tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-322786252024-03-13T21:34:03.258-05:00Dainty Lady ThingsDiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-83188540294079637472012-01-17T20:19:00.000-06:002012-01-17T20:19:34.320-06:00Update on the Bendy BitsI shall run again!<br />
<br />
The Running Doctor has diagnosed me with runner's knee. Don't let the name fool you; this ailment is not the result of running - nay, slamming my feet onto the ground over and over for miles on end did not bring this on. Yoga did.<br />
<br />
The sound of dramatically shattering glass you just heard? That was the sound of my poor, betrayed heart breaking to pieces at my feet.<br />
<br />
One never suspects yoga - sweet, gentle yoga - of sinister things like knee injuries. But, when one's knee is repeatedly exposed to stressful situations (such as, I learned, bearing weight in a bent or lunging position) one's knee eventually tires and then begins bitching loudly at you while you try to bang its connecting joints and appendages (feet and whatnot) on the ground over and over for miles on end. <br />
<br />
I learned all this from The Running Doctor who, after doing normal, doctorly things like quizzing me about the onset of the pain, watching me walk to and fro and prodding at my knee while inquiring <i>Does this hurt?</i> said to me <i>I'd like to see your knee when it's angry and hurting. Go run three miles then come back and see me. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
If you say so.<br />
<br />
Running three miles seemed like a godawful idea after several days of significant pain brought on by such strenuous activities as sitting and, oh, standing up. But, what do I know? I'm not The Running Doctor. So I set off.<br />
<br />
The run itself wasn't interesting (lots of birds to look at, some surprising speed on the part of Yours Truly, the to-be-expected knee pain), nor is the ensuing visit to The Running Doctor (except for the part where he grabbed my unshod, sweaty, just-ran-three-miles foot in his bare hands and I, Foot-Phobe Extraordinaire, silently screamed <i>You, Sir, are a disgusting man!</i>); all that you or I need to know is that my injury is a normal thing with a cure and that I got confirmation from my running coach that I can still train for a half marathon at the end of April.<br />
<br />
Since the diagnosis my knee has continued to feel better. I'm still not able to <i>run</i> run the way I had been before the injury, but it would seem that its not too far on the horizon. Today, for example, my knee felt pretty great, like, 99% of the day. I'd go so far as to say that it felt super-great. I sorta wanted to open doors with a mighty kick and leap off the tops of staircases - anything to celebrate that I'm back and I'm awesome and I'm ready (so ready) to run.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-39422376639155876322012-01-09T14:05:00.000-06:002012-01-09T14:05:06.946-06:00Running and I<div><b id="internal-source-marker_0.16716121998615563"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Running and I are young and in love. I would never </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> go Running when Running is a possibility. Every weird little thing that Running does is adorable and endearing to me; </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, Running, you made me pull a muscle in my knee and endure days of searing pain, you trickster, you!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m wondering if there will be a point where I fall out of love with this sport. We’ve been at it nearly a year, now, Running and I. We went through the awkward courting phase (I would wheeze my way through a one-minute run, walk for three minutes, then mutter </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">fuuuuuck </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">under my breath as a revved up for another minute of agony) followed by months spent in delirious puppy love; Running tentatively inhabited my body and I warmed to it over time; I lost weight. I gained speed. I built the endurance to run longer distances and would finish my runs with full-out sprints, laughing and with an idiot’s smile plastered on my face. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Around the tenth month we began to have our differences; Running caused me side pains and foot cramps. Though we worked through those issues things still came to a head when Running socked me in the knee with debilitating pain. One-third of my way through a three-mile run I mulled over the decision to cut it short or hobble on through the discomfort. Against my better judgement I finished the second and third miles, finally whimpering my way to a full stop at the side of the road and admitting to myself that we had a problem, Running and I.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s been three days without Running; three days that I’ve counted because I feel the absence so sharply. Three days of icing my knee 'til its chilled to the bone; three days of cringing when I lift my knee; three days of limping until I coax myself to walk normally as I feel the pain subside. Whatever this injury is it’s a minor one, but it’s pulled me away from the hobby I’ve become so fond of and I miss Running in a visceral way. My body needs something that it’s not getting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The thought of running again makes me feel giddy and excited, and this brings me hope. I like to think that rather than getting bored with one another and letting our relationship go to weed Running and I will fall into a comfortable pattern of cohabitation. I’ll brush my teeth in front of Running and let Running see me in my rattiest pajamas; Running will admit that it has feelings for me, too, and will let down its guards so that I may fully revel in its presence. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s in these tenuous times that I realize the depth of my dedication to this thing. Running hurts me; Running threatens to leave me for good and I think </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">don’t leave me, not now; I need you</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></b></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-11869717916187388632010-03-13T22:31:00.003-06:002010-03-13T22:43:27.467-06:00The Real TragedyI'm still trying to come to terms with the fact that, as an adult, my bedroom is no longer a place to play and/or hang out.