sincerely apologize. I feel as though we are at that place in this literate relationship of ours, where we can forgive and move on...a year from now I imagine we'll all think of this silly happenstance and laugh--you'll see.
In order to regain your gracious trust and faithful attendance, I give a nod today, to you, the reader. Give yourselves a round of applause. Rarely in life do you get the opportunity to applaud your own self, so I suggest you really let loose and give yourself a downright standing ovation; really let yourself have it, really make a scene. You deserve it. Throw in a cheer--a little "woo, woo!" There's no need to explain your completely rational behavior to others. Proudly applaud, and let applaud.
I think there are 3 times in life when we can deservedly and acceptably applaud our behavior...
The first phase of rooting for ourselves begins in our first years of existence, from womb to age 2. As infants, small accomplishments become seemingly enormous and practically super-human feats of strength and agility to our nurturers. The mumbling of a little one's first comprehensive words engages parents, now elated by their little prodigy's new talent, into a raging fit of encouragement--"Look how smart you are! Momma's little Punkin! Yayy!! [clap-clap-clap] Can you say it again? Can you say it again? Yayy! [clap-clap-clap]" Again, the young bundle of joy delivers an encore performance and applauds his new-found skill. The glorious cycle of praise, clapping, and laughter (clapter, if you will), continues: a valid excuse for self-applause.
Perhaps had I known, at such a young age, that being "so big!" was merely an amusing game, I may not have vigorously applauded myself as I did, each time I threw my drool laden hands in the air.
Soon the tot's first birthday arrives, and, of course, this incredible achievement merits an elaborate party. Every year, living rooms across America are filled with droopy Mylar balloons, blue crepe paper that is constantly being re-taped to the textured ceiling, donkey tails pinned in error as a random assortment on the wall, and a clueless 1-year old who has no idea that today is his birthday. "Today is your birthday," we all tell him, "These are your friends." "Yayy!! [clap-clap-clap]" All applaud, the youngster again finds himself gleaming with adoration of his big day. Again, clapping for ones self is in order. And why not? After all, you didn't make it to this day just by inadvertently filling your pants and committing acts of pervasive drooling; it was hard work, and should be rightly rewarded with applause. The cake is wheeled out soon thereafter, with an edible image imprinted into the frosting. "Today is your birthday," he is reminded. Cameras flash from all angles as the birthday boy jubilantly delves into his cake, pausing to applaud his efforts between shoveling cake into every crease of his skin. After Mom whips a freshly damp washcloth from her hip holster, the crowd and the guest of honor again applaud his cleanliness.
Every word of this example, by the way, is strikingly identical to your last few birthdays in life..."Today is your birthday, these are your friends." And you you didn't make it to that day just by inadvertently filling your pants and committing acts of pervasive drooling, either (Depend, anyone?). Again, one's own applause is completely acceptable.
The second acceptable self-applause phase is when the child grows up and enters the world of business. Approximately 1/4 of a working man's work week is consumed by meetings (although more often than not, 3/4 of the attendees have no idea why they are there). With suit and tie in check, a keynote speaker enters the room. All involved scribble notes into a notepad (always with a "clicky" style pen, never another kind), and exchange ideas on how to improve the net growth of banana sales, or how to reduce the environmental impact of plastic wrappers, or why clicky-style pens are such a necessity. The discussion ends, and the room breaks out in every one's own applause, which is always preceded by "Nice work, everyone. Let's break for lunch [clap-clap-clap]."
The third phase, of course, is when you faithfully return here to frequently read by daily shenanigans. My fellow readers, I thank you. Give yourselves a round of applause. You deserve it.
Peace out,
H
Every word of this example, by the way, is strikingly identical to your last few birthdays in life..."Today is your birthday, these are your friends." And you you didn't make it to that day just by inadvertently filling your pants and committing acts of pervasive drooling, either (Depend, anyone?). Again, one's own applause is completely acceptable.
The second acceptable self-applause phase is when the child grows up and enters the world of business. Approximately 1/4 of a working man's work week is consumed by meetings (although more often than not, 3/4 of the attendees have no idea why they are there). With suit and tie in check, a keynote speaker enters the room. All involved scribble notes into a notepad (always with a "clicky" style pen, never another kind), and exchange ideas on how to improve the net growth of banana sales, or how to reduce the environmental impact of plastic wrappers, or why clicky-style pens are such a necessity. The discussion ends, and the room breaks out in every one's own applause, which is always preceded by "Nice work, everyone. Let's break for lunch [clap-clap-clap]."
The third phase, of course, is when you faithfully return here to frequently read by daily shenanigans. My fellow readers, I thank you. Give yourselves a round of applause. You deserve it.
Peace out,
H
Friday, May 2, 2008
With Deepest Sympathy
Welcome back!
With finals coming up, I regretfully failed to update the blog for today... I will post a double post tonight.
Peace Out,
H
With finals coming up, I regretfully failed to update the blog for today... I will post a double post tonight.