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Irrelevant note: I also struggle with a lasting temptation to invite people over to "play" instead of "hang out".) </span><br /><br />It pains me, ever-so-slightly, that the bedroom I meticulously organize and maintain will rarely, if ever, be seen by my friends. I've noticed, when giving "tours" around my apartment, that people are willing to take only a couple of steps into the room before tossing out a light compliment and booking it for the hallway.<br /><br />I can only suppose that the reason for this is a silently- but generally-accepted recognition that the bedroom of an adult (and especially an adult living with a significant other) is a place for Private Things. Perhaps visitors fear that if they spend too much time in the bedroom of an acquaintance the seedy romance novels, vibrators and leather harnesses tucked away in drawers and dark corners will reveal themselves. After that, let's face it, there's no turning back. Better just to make your exit to the more neutral living room. Because only family-friendly activities take place in living rooms, right?<br /><br />Anyway. That's just a theory.<br /><br />Living rooms suck, though. Nothing beats stretching out on a bed with your best friend to talk for hours. My entire adolescence - from childhood up to the end of my undergraduate career - is dotted with afternoons and evenings spent this way. And I miss it.<br /><br />So there it is: reason no. 2907 that growing up sucks a big one. Let's turn this one around, ok? Get back on in my bedroom, folks. That's where it's at.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-20743618184443231702010-03-10T21:30:00.002-06:002010-03-10T21:43:16.335-06:00Swing/MissIt's like when you're not paying attention and the last step you think you're taking down a flight of stairs turns out to be nothing but the flat ground ahead of you.<br /><br />In between loving a very contrary man and working a job where I play the part of the bad guy (short summary: I email out the equivalent of homework assignments to all the higher-ups in my work place, and I'm pretty sure that they all die a little bit inside when they see my name in their inboxes) I expect to be told 'no' - though rarely in so many words - more often than not.<br /><br />Sometimes, though, people comply. I'm not sure what's in the water, but it's been happening recently. After all that energy, all that buildup to the big let-down, my bat flies through the air and there's nothing to make purchase with. Just the whiffle echoing in my ears, then I'm left standing, baffled.<br /><br />Pleased.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-80085497234590864012010-03-09T21:38:00.002-06:002010-03-09T22:18:55.120-06:00The FearThis year (I'm talking past-12-months year, not calendar year) has really been, as we say in The Business, a "doozy". As I am someone who A.) grew up privileged in WhiteBread USA and B.) is only recently emerged as a financially independent adult, perhaps you can see how a year that involved one attempted and one successful apartment break-in, one positive pap smear, a couple of months spent suffering spectacular medicinal side-effects, two emergency root canals followed by countless oral housecleanings, two freak-accident occurrences that left my car's front bumper detached on both sides and myriad miscellaneous odds and ends has left me a little wary.<br /><br />There's really nothing I can do without worrying about how it will affect my teeth in six months or whether my apartment will still be un-molested if I leave the deadbolt unlocked while I'm gone for five minutes. I am on emergency stand-by 24/7.<br /><br />I spent one heady summer, when I moved into my first apartment (the one that got robbed, which I no longer inhabit), riding around the neighborhood on my bike. I would go for miles and miles, from one neighborhood to another, watching as the houses changed from ramshackle burnouts to beautifully restored family homes. On my ride to work (which was down the street) I passed more than one person who sat on their porch talking to themselves on a daily basis, but I loved it anyway. I knew where each and every one of the crazies lived and I felt like I owned the place.<br /><br />Now, in my new apartment, which backs up to a quiet, middle-class neighborhood full of ranch-style houses, I hesitate to go out walking for fear of...I don't even know what; adorable puppy attack, I guess. Today, unable to defy the allure of beautiful weather, I found myself out, traipsing (a.k.a. speed walking for exercise) around; and while I took the liberty of exploring a few nooks and crannies, I still checked over my shoulder time and again when I heard the keys in my fanny pack (yeah, I wear a fanny pack when I exercise...suck it) jingling.<br /><br />It's just...sucks, you know? It's a real tribute to how happy I am in my relationship and with my life in general that I'm not pulling my hair out screaming because some other ridiculous thing has gone wrong and ended up costing me $800 out of the blue.<br /><br />The more this shit goes down, the more that I realize that me and my meager salary are more-or-less alone in this big blue world, the more fortunate I feel, in an under-this-steaming-pile-of-crap-there's-actually-a-beautiful-shining-pearl sort of way. There's a whole load of stuff that was given to me in life - the very fact that I have emerged from my undergraduate college career without a penny of personal debt says that I've got something that precious few others my age have placed in their lap - and I'm just...fortunate. There's no other way to say it.<br /><br />So I'm not sure all this lousy stuff going down is just my share of shittiness coming due or what, but I'm still thinking I'll muddle through alright. Already I have renter's insurance and live in a neighborhood that's not addled with gangs; I've also got one clear Pap smear (and one more to go until I'm in the clear...God, there's nothing so pleasing as going to the gynecologist every six months), a birth control that doesn't make me feel like barfing 24/7, at least one side of my mouth that's not rotting out and some insurance money on the way to help with the car troubles.<br /><br />And so to Life I say, <span style="font-style: italic;">it could be worse. But I better not see you try. </span>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-92145714896261565622010-03-07T21:35:00.003-06:002010-03-09T22:21:38.048-06:00Your MissionAs it turns out, there's some pretty great ways to freak the hell out of your boyfriend. There's a couple of things you have to get into place first, though, before you can execute them.<br /><br />First, it helps if you live together. At the very least, you should be sleeping together on a regular basis.<br /><br />Second, it helps if the time is somewhere in the nether regions of the day, say, 3:00 or 5:30 a.m. The ungodlier the better.<br /><br />Now.<br /><br />What you do, is you, the lady, fall asleep around midnight, like a reasonable person ought to. Then, when your beau comes to bed at the ungodly hour of his choice, you roll over and say to him, all groggy-like, "I'm gonna pee."<br /><br />Then.<br /><br />You wait.<br /><br />The longer the better.<br /><br />Your boyfriend will, undoubtedly, be distressed as the minutes pass by. He will wonder if he should wake you and remind you of the task at hand, if he should check for a wet spot or if, perhaps, he should just let you be.<br /><br />Later, when he's drifting off while trying to make the right choice, steal clumsily away from the bed. Be sure to bump into some walls on the way to the bathroom and make a general ruckus.<br /><br />Then, finally, pee.<br /><br />Operation complete.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-89923834895452615492010-01-30T22:34:00.002-06:002010-01-30T23:16:21.139-06:00Hate is a Strong WordIt's winter, y'all. Holy God...if I'm not barefoot and wearing a t-shirt in another month I'm going to lose it.<br /><br />At first winter is charming. You envision yourself curling up on the couch in a sweater, snuggling into your lover or the pages of a good book while the fire crackles (you've got a fireplace, right?). You revel in the idea of warm hot chocolate set against the chill wintry air.<br /><br />Then comes the season itself, and you curse wildly every morning as you extract your naked body from the bed and set foot in the cold, cruel world where air conditioning is no match for the cold. Sure, you could heat your living space to a comfortable 80 degrees and live out the winter in climate-controlled bliss; you could also sign your winter month's wages over to the local electricity conglomerate, or pay off your bills by volunteering your time babysitting the CEO's kids on the weekends. I'm just saying.<br /><br />So now I'm entertaining torrid fantasies of the summer. I see myself, out on the porch at night plucking at my guitar (I don't have one; it's part of the fantasy) and trying to keep the mosquitoes from carrying my blood away. I drink iced tea (I hate iced tea; but it's part of the fantasy) and talk long into the night with my neighbors (neighbors like Bob, who voluntarily patrols the complex parking lot, or Sausage Dog, the cylindrically-shaped mutt next door). It is bliss.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />Sure, come week three of summer it, too, will seem like a hopeless chore. But for now, give me sun on my skin and the wind in my hair - the kind of wind that wont scrub my face off with sub-zero temperatures - and for a moment (just a moment) I wont complain.<br /><br />Oh...and should you need distraction from the pain of winter, <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/pictureshow/2010/01/looking_backwards.html">check out this freaking awesome photography</a>, and feel sad that you didn't come up with this idea first. When you're done doing that, appreciate the simple beauty.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-33031773814897204022009-09-02T22:04:00.002-05:002009-09-02T22:15:13.682-05:009/2/2009 - HousewiferyMy propensity for domesticity scares the crap out of me. Sure, coming home from work is nice in itself; but spending an hour barefoot in the kitchen, adorned with an apron, cooking chicken and broccoli casserole while singing to oldies on the radio and watching eagerly out the window for Scott's car brought me a level of pleasure that really ought to be illegal for strong, independent-minded women like myself.<br /><br />Here I am, mulling over what type of master's degree I should get, dreaming of attaining a doctorate, and loving nothing more than cooking a hot meal for my boyfriend.<br /><br />I want to have it all.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-57032810396600413642009-09-01T20:45:00.002-05:002009-09-01T21:10:04.610-05:009/1/2009 - Five StarsLike good food or great sex, excellent property management is just one of those things you should never deny yourself.<br /><br />This week, for the first time in my life, I have had a taste of just how useful a good landlord can be. First, said landlord actually knew how to handle a contract, what with the crossing out and correcting of terms. If I were a single lady who really dug contractual law, and that landlord were my blind date, I would have been totally turned on at that point. With my last landlord I had to suggest to him that we make alterations to my lease so that the stated terms matched the reality; though we got that done, I didn't feel like explaining to him why we should both initial next to all of the changes, so I let it drop and crossed my fingers that I wouldn't have any charges brought against me for breach of contract.<br /><br />But wait. It gets awesomer.<br /><br />The day after signing the new lease, returning from dinner, Scott and I ran across the gent who does maintenance around the apartment complex. We had discussed some repairs that needed to be done around our place, and realized that this would be the ideal time to get the ball rolling. we said hello and explained some of our issues, and - pay close attention, because this is where it gets good - the fixerman came over to our apartment right then and there and took care of what he could. He even fixed something we hadn't mentioned - he just noticed it on the spot and took care of it.<br /><br />Suffice it to say, I am pleased. Because I have a picky aesthetic eye, I was a little uneasy about moving from an apartment that <span style="font-style: italic;">looked</span> really nice (hard wood floors, moulding and baseboards in all the rooms, high ceilings) to a place that was perfectly acceptable but nothing extraordinary. But then, you know what they say...<br /><br />So there you have it, folks. If I've learned it once, I've learned it a million times: <span style="font-style: italic;">you can't judge a book by its cover. </span>My new diggs are modest on the outside (actually, if you are literally standing outside the apartment, it looks waaaaaay less like an abandoned crack house than my last place; that one was deceiving) but inside the place is totally tricked out. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span>Great management aside, it's a veritable wonderland in there. Inside there's my cat, my kitchen, my love and my excellent - my most very excellent - life.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-35791953847571070332009-08-31T22:30:00.003-05:002009-09-01T09:54:27.748-05:008/31/2009 - EnergizerWhen I was a kid, used to be that I couldn't fall asleep if the towels next to my sink (which I could see from my bed) weren't hanging straight on their racks. I didn't think much of it then, and in retrospect it's kinda cute in that quirky, tweenage OCD way.