Peace Out,
H
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
This doesn't look too dangerous...
Welcome back! I was wondering what took you so long!
Today was a gorgeous day... the temperature reached a cool 64 degrees fahrenheit (Go USA!) low winds, high visibility, barometric pressure was at "who knows, who cares" inches, humidity at 46%, dew point was "does it really matter?"degrees, UV index was low, and we had a delightful and light sprinkling of rain this morning. These are the prime ingredients for a delicious cookie of a day.
I was thinking these very thoughts as I made my way to my truck in the MSU parking lot after class today, when they were confirmed by a fellow passer-by:
"Beautiful day today, isn't it?!"
I turned my head to soak up his words and saw an elderly gentleman with a blue vest and a green flannel shirt. He looked like a friendly old codger.
I agreed, "It's a gorgeous day! I hope it stays this way now, until summer."
"Ha!" he quipped. "Famous last words."
We parted ways.
I spent a rather large chunk of the day analyzing his final comment. Everyone who ever lived and died has said his or her last words. What did they choose? Why are some famous? It seems as though the most famous of all last words are one of three things: 1) profound, 2)hilarious, or 3) idiotic. The great minds of this earth have muttered famous soliloquies with their final heartbeats. Great comedians thought quickly on their feet even when they were not, and left the world with their comedic legacy in-tact. This being said, the latter of the three, I can only imagine, would be the easiest to accomplish in a near-death situation (bear in mind, as well, that the idiotic phrase that was said, is usually an indication of the cause of death in the first place). Let's examine these probable last words:
Which wire was I supposed to cut?
I wonder where the mother bear is.
I've seen this done on TV a thousand times.
These are the good kind of mushrooms.
Ok, I'll hold it and you light the fuse.
You look just like Charles Manson.
Let it down slowly...
So, you're a cannibal.
This tastes funny.
Are you kidding me? I can do that with my eyes closed.
Bring me that knife, I want to try something.
Oh, don't be so superstitious.
Watch this!
I can pass this guy.
Nice Doggy.
I think it's trying to communicate!
Of course it's sturdy, I built it myself!
I don't think it's as deep as it looks.
Ooh... this thing has got to be dead.
I don't know, press the button and find out.
Let's split up, we'll cover more ground.
Don't worry, it's not contagious.
And you're sure the power is off?
How do you work this thing?
Trust me, I know what I'm doing.
Don't worry, we outnumber them.
What's that beeping sound?
What's this do?
I'm sure it's just the wind.
There's no way this could get any worse.
Well! There's only one way to find out!
I know this great short-cut we can take.
I'll fix it, I'll fix it.
The expiration date was yesterday, I'm sure it's still fine.
No, we're not stopping to ask for directions.
Does this look infected to you?
Just patch it for now.
I think we can wait and fill up at the next station.
Don't worry, this thing hasn't worked in a long time.
Just get up on the cabinet and reach as far as you can.
Don't turn it on until I tell you to.
If you're concerned you will not memorably leave your mark on this world, you could do what I do...I say idiotic things all the time, just incase they are my last, I have a greater chance of them reaching fame status. "I'm just leaving my mark on the world!" Perhaps your last words will be "Wow, that was such a great blog."
Peace out,
H
Today was a gorgeous day... the temperature reached a cool 64 degrees fahrenheit (Go USA!) low winds, high visibility, barometric pressure was at "who knows, who cares" inches, humidity at 46%, dew point was "does it really matter?"degrees, UV index was low, and we had a delightful and light sprinkling of rain this morning. These are the prime ingredients for a delicious cookie of a day.
I was thinking these very thoughts as I made my way to my truck in the MSU parking lot after class today, when they were confirmed by a fellow passer-by:
"Beautiful day today, isn't it?!"
I turned my head to soak up his words and saw an elderly gentleman with a blue vest and a green flannel shirt. He looked like a friendly old codger.
I agreed, "It's a gorgeous day! I hope it stays this way now, until summer."
"Ha!" he quipped. "Famous last words."
We parted ways.
I spent a rather large chunk of the day analyzing his final comment. Everyone who ever lived and died has said his or her last words. What did they choose? Why are some famous? It seems as though the most famous of all last words are one of three things: 1) profound, 2)hilarious, or 3) idiotic. The great minds of this earth have muttered famous soliloquies with their final heartbeats. Great comedians thought quickly on their feet even when they were not, and left the world with their comedic legacy in-tact. This being said, the latter of the three, I can only imagine, would be the easiest to accomplish in a near-death situation (bear in mind, as well, that the idiotic phrase that was said, is usually an indication of the cause of death in the first place). Let's examine these probable last words:
Which wire was I supposed to cut?
I wonder where the mother bear is.
I've seen this done on TV a thousand times.
These are the good kind of mushrooms.
Ok, I'll hold it and you light the fuse.
You look just like Charles Manson.
Let it down slowly...