<br /><br />But like everything else (belching in public, or lifting your skirt up over your head to show off those kickin' new panties) you grow up and it's not cute anymore. Not one bit.<br /><br />The bad thing about moving is that there's a lot to do. And the bad thing about<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> me</span> moving is that there's a lot for <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">me</span> to do - or so I think. I lack that innate ability to look at a pile of dirty dishes and say <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">ehhhhh...I'll do that later</span>. Not I. I have to wash the dishes, then take out the trash and sweep the floors and hang some photos and vacuum the carpet and make tomorrow's lunch and run to the grocery store and...the list goes on.<br /><br />My ability to clean tirelessly is admired by many, but it's a monkey's paw (a concept only recently introduced to me; means you get one much-desired wished granted, but not without great expense; i.e. you wish for a million dollars and you get it - but only after your beloved Great Uncle Alfred kicks it and the insurance payout comes your way). I can clean like nobody's business, but god...I just can't seem to stop myself. And sometimes there's other things I'd like to be doing - like petting my cat or reading a book.<br /><br />You know. The good stuff.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-65136247782434165832009-08-30T02:22:00.004-05:002009-08-30T03:14:21.903-05:008/30/2009 - Throw the RiceI've been thinking a lot about marriage. Though I've spent my past 23 years actively avoiding giving the subject much thought, the fact that I am at that age where my peers decide en masse go tie the knot all at once makes it hard to ignore.<br /><br />This being the case (the en-masse marriages, I mean), you will not be surprised to hear that I was recently at a wedding. Considerably more shocking is the fact that I was actually listening to and reflecting on the talk that the officiator was giving. Though the message was something to the effect that a husband and wife should love and honor one another as Jesus loved and honored the church (I'm no Christian, but I'll drink to that), I was particularly struck by the pastor's in-passing remark that we (the attendees) should support this marriage and encourage the young couple making no discouraging remarks about their union. Upon hearing this I thought to myself, <em>Yes, yes, this is wise and true.</em><br /><br />For me, this concept is a challenge. Not because I go blathering on about how doomed all my friends' marriages are, but because every time I hear of another 20-something getting married, I cringe just a little bit, thinking to myself that <em>I just don't know</em>. I don't know if we, as young adults, have the capacity to choose a life-parter that we can stand to be around for the rest of our lives. Yeah, we've graduated college and moved out of our parents' houses and everything but really, we're just kids, right?<br /><br />But the guy makes a point. Acting upon the assumption that we are kind people who generally wish happiness upon those whose marriages we witness, we really ought to encourage the young couples. So long as they're up there tossin' around the <em>I do</em>'s and there's nothing much to be done to stop them, what's left but to help them make it through with as little misery as possible? Getting married young has to be tough; getting married young when everybody's telling you you can't make it is probably just a big ol' bitch.<br /><br />I'm the one on every adventure who hangs back, wringing her hands and saying "I don't know, guys, maybe we shouldn't be doing this;" the one who repeatedly encounters disaster despite attempted feats of spectacular caution. Because I barely trust myself to choose the right outfit to wear in the morning, I assume that few are able to choose the right partner to share the rest of rest of their lives with. I live in perpetual trepedation and find the mere concept of marriage dubious at best - but I've got to give it up for those who proceed with self assurance.<br /><br />It's a <em>do unto others...</em> thing. In spite of debilitating interest in extreme caution, I hope to be married one day. When I marry, I will be certain of what I am doing. And when someone is certain - as I hope all the young lovers out there are - well, that's something that nobody gets to monkey with.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-68120768853799266782009-06-15T13:24:00.001-05:002009-06-15T13:25:10.645-05:006/15/09 - Miss Me NotDry your tears, o' blog fans, for soon I will return with changes a-plenty.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-88992028507987833202009-05-01T08:19:00.003-05:002009-05-01T08:24:05.994-05:005/1/2009 - Post-OpLast night I caved and asked Scott to try and get the splinter out of the bottom of my big toe. It had been hanging out there for a week, doused in Neosporin, swaddled in band-aids, and - much to my dismay - not budging.<div><br /></div><div>So we trained the light of my bedside lamp onto my foot and I lay back while Scott poked and prodded with tweezers and a needle. After some peeps and cringing out of me, he managed to extract a small sliver of something, but more was in there. </div><div><br /></div><div>More poking and prodding.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, he got it. Held it up. Studied it. And it looked suspiciously like...</div><div><br /></div><div>A hair.</div><div><br /></div><div>A small brown hair, maybe a quarter of an inch long, with a little white follicle on the end and everything; like an eyebrow hair that got lost on its way to my face.</div><div><br /></div><div>A hair.</div><div><br /></div><div>In my toe.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the bottom of my toe.</div><div><br /></div><div>The end.</div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-70946666022421248022009-04-29T00:35:00.002-05:002009-04-29T00:44:19.662-05:003/29/2009 - Just Like in the MoviesEither way, it was going to end up like I was on some television sitcom. Either I was going to uproot my life, move to some strange city, become fast friends with the quirky gay guy at my new job (who would invariably set out to update my wardrobe and emphasize my most positive feminine features) who would bolster me with snappy encouragement while I attempted to snuffle my way through a broken heart; <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">OR</span> I was going to get an email from my ex-boyfriend minutes into a fresh batch of despair over the job in my current city that I couldn't take because that's where my broken heart lay, and suddenly realize that we wouldn't, indeed <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">couldn't </span>breakup because the past two days were just a complicated, emotionally-wrought fluke.<div><br /></div><div>The second one is what's actually happening, by the way. After two days of spontaneously combusting into tears everything swiftly evaporated leaving me first baffled, then immensely relieved. </div><div><br /></div><div>So we're back. We're on. And better than ever.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-16168957820464714512009-04-28T00:36:00.004-05:002009-04-28T00:58:19.366-05:004/28/2009 - In ReverseWhen I was in middle or early high school, in the muddled middle ages of my adolescent life during which I regularly attended church and youth group in an attempt to be a Good Christian, I found myself participating in a trust fall exercise (Step 1: Get a bunch of peers to stand around and hold out their hands in the form of a makeshift net. Step 2: Stand on a chair. Step 3: Trust your peers. Step 4: Fall backwards, knowing in your heart of hearts that the hands of your trusty friends will be there to catch you). To make a short story shorter, I went into the trust fall with much excitement and a complete lack of reservation (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">this is youth group</span>, I told myself, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">these guys don't fuck around!</span>) only to be - yes, you guessed it - dropped. During the trust fall.<div><br /></div><div>Thanks a lot, peers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, since the youth group leader jumped in at the last moment to grab my skull before it was dashed on the ground I emerged unscathed. Afterwards, however, everyone kept asking me if I was okay and I couldn't stop myself from crying; they were being so <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">nice</span>. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's like that, now. I can carry myself with a passable degree of poise and composure until somebody expresses their concern or offers to help and then I'm gone in a siren of wails and a whole mess of hiccups. My friends have been so fantastically, earth-shatteringly kind I don't even know what to do with myself. They've been hugging me, distracting me, offering me their time, their food and their homes. Even as someone who recreationally scoffs at religion, I can say that I am, without a doubt, deeply blessed. One of the women I work with (whom I adore; she's the closest thing I've had to a mentor during my college career) offered to let me and Moxie stay at her house, if we needed it, or to come over for dinner. </div><div><br /></div><div>As someone who always wants to take care of things herself, this outpouring undermines my false confidence. The fact that I want to fall into their arms and take up all of their time gets under my skin and reminds me that I'm just a scared kid, desperately in need of some sort of comfort. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I worked on reversing all my plans and fixing up the details so that I could skip town come June. But no. Just as I was panicking because I'd come to realize how good one of the jobs I have a fair shot at here in the city could be for me (but how could I take it, when it meant staying here, where everything hurt?), I got an email from Scott explaining everything, calming all of my fears and snapping everything, suddenly, into place.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is day three.</div><div><br /></div><div>On day three, everything has changed.</div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-79605272520711907962009-04-26T22:47:00.003-05:002009-04-26T23:04:21.259-05:004/26/2009 - My Diet is MiseryForgive me if I turn a hyperbolic phrase; I'm not miserable. Doesn't it have flair, though? Can't you imagine some teenage goth chick with white makeup and black fingernails telling you that in a deadpan voice? <div><br /></div><div>Don't get me wrong; this isn't any picnic. And there is definitely something keeping me from eating. Since Friday night I have consumed exactly 4/5 a box of Mike 'N Ikes, half a banana and 1 handful of Skittles (why fruit and their candy equivalents are the only thing my stomach will even consider is far beyond me). I just have no appetite. I've been sipping on water to keep myself from keeling over, but other than that the very thought of food makes me nauseous. </div><div><br /></div><div>Scott came over today. I'm not sure if that's breaking a breakup rule or not but it somehow settled everything in my brain. I made him tell me that it was over and that he was certain about it at least three times. I cried. A lot. Told him some things, shared some feelings, so on and so forth. And when he left, I felt alright. I didn't throw my back against the door, crumple onto the floor and weep tears of pain and anguish; though if I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">had</span> done that, it wouldn't have been at all out of my current character. I got back to my homework. I went about my business. And I felt okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the things I'm finding the hardest is removing him from my physical surroundings. On Friday night, immediately after he left, I went around my apartment taking pictures down from the fridge and his books off of the bedside table. I did this numbly, unfeelingly, since I knew that if I thought about it for a moment I would be devastated, and that if I left it for the next day I might never bring myself to do the deed. I came across one last thing tonight and slipped it into the trash can, willing myself not to think about what it meant to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to talk about this ordeal and about Scott a lot in the next few days (weeks?). What I want you to know, and what I'm going to try hard to concentrate on, is that the past twenty months have been twenty great ones. Falling in love with and getting to know the guy was some of the most fun I've ever had. I look forward to everything in the future and regret nothing in the past. </div><div><br /></div><div>We're going to be ok.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is day two.