So, you're a cannibal.
This tastes funny.
Are you kidding me? I can do that with my eyes closed.
Bring me that knife, I want to try something.
Oh, don't be so superstitious.
Watch this!
I can pass this guy.
Nice Doggy.
I think it's trying to communicate!
Of course it's sturdy, I built it myself!
I don't think it's as deep as it looks.
Ooh... this thing has got to be dead.
I don't know, press the button and find out.
Let's split up, we'll cover more ground.
Don't worry, it's not contagious.
And you're sure the power is off?
How do you work this thing?
Trust me, I know what I'm doing.
Don't worry, we outnumber them.
What's that beeping sound?
What's this do?
I'm sure it's just the wind.
There's no way this could get any worse.
Well! There's only one way to find out!
I know this great short-cut we can take.
I'll fix it, I'll fix it.
The expiration date was yesterday, I'm sure it's still fine.
No, we're not stopping to ask for directions.
Does this look infected to you?
Just patch it for now.
I think we can wait and fill up at the next station.
Don't worry, this thing hasn't worked in a long time.
Just get up on the cabinet and reach as far as you can.
Don't turn it on until I tell you to.
If you're concerned you will not memorably leave your mark on this world, you could do what I do...I say idiotic things all the time, just incase they are my last, I have a greater chance of them reaching fame status. "I'm just leaving my mark on the world!" Perhaps your last words will be "Wow, that was such a great blog."
Peace out,
H
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go
Welcome back to the blog. It's just not the same without you here.
It seems as though the sun rose ferociously early this morning. I broke out in a lash of disgust and anguish for my tormentingly sweltering covers as I felt Mr. Sun's fiery rays bearing down on me in my state of sleep. I glared out the window with one eye partially open, my right cheek still smashed into my pillow, "I bet you think you're funny, don't you, sun?!" I said with reluctance. He just beamed. Being the morning person that I am, I followed suit and awoke at the crack of dawn: a stifling 10:30am. I say if people were meant to pop out of bed, we'd all sleep in toasters. "Morning People" as they are lovingly referred to, only comprise approximately 10% of Earth's population...that's 1 out of every 10 people...one of whom, lives with me. I'm not convinced they are a necessary breed...perhaps only so there is someone to tell me 'good morning' as I awake...but tell me 'good morning' before I awake and you're in for a rude awakening... mine. Years ago while traveling, I was once greeted with a 6:00am 'Carpe Diem!'. Well, 'Carpe Diem' at 6:00am does not make me want to seize the day. It makes me want to slap a dead poet.
There is a story of a Chinese man who had himself wakened three times every morning simply for the pleasure of being told it was not yet time to get up. I don't know who or where you are sir, but brav-o. There is no greater sigh of relief after throwing yourself awake to the possible horror of oversleeping, only to discover the clock reads a heavenly 2:00am... we've all been there at some point.
The only time I am fine with dawn, is if I'm still up. Benjamin Franklin said, "Early morning hath gold in its mouth." ...Gold? More like bad breath.
Nonetheless by the grace of God, I miraculously found my way out of my bedroom and into the hallway. I grabbed the fluffiest towel I could find (the fluffier, the better...naturally) and stumbled into the bathroom for my daily cleansing ritual, known to some as a "shower". I ran the water to my desired temperature, and the ritual began. I squeezed the shampoo bottle (attention shampoo/conditioner manufacturers: If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: If you want me to lather, rinse, and in fact repeat, make the bottle out of a substance that ensures maximum grip. A lathered hand is a slippery hand), and began step one as directed. As my Garnier Fructis Fortifying Shampoo began to work its magic (you're welcome, Garnier), I reasoned that I could tolerate the water temperature to be kicked up a few notches. I clumsily decided that the perfect moment to adjust the knob was the exact moment that the sudsy wash oozed into my eyes and partially blinded me. I blindly reached for the knob and turned it. In a flash, I turned from contently humming "zip-a-dee-doo-dah" to a unbelievably frigid state of bodily shock in an icy rain. Almost instantaneously, I shrieked from the depths of my lungs and leaped out of the shower in a way that would have put Kermit to an embarrassing shame. After regaining my breath, my composure, and my normal flesh color, I--quite thoroughly alert now, mind you--returned the knob up to its originally intended degree and brought my cleansing session to a close. I swaddled myself in the fluffy towel, shuffled back to my room, and believe it or not, found something to wear. I grabbed my school bag, hopped in the car, rolled the window down, cranked up the radio (mostly so I look cool while driving), stopped at the holy temple called Pita Pit, and cruised off to school.
Today is Tuesday--SEM lab day: I sit in a dark room and recalculate mineral equations based on x-ray microanalyses graphs from the energy dispersive spectrometer for my sample. In layman's terms: I squint at the computer for a few hours. Each day I comprehend a little bit more, and that is sufficient for me...one thing at a time. I will continue to take life one day at a time until I don't have any more days left...or until I run out of mornings, whichever comes first.
Peace out,
H
It seems as though the sun rose ferociously early this morning. I broke out in a lash of disgust and anguish for my tormentingly sweltering covers as I felt Mr. Sun's fiery rays bearing down on me in my state of sleep. I glared out the window with one eye partially open, my right cheek still smashed into my pillow, "I bet you think you're funny, don't you, sun?!" I said with reluctance. He just beamed. Being the morning person that I am, I followed suit and awoke at the crack of dawn: a stifling 10:30am. I say if people were meant to pop out of bed, we'd all sleep in toasters. "Morning People" as they are lovingly referred to, only comprise approximately 10% of Earth's population...that's 1 out of every 10 people...one of whom, lives with me. I'm not convinced they are a necessary breed...perhaps only so there is someone to tell me 'good morning' as I awake...but tell me 'good morning' before I awake and you're in for a rude awakening... mine. Years ago while traveling, I was once greeted with a 6:00am 'Carpe Diem!'. Well, 'Carpe Diem' at 6:00am does not make me want to seize the day. It makes me want to slap a dead poet.
There is a story of a Chinese man who had himself wakened three times every morning simply for the pleasure of being told it was not yet time to get up. I don't know who or where you are sir, but brav-o. There is no greater sigh of relief after throwing yourself awake to the possible horror of oversleeping, only to discover the clock reads a heavenly 2:00am... we've all been there at some point.
The only time I am fine with dawn, is if I'm still up. Benjamin Franklin said, "Early morning hath gold in its mouth." ...Gold? More like bad breath.
Nonetheless by the grace of God, I miraculously found my way out of my bedroom and into the hallway. I grabbed the fluffiest towel I could find (the fluffier, the better...naturally) and stumbled into the bathroom for my daily cleansing ritual, known to some as a "shower". I ran the water to my desired temperature, and the ritual began. I squeezed the shampoo bottle (attention shampoo/conditioner manufacturers: If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: If you want me to lather, rinse, and in fact repeat, make the bottle out of a substance that ensures maximum grip. A lathered hand is a slippery hand), and began step one as directed. As my Garnier Fructis Fortifying Shampoo began to work its magic (you're welcome, Garnier), I reasoned that I could tolerate the water temperature to be kicked up a few notches. I clumsily decided that the perfect moment to adjust the knob was the exact moment that the sudsy wash oozed into my eyes and partially blinded me. I blindly reached for the knob and turned it. In a flash, I turned from contently humming "zip-a-dee-doo-dah" to a unbelievably frigid state of bodily shock in an icy rain. Almost instantaneously, I shrieked from the depths of my lungs and leaped out of the shower in a way that would have put Kermit to an embarrassing shame. After regaining my breath, my composure, and my normal flesh color, I--quite thoroughly alert now, mind you--returned the knob up to its originally intended degree and brought my cleansing session to a close. I swaddled myself in the fluffy towel, shuffled back to my room, and believe it or not, found something to wear. I grabbed my school bag, hopped in the car, rolled the window down, cranked up the radio (mostly so I look cool while driving), stopped at the holy temple called Pita Pit, and cruised off to school.
Today is Tuesday--SEM lab day: I sit in a dark room and recalculate mineral equations based on x-ray microanalyses graphs from the energy dispersive spectrometer for my sample. In layman's terms: I squint at the computer for a few hours. Each day I comprehend a little bit more, and that is sufficient for me...one thing at a time. I will continue to take life one day at a time until I don't have any more days left...or until I run out of mornings, whichever comes first.
Peace out,
H
Monday, April 28, 2008
Procrastinators Unite! ...Tomorrow
Welcome back. I'm glad you're here again, I missed seeing your smiling face.
Who doesn't love a Monday?!? It's a day to start fresh, a day to organize tasks for the week ahead, a day to prepare. It's also a day to work faster than the Andretti boys to hurry up and finish what you should have completed Friday afternoon. I myself am no stranger to this thing we call procrastination. In fact, I like to think I excel at it...one of the greats, if you will (and indeed, you will)...I am the Wayne Gretzky, Michael Jordon, Babe Ruth, Socrates, and Walt Disney himself of "saving tasks for a later date." One day perhaps others will be known as the "Heather Fogarty" of hockey, basketball, baseball, philosophy, and imagination.
I like to think of procrastination as something of an art form, to be perfected. It is the art of keeping up with yesterday. I feel it is the key to prolonging life; the sooner I fall behind, the more time I have to catch up. It is the greatest labor-saving invention of all time! I hope Mr. Procrast is a rich and happy man, may we all pay homage. "Someday" is, in fact, a day of the week.
It is imperative that skeptics understand the notion that if not for the last minute, we procrastinators would finish nothing. I do my best work under pressure. If deadlines are met, there is no issue of a problem. We procrastinators--the good ones--have calculated to the exact hundredth of a second, precisely how much time we have until we do need to desperately get to work, and will not lift a finger until such a moment. It is an exact science of pure quantitative analyses of time. I am therefore a scientist, a procrastologist, and have no quibbles regarding other procrastinators out there, who call themselves the same. Paging Doctor Fogarty...