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day two is cloudy, with a chance of emotional trauma. </div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-46889248247172050572009-04-25T13:48:00.002-05:002009-04-25T14:31:45.154-05:004/25/2009 - FuelSo yesterday I was thinking to myself about how <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I'm gonna start blogging every day, again...at least just a little</span>, just to get back in the swing of things for when I graduate and have time/sanity. The everlasting problem is having something to write about; something more than the passing whim that I forget a few minutes later. Well, nothing makes for good writing like anguish, and now I've got my year's supply.<div><br /></div><div>This fucking hurts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Scott and I broke up last night; a "good" breakup, as breakups go. It was a quiet end. No screaming. No anger. I knew when he told me he was coming over after work. I knew when he walked up to the door. I knew when he sat down on the couch and when he said it. I tried wrapping my brain around this thing I knew - that I knew was for the best, even - and couldn't. The ends wont meet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Welcome to: The Breakup Diaries</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't feel rejected and I don't feel wronged. I don't feel like I'm not good enough or I didn't try hard enough or that I fell short somehow. I know none of those things are true for either of us. I just feel like my security blanket is gone. Scott cushioned me from everything I hated in my life and he handled me when I broke down. When I hurt, I went to Scott. Now I hurt. And I can't do it. I could - he would even take me - but that's not how you do breakups. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it would be easier if I felt wronged; if I had thrown him out of the house, hurling his shoes after him and chasing his car with a pitch fork. Then I could feel righteous about my newfound independence and I could buck up knowing that I'm better off without the bastard. The nature of this beast, however, is that we still care for each other. So I still want to call him. I still want to take care of him. I still want him to comfort me. But we can't do these things because again, that's not how you do breakups.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Quick, like a band-aid</span>, I tell myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>So gently, I told him he should go home and quietly, he left. Having said what we both knew was true (had been putting off, denying), there was nothing more to say that wouldn't take us in circles. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning I woke up before my early alarm. My body didn't immediately recall the previous night, but as it set in a dull pain burned its way into my forearms. This appears to be the physical manifestation of my internal pain: aching brachioradialises. Lame.</div><div><br /></div><div>Awake too early even for an 8:30 meeting, I dressed and got on my bike and rode around the neighborhood, hyperventilating to myself when the reality hit me too hard. The movement, at least, felt good. Action is how I'm going to deal with this, I know. Sitting still, even sitting and reading, is a precursor only for crying. My guess is that when I move my body sends all its hot vapors to other appendages in need; that way they don't come spewing out my eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>This changes all of my plans. In a way, it's exciting; like an adventure. In another way - the way that seems the biggest and most obvious right now - it's just terrible. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is day one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day one hurts.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-52415525503809575642009-04-24T20:07:00.006-05:002009-04-28T01:00:49.316-05:004/24/2009 - BedfellowScott realized, last night, that the tickling we both felt on our sides as we lay in bed was not our loving, wayward fingers but a small yellow spider. Thrust suddenly into the light of my bedside lamp, the creature attempted an escape. <div><br /></div><div>I, ever the scientist, was intrigued and studied him on his journey.</div><div> </div><div>Moxie, ever the hunter, sprang into acute awareness, pawing and snapping at the bug. </div><div><br /></div><div>And Scott, ever the the cold-blooded killer, grabbed a tissue and squashed the thing before it could tickle any other poor victims in their sleep.</div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-38799077725755491852009-03-28T15:19:00.003-05:002009-03-29T12:45:25.927-05:003/28/2009 - To Catch a Beast<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">This one's for Leah (and a little bit for Scott): </span><a href="http://diceymay.blogspot.com/2009/02/2172009-moonboat.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Moonboat</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">, revisited.</span><div><br /></div><div>Alone in my thoughts I imagine all men to be helpless and sweet and serene. By day they cajole and demand and tease; by day I comply and accommodate and defend. Recreationally, I escape. Drifting away from droll conversation I capture them in my mind and contain them in a place where I know them to be tame. I imagine them in bed; not sprawled, naked and lurid, but tucked in, curled under the covers, head lolled to one side. I imagine them in this state and see them at last for what they are. They parade as men, all billow and bluster, but asleep they are boys, adrift on some dream.</div><div><br /></div><div>My boyfriend (my bedfellow) the cunning debater, plays devils' advocate for sport, entwining me in counter-arguments the way a leashed mutt might bind its owner. Girdled by his tether - his overwhelming reason - I collapse, frustrated and pouting. In argument I find that I am too empathetic, ever-willing to accept the other person's point of view. I am an unworthy opponent, incapable of matching the strikes of my lover/debater. He reigns ever-victorious as I grudgingly wave my white flag.</div><div><br /></div><div>Early mornings, awake, I search him for signs of piss and vinegar. He's only sleeping, however; sweetly dozing, soft and warm. Long gone to REM, he drawls nonsense songs and mutters cryptic answers to my gently prodding questions. My opponent is lost to this sleeping child and I feel, for the moment, that I have captured something great and tamed it; lured it to the bed where I now lay, lovingly encircled in the arms of my beast. </div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-9137640295450206042009-03-09T18:33:00.006-05:002009-03-09T19:35:05.604-05:003/9/2009 - Liberals in Paradise<div>And the prize for most vibrant spring greenery goes to...