For those of you students who favor the last minute lifestyle, I have compiled a timeline that will aid you in your next assignment. Take Notes:
1)Sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a well lit setting in front of your computer.
2)Log onto MSN and Yahoo messenger (on "away" status, of course).
3)Read over the assignment carefully, to make certain you understand it.
4)Check the fridge and cupboard to obtain the snacks and drinks necessary to aid in concentration of completing your project.
5)Check your email--Any important messages should be taken care of immediately... You don't need that hanging over your head while you try to focus on your work.
6)Call up a friend and ask if he/she wants to go to grab a cup of Joe. There is certainly no use in getting started if you don't have enough fuel to make it through the night.
7)When you get back to your room...sit straight, comfortable chair, well lit place.
8)Read over the assignment again to make absolutely certain you understand it. You would hate to do all that work for nothing.
9)Check your email.
10)You know, you haven’t written to that kid you met at camp since fourth grade. You’d better write that letter now and get it out of the way so you can concentrate.
11) You notice there is something in your teeth, better extract that or it will bother you the whole time. 5 minutes in the mirror will suffice.
12)Download a few new tunes off of itunes... the atmosphere has to promote work.
13)Check your email.
14) Check Time and Temp. Maybe it will snow tonight and school will be cancelled.
15)Check your email.
16)Check your phone - no one is urgently trying to reach you, are they?
17)Call another friend with the same assignment and ask if she’s started writing yet. Exchange derogatory remarks about your professor, the course, the college, the world at large.
18)Walk to the store and buy a pack of gum. You’ve probably run out by now.
19)While you’ve got the gum you may as well buy a magazine and read it, you hate to break a $20 just for a pack of gum. It's nice to stretch your legs, anyway.
20)Check your email.
21)Check the newspaper listings to make sure you aren’t missing something truly worthwhile on TV.
22)Play some solitaire.
23)Stretch.
24)Refill your beverage.
25)Call up a friend to see how much they have done, probably haven’t started either.
26)Check email.
27)Sit down and do some serious thinking about your plans for the future. It's never to early to start thinking about that!
28)Check your school's webpage. There could be some important information on there that you need to know.
29)Check your email.
30)You should be rebooting by now, assuming that windows is crashing on schedule.
31)Read over the assignment one more time, just for the heck of it.
32)Scoot your chair across the room to the window and watch the sunrise.
33)Lie face down on the floor and moan.
34)Visualize yourself doing the project.
35)Check your email.
36)Mumble.
37)5am - start hacking on the paper without stopping. 6am -paper is finished.
38)Complain to everyone that you didn’t get any sleep because you had to stay up all night to write that stupid paper.
39) Hand it in.
40) Sleep the rest of the day.
This is how it's done. If you truly want to be a procrastologist, you may have to learn a thing or 2 from me. But there's no need to start now... try a Monday.
Peace out,
H
Who doesn't love a Monday?!? It's a day to start fresh, a day to organize tasks for the week ahead, a day to prepare. It's also a day to work faster than the Andretti boys to hurry up and finish what you should have completed Friday afternoon. I myself am no stranger to this thing we call procrastination. In fact, I like to think I excel at it...one of the greats, if you will (and indeed, you will)...I am the Wayne Gretzky, Michael Jordon, Babe Ruth, Socrates, and Walt Disney himself of "saving tasks for a later date." One day perhaps others will be known as the "Heather Fogarty" of hockey, basketball, baseball, philosophy, and imagination.
I like to think of procrastination as something of an art form, to be perfected. It is the art of keeping up with yesterday. I feel it is the key to prolonging life; the sooner I fall behind, the more time I have to catch up. It is the greatest labor-saving invention of all time! I hope Mr. Procrast is a rich and happy man, may we all pay homage. "Someday" is, in fact, a day of the week.
It is imperative that skeptics understand the notion that if not for the last minute, we procrastinators would finish nothing. I do my best work under pressure. If deadlines are met, there is no issue of a problem. We procrastinators--the good ones--have calculated to the exact hundredth of a second, precisely how much time we have until we do need to desperately get to work, and will not lift a finger until such a moment. It is an exact science of pure quantitative analyses of time. I am therefore a scientist, a procrastologist, and have no quibbles regarding other procrastinators out there, who call themselves the same. Paging Doctor Fogarty...
For those of you students who favor the last minute lifestyle, I have compiled a timeline that will aid you in your next assignment. Take Notes:
1)Sit in a straight, comfortable chair in a well lit setting in front of your computer.
2)Log onto MSN and Yahoo messenger (on "away" status, of course).
3)Read over the assignment carefully, to make certain you understand it.
4)Check the fridge and cupboard to obtain the snacks and drinks necessary to aid in concentration of completing your project.
5)Check your email--Any important messages should be taken care of immediately... You don't need that hanging over your head while you try to focus on your work.
6)Call up a friend and ask if he/she wants to go to grab a cup of Joe. There is certainly no use in getting started if you don't have enough fuel to make it through the night.
7)When you get back to your room...sit straight, comfortable chair, well lit place.
8)Read over the assignment again to make absolutely certain you understand it. You would hate to do all that work for nothing.
9)Check your email.
10)You know, you haven’t written to that kid you met at camp since fourth grade. You’d better write that letter now and get it out of the way so you can concentrate.
11) You notice there is something in your teeth, better extract that or it will bother you the whole time. 5 minutes in the mirror will suffice.
12)Download a few new tunes off of itunes... the atmosphere has to promote work.
13)Check your email.
14) Check Time and Temp. Maybe it will snow tonight and school will be cancelled.
15)Check your email.
16)Check your phone - no one is urgently trying to reach you, are they?
17)Call another friend with the same assignment and ask if she’s started writing yet. Exchange derogatory remarks about your professor, the course, the college, the world at large.
18)Walk to the store and buy a pack of gum. You’ve probably run out by now.
19)While you’ve got the gum you may as well buy a magazine and read it, you hate to break a $20 just for a pack of gum. It's nice to stretch your legs, anyway.
20)Check your email.
21)Check the newspaper listings to make sure you aren’t missing something truly worthwhile on TV.
22)Play some solitaire.
23)Stretch.
24)Refill your beverage.
25)Call up a friend to see how much they have done, probably haven’t started either.
26)Check email.
27)Sit down and do some serious thinking about your plans for the future. It's never to early to start thinking about that!
28)Check your school's webpage. There could be some important information on there that you need to know.
29)Check your email.
30)You should be rebooting by now, assuming that windows is crashing on schedule.
31)Read over the assignment one more time, just for the heck of it.
32)Scoot your chair across the room to the window and watch the sunrise.
33)Lie face down on the floor and moan.
34)Visualize yourself doing the project.
35)Check your email.
36)Mumble.
37)5am - start hacking on the paper without stopping. 6am -paper is finished.
38)Complain to everyone that you didn’t get any sleep because you had to stay up all night to write that stupid paper.
39) Hand it in.
40) Sleep the rest of the day.
This is how it's done. If you truly want to be a procrastologist, you may have to learn a thing or 2 from me. But there's no need to start now... try a Monday.
Peace out,
H
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday
Welcome back to the blog. Good to have you here again; I hope you had/have a great day today.
My days are mostly mundane, fairly straightforward, and equally routine: wake-up, think about actually getting up, decide against it, sleep another 10 minutes, get out of bed, hope we have fruity pebbles, look for fruity pebbles, find no fruity pebbles, shower, daze out for a good 5-10 minutes, get dressed, change my mind, get dressed again, grab my bag and I'm ready to go.
Once out the door, the world is my oyster. I have yet to shuck it, but it is mine, apparently. I didn't even know that the world became an oyster, and already I'm the owner. I'm not even particularly fond of seafood in general. I can't imagine why I would ever want a huge earth-sized oyster... Where would I put it? I think my hands would get clammy from holding it all day (thank you, I'll be here all week). Maybe I wouldn't have to hold it, maybe it would just latch on to me. Will my dog leave it alone? I picture our sheltie in a dead stare with it, barking until he's hoarse--no surprise there... if he barks at candles, he's sure to bark at a giant sea creature. The neighbors would complain. I would probably sell it on EBay. What if it turned on me? I would have to say that the odds of surviving as the victor in a fight against a mollusk of that magnitude are grossly non-proportional. Oysters are literally all muscle on the inside...I wouldn't stand a chance.
Until my oyster is delivered to me, I continue on in my daily habits as usual. For example, at approximately 2:15 this afternoon, I conformed to the traffic rules and let a pedestrian cross the road. This may not seem worthy of mention, until one takes into consideration the fact that she was fully clothed in pajamas. My instincts told me to wake her up: "She's sleep walking in traffic, wake her up!" I thought to myself. I came to my senses and realized she was just wearing her pajamas as an outfit, perhaps to save time in the morning. People, listen up: PJ's have yellow duckies, frogs with sunglasses, and ice-skating polar bears on them for one reason, and one reason only: So that they are not worn in the broad daylight of public. My mind started to wonder... Did she shower this morning? Was it pajama day at school? Has she no other clothes? Was she running late? Maybe they're flannel hospital scrubs? Perplexing. There is one, and only one, socially acceptable reason to adorn pajama pants (mind you always to be accompanied by a t-shirt and coat), and that is the 2:00am "Oh crap I need this before tomorrow" Wal-Mart Run. Any other reason is an utterly inadmissible faux pas.