</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">These Bushes!</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SbWpMjBjkPI/AAAAAAAAAZc/Y9TA8XErc5M/s200/DSCN0429.JPG" /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:large;">Extreme Close-up!</span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SbWpM6fhvoI/AAAAAAAAAZk/2mwFYyZ8XrU/s1600-h/DSCN0430.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SbWpM6fhvoI/AAAAAAAAAZk/2mwFYyZ8XrU/s200/DSCN0430.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311337374878383746" /></a><br />Oklahoma's really been getting into the spring thing as of late, blissfully ignorant of the oncoming cold snap. Today it's spring, tonight it's tornados and tomorrow its winter. All hail the midwestern weather pattern!<div><br /></div><div>I spent the last springlike weekend house-sitting in my own personal paradise. It is an aspiration of mine to one day live in an old home with modern trimmings; in other words, I want all the old-house trappings (examples: mail slot, tiny grate and door for a front door peep hole, wood floors, vaulted ceilings, etc.) without all the old-house troubles (example: wiring from the 1920's). This place had it all - the original wooden floors, the quirky room layout, the breakfast nook - and was beautifully updated with textured walls, painted ceilings and a fully modern kitchen. The fact that all of the radios in the house were tuned to NPR was just an added bonus.</div><div><br /></div><div>The house also came equipped with four cats (whose names I forgot immediately upon learning them; the one that was friendly to me I took to calling Mystery Cat, or Mystery for short) and two dogs:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:large;">Molly</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SbWvYdju09I/AAAAAAAAAZs/sOmcoFP3HDE/s200/DSCN0422.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311344170339587026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:medium;">Interests:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Being sweet, eating dinner, inserting herself under your arm for a rub.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">and</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Eddie</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SbWwCbVUl7I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/Zb9tanEvUbo/s1600-h/DSCN0424.JPG"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SbWwCbVUl7I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/Zb9tanEvUbo/s200/DSCN0424.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311344891296782258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></a></span></span></span><div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; font-size:medium;">Interests:</span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Having a cute face, eating slowly and with great suspicion, chewing on Scott, capturing wild possums and rendering them unconscious in terror-stricken stupor so that the house-sitter thinks she's got a giant dead rodent on her hands and starts making plans to call Animal Control up until the moment that - to her immense relief - she witnesses the creature slowly stand up and walk gingerly away.</span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So that was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">my </span>weekend (and how was yours?), possum-playing-possum and all. I've returned home to my cat (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">interests</span></span>:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> chewing on crinkly things, tirelessly pursuing all milk-based eats and most other foodstuffs, running maniacally from room to room on urgent business</span>) and a week that seems ghostly quiet, void of most of my regularly scheduled classes. Though there's not much to do, it at least feels a bit like summer. This brings back good memories, and I don't mind spending my time with those.</div></div><div><br /></div></div></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-63069931844350935582009-03-02T22:10:00.000-06:002009-03-02T22:10:59.556-06:003/2/2009 - Educayshun<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/Sayt0XFsfEI/AAAAAAAAAY0/Z6frwu6pWSQ/s1600-h/DSCN0407.JPG"><img style="CLEAR: both; FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/Sayt0XFsfEI/AAAAAAAAAY0/Z6frwu6pWSQ/s320/DSCN0407.JPG" border="0" /></a> <br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/Sayt0gRMUHI/AAAAAAAAAY8/YKSyzE7Yz5M/s1600-h/Moxie+019.jpg"></a>This morning I finally captured my cat performing the greatest of all his tricks: mouse fetching. If you look real close you can see in Moxie's mouth the white toy mouse for which his sun rises. He harbors a compassion for this creature which my inferior human mind, I am certain, will never be able to grasp.<br /><br />I shot this photo early in the morning, which left the rest of my day subject to the drudgery of squeezing in readings of a particularly torturous text book. I would have resented this assignment entirely were it not for the following:<br /><br /><em>"Researchers [in Mexico] leaned...that men, in order to retain their sense of machismo, refused to use contraception, a behavioral choice that resulted in large families that many of the men were unable to support financially. This revelation provided the input for a public education campaign using a macho cartoon penis character to extol the virtues of contraception."<br /><br /></em>It's stuff like this that makes me laugh out loud and suddenly not mind so much the endless reading assignments that come free with college tuition. Hyterical mental image of "macho cartoon penis" aside, I actually do consider this a relatively fascinating sociological fact and an excellent tidbit for haughty dinner conversation. I'm beginning to nurture the secret sociologist inside of me, so rest assured that I'll be squirreling this fact away for later discussion.<br /><br />The rest of my reading was only a frustration, as I am one of those people who believes that if they're going to be reading zillions of droll pages, they might as well be reading zillions of well-edited droll pages; which is why I am irritated (and also secretly, smugly, satisfied) to find typos such as the following:<br /><br /><em>"Listserv discussions can run for up to a week, giving motivated respondents time to provide thoughtful their answers."<br /><br />"Straight Edgers themselves typically run independent hard-core music labels; they call these labels DYI, or "do it yourself."<br /><br /></em>Look. I edit the dickens out of every document I submit to anything and I'm nothing but a sniveling undergrad. Let's show some integrity.