Alas, the unobjectionable pajama hour is fast approaching. Soon I will lay in bed and look up at the stars in the sky and think to myself, 'Where the heck is the ceiling??' and drift blissfully into dreamland, for the start of another mostly mundane, fairly straightforward, and equally routine day.
Peace out,
H
My days are mostly mundane, fairly straightforward, and equally routine: wake-up, think about actually getting up, decide against it, sleep another 10 minutes, get out of bed, hope we have fruity pebbles, look for fruity pebbles, find no fruity pebbles, shower, daze out for a good 5-10 minutes, get dressed, change my mind, get dressed again, grab my bag and I'm ready to go.
Once out the door, the world is my oyster. I have yet to shuck it, but it is mine, apparently. I didn't even know that the world became an oyster, and already I'm the owner. I'm not even particularly fond of seafood in general. I can't imagine why I would ever want a huge earth-sized oyster... Where would I put it? I think my hands would get clammy from holding it all day (thank you, I'll be here all week). Maybe I wouldn't have to hold it, maybe it would just latch on to me. Will my dog leave it alone? I picture our sheltie in a dead stare with it, barking until he's hoarse--no surprise there... if he barks at candles, he's sure to bark at a giant sea creature. The neighbors would complain. I would probably sell it on EBay. What if it turned on me? I would have to say that the odds of surviving as the victor in a fight against a mollusk of that magnitude are grossly non-proportional. Oysters are literally all muscle on the inside...I wouldn't stand a chance.
Until my oyster is delivered to me, I continue on in my daily habits as usual. For example, at approximately 2:15 this afternoon, I conformed to the traffic rules and let a pedestrian cross the road. This may not seem worthy of mention, until one takes into consideration the fact that she was fully clothed in pajamas. My instincts told me to wake her up: "She's sleep walking in traffic, wake her up!" I thought to myself. I came to my senses and realized she was just wearing her pajamas as an outfit, perhaps to save time in the morning. People, listen up: PJ's have yellow duckies, frogs with sunglasses, and ice-skating polar bears on them for one reason, and one reason only: So that they are not worn in the broad daylight of public. My mind started to wonder... Did she shower this morning? Was it pajama day at school? Has she no other clothes? Was she running late? Maybe they're flannel hospital scrubs? Perplexing. There is one, and only one, socially acceptable reason to adorn pajama pants (mind you always to be accompanied by a t-shirt and coat), and that is the 2:00am "Oh crap I need this before tomorrow" Wal-Mart Run. Any other reason is an utterly inadmissible faux pas.
Alas, the unobjectionable pajama hour is fast approaching. Soon I will lay in bed and look up at the stars in the sky and think to myself, 'Where the heck is the ceiling??' and drift blissfully into dreamland, for the start of another mostly mundane, fairly straightforward, and equally routine day.
Peace out,
H
Saturday, April 26, 2008
School's... (Almost) Out ... Fo'... Summah!
Welcome to the Blog! Oh how I've missed you so! It's good to have you back.
As the spring school semester comes yet again to a glorious close, I reflect on the year's notable accomplishments:
I have worked on my senior seminar analyses of Square Butte Heavy Minerals, and, I have learned how to operate the Scanning Electron Microscope (a.k.a. "SEM"... not that I expect you to take an interest in how we nerds refer to it, as we adjust our pocket protectors and snap our rainbow striped suspenders). I am on the road to a magnificent tour de force in December - Hallelujah! I diligently (sometimes hostilely) work on my project...as much as I can tolerate in one sitting. It's as if the light is at the end of the tunnel, but it's not enough to see where I'm going quite yet. I've always thought that expression was weird. Everyone always says it to me when I talk about school: "Don't worry, there's a light at the end of the tunnel!" ...Why am I always in a tunnel? And if so, why is a light at the end of it a positive thing? Wouldn't a light at the end of a tunnel indicate a train? Maybe people are implying I'm a train wreck...? I'd like to start the expression, "Don't worry, there's a $100 bill at the end!" I think everyone would work a little harder; I know I would...even if I was in a tunnel.
I have travelled to and fro our great white neighbors to the north and enjoyed my stays there tremendously. I marvelled at the Niagara Falls. My vocal chords and Kyle's hearing were strained at the scariest haunted house known to man...I nearly wet myself... I might have, I can't be sure. I also realized a new goal of mine is to actually buy and eat (in that order) a peanut butter cup the size of my face--oh yes, Reese and his good men have gone above and beyond the call of duty...a 6 inch diameter of a harmonious blend of chocolate and peanut butter never fails to impress. It could have been made of gold... I wouldn't be any fonder of it (but at a $30 price tag, it practically was).
I sat front row, on the glass, at a Red Wings NHL Hockey game-- a feat all too well accomplished for an undeserving non-hockey-fan. I consider myself a hockey "supporter". I may gain "fan" status in the years to come, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, here. I just recently learned and now loosely grasp the concept of "icing" (if that makes you think of frosting, you're not alone). I will say that I do love being in an enthusiastic crowd, the smell of day-old hot dogs, the squeaky crunch of stale popcorn, sticky seats, and cheering on the home team in any sporting event - in person, but being an American, I am willingly obligated to be partial to a little sport that I like to call "Baseball."
I used coupon after coupon, and continually received everything at a discount, if not for free. The coups are out there, you just have to find them. Nothing brings sheer unadulterated joy and satisfaction to my being like knowing I paid way less than the guy in front of me. ...Should have used a coup, bro... should have used a coup. Everything is much more appealing when it's free. I would be hundreds of dollars the poorer if it weren't for coupons.
I learned to take life a little bit of salt. Most things are not that big of a deal. It's okay if you are a little bit late. It's okay if everything isn't perfect. It's okay if everything doesn't go according to plan... if it doesn't, it wasn't supposed to. If things don't seem to be going your way, just remember that everything will be okay in the end, and if it's not okay, it's not the end. I mean, don't worry...there's a 100 dollar bill at the end.
Peace out,
H
As the spring school semester comes yet again to a glorious close, I reflect on the year's notable accomplishments:
I have worked on my senior seminar analyses of Square Butte Heavy Minerals, and, I have learned how to operate the Scanning Electron Microscope (a.k.a. "SEM"... not that I expect you to take an interest in how we nerds refer to it, as we adjust our pocket protectors and snap our rainbow striped suspenders). I am on the road to a magnificent tour de force in December - Hallelujah! I diligently (sometimes hostilely) work on my project...as much as I can tolerate in one sitting. It's as if the light is at the end of the tunnel, but it's not enough to see where I'm going quite yet. I've always thought that expression was weird. Everyone always says it to me when I talk about school: "Don't worry, there's a light at the end of the tunnel!" ...Why am I always in a tunnel? And if so, why is a light at the end of it a positive thing? Wouldn't a light at the end of a tunnel indicate a train? Maybe people are implying I'm a train wreck...? I'd like to start the expression, "Don't worry, there's a $100 bill at the end!" I think everyone would work a little harder; I know I would...even if I was in a tunnel.
I have travelled to and fro our great white neighbors to the north and enjoyed my stays there tremendously. I marvelled at the Niagara Falls. My vocal chords and Kyle's hearing were strained at the scariest haunted house known to man...I nearly wet myself... I might have, I can't be sure. I also realized a new goal of mine is to actually buy and eat (in that order) a peanut butter cup the size of my face--oh yes, Reese and his good men have gone above and beyond the call of duty...a 6 inch diameter of a harmonious blend of chocolate and peanut butter never fails to impress. It could have been made of gold... I wouldn't be any fonder of it (but at a $30 price tag, it practically was).
I sat front row, on the glass, at a Red Wings NHL Hockey game-- a feat all too well accomplished for an undeserving non-hockey-fan. I consider myself a hockey "supporter". I may gain "fan" status in the years to come, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, here. I just recently learned and now loosely grasp the concept of "icing" (if that makes you think of frosting, you're not alone). I will say that I do love being in an enthusiastic crowd, the smell of day-old hot dogs, the squeaky crunch of stale popcorn, sticky seats, and cheering on the home team in any sporting event - in person, but being an American, I am willingly obligated to be partial to a little sport that I like to call "Baseball."
I used coupon after coupon, and continually received everything at a discount, if not for free. The coups are out there, you just have to find them. Nothing brings sheer unadulterated joy and satisfaction to my being like knowing I paid way less than the guy in front of me. ...Should have used a coup, bro... should have used a coup. Everything is much more appealing when it's free. I would be hundreds of dollars the poorer if it weren't for coupons.
I learned to take life a little bit of salt. Most things are not that big of a deal. It's okay if you are a little bit late. It's okay if everything isn't perfect. It's okay if everything doesn't go according to plan... if it doesn't, it wasn't supposed to. If things don't seem to be going your way, just remember that everything will be okay in the end, and if it's not okay, it's not the end. I mean, don't worry...there's a 100 dollar bill at the end.
Peace out,
H
Friday, April 25, 2008
I decided to start up a blog again, on a whim. Loyal fans will remember a full-fledged blog a few years ago... back then it wasn't even called a "blog" yet. Where have the years gone?! Stay in touch for daily updates on my life and my thoughts on anything I feel you need to know.
If you come back to visit the blog in the future, be sure to type in my full name (heatherleannfogarty.blogspot.com) or it will direct you to another Heather Fogarty, whose hopes and dreams are assumably being shattered in Hollywood. Clearly we are not the same.
If you come back to visit the blog in the future, be sure to type in my full name (heatherleannfogarty.blogspot.com) or it will direct you to another Heather Fogarty, whose hopes and dreams are assumably being shattered in Hollywood. Clearly we are not the same.
My last "blog" (aka "The Daily Rant") was faithfully updated each day. I will try to keep up and do the same this time around. Enjoy.
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