<br /><br />But then, as I should probably be studying this text rather than ragging unnessarily on it, I guess I should shut my trap and go apply myself.<div style='clear:both; text-align:LEFT'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-1334149700308613062009-02-26T22:07:00.002-06:002009-02-26T22:10:39.340-06:002/26/2009 - Saves the DaySuper powers that I would gladly settle for:<div><ul><li>The ability to snatch squirrels off the ground and hold them, just for a moment.</li><li>The ability to lead massive groups of Humanity in choreographed song and dance numbers. On a whim.</li><li>The ability to summon objects using The Force. </li></ul></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-73196013805664556022009-02-21T22:34:00.003-06:002009-02-21T22:46:18.556-06:002/21/2009 - LaundryOn Friday afternoon I opened up my dryer to pull out the load just finished. I nearly collapsed in relief when I saw my favorite sweater amongst the toasty, tangled clothes. I had just come home from work - was still in the business-casual garb of the office worker - and knowing that my next order of business was to climb into my giant, warm sweater and a pair of jeans was the greatest knowledge I could ever have. <div><br /></div><div>Things have been like that lately; no matter how close I get to tugging the hair out of my scalp or punching somebody in the face, there always seems to be at least one part in my day just like that sweater - waiting for me (so warm, so welcoming) in spite of everything.</div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-42903431519393923772009-02-19T21:39:00.005-06:002009-02-19T22:34:42.437-06:002/19/2009 - Plot TwistPizza House looks like the kind of place that would serve pizzas with hairs baked into the crust. The same beaten-up, turquoise, 1980-something Ford is perpetually parked out front and inside works a man who looks like he stumbled in off the streets, fell into an apron and picked up a broom. They serve the cheapest and most delicious pizza I've ever wrapped my mouth around, however, so I'm not one to judge.<div><br /></div><div>The shop is staffed by several men whose ethnic origin I have never been able to establish. Their pizza and cinnamon sticks are a gift I give myself every once in a while when I'm particularly stressed or hungry, and when I open the door to pick up my fare they recognize me and greet me with great enthusiasm. The short smiling man asks me about my haircut/my boyfriend/my schooling, or at least this is what I think he asks me; I've never been able to understand the phrasing through his thick accent.</div><div><br /></div><div>But Pizza House is just how my day ended; here's how it began:</div><div><br /></div><div>7:07 a.m. my final alarm goes off like a starting gun.</div><div><br /></div><div>Midmorning, my 7-year-old mentoring buddy invited me to go roller skating with him. My heart soars; not because I could actually accept the invitation, but because the younger generations are keeping my roller skating dream alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>At some point after 11:00 a higher-up in the echelons of OCU refers to the pile of papers on her desk ask "this shit". I love having the opportunity to hear someone I admire employ a well-placed curse word. </div><div><br /></div><div>Near noon a particularly heavy box of papers headed for the recycling bin, a dolly and I ride the wheelchair lift in the Administration building.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my bosses gives me permission to borrow any one of the bounty of new nonfiction novels stored in her office. I die a little bit - blissfully.</div><div><br /></div><div>Late afternoon I witness a young man in the library trying hard to peer over his dark sunglasses at the computer screen in front of him. In the library. </div><div><br /></div><div>Moments later, upstairs at my job, I notice a note left by a worker in the office notebook: "I turned the book into Rod Jones." I think somebody forgot a space.</div><div><br /></div><div>While preparing a mailing list I have the opportunity to listen to the latest episode of <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=374">This American Life</a>. <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Episode.aspx?episode=374">This</a> is what good radio journalism/art is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Early evening. I go into class thinking that the only thing standing between me and an all-around ok day is 80 minutes of head-nodding and note-taking. </div><div><br /></div><div>7:30, I leave so wracked with tension that my hands are shaking. I am suddenly reminded that confrontation makes me feel like I'm on the verge of a heart-attack.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wasn't expecting that one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nighttime at last. I eat pizza.</div><div><br /></div><div>Moxie gets his head stuck in a plastic cup. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hilarity ensues.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wash the dishes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wash my face.</div><div><br /></div><div>I call it a night.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278625.post-12180323000024792192009-02-18T17:30:00.005-06:002009-02-18T18:18:05.721-06:002/18/2009 - The Rose<div>...in reverse:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Day 3:</span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SZyaphfxzDI/AAAAAAAAAW0/tZHN3x9ko7E/s1600-h/Moxie+024.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SZyaphfxzDI/AAAAAAAAAW0/tZHN3x9ko7E/s200/Moxie+024.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304284499292572722" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Day 2:</span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SZyapSIqXqI/AAAAAAAAAWs/hdlzz6nMj98/s1600-h/Moxie+022.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SZyapSIqXqI/AAAAAAAAAWs/hdlzz6nMj98/s200/Moxie+022.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304284495169085090" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Day 1:</span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SZyao8q191I/AAAAAAAAAWk/0ifclchrjD0/s1600-h/Misc+020.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8KRvLO-X3ow/SZyao8q191I/AAAAAAAAAWk/0ifclchrjD0/s200/Misc+020.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304284489406871378" /></a>The answer to your question is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">yes</span></span>, that is a chip canister I'm using for a vase.DiceyMayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03836426441846551564noreply@blogger.com0