I, after years of experimenting, still haven't learned. Still!
Even after taking a class called Blogs and More, I still can't get the hang of it. (Great class, but I preferred the "more" over the "blogs.") (In other words, I really prefer writing columns.) I, personally, think daily life is pretty exciting. But nobody wants to read about mine because I'm not a celebrity!
I do, however, want to blog. So I need to pick a topic. Something unique. Something I can type about with authority, or a part of something I can shed new light on.
Awhile ago, I thought about collecting interesting and/or funny things I overhear. But then I'd be copying Overheard in New York. (For the record, I didn't know O.i.NY. existed until after I got my idea! I'm chock full of great ideas other people have already had. lol.)
I could write about bikes like Eric, only I don't know anything about them! And speaking of classmates/colleagues, Wendy's got a great blog, too.
I also thought about taking photos and posting them. But my camera's not great, and I'd just be copying Sergey.
Some of you already know what I dig: health and nutrition (not to be confused with medicine. That I do not dig.), freelance writing!, watching my DVD collection grow (while my bank account shrinks), talking to strangers, mental health! (my mom's a mental health counselor. It rubs off a little.), etc. I could probably write about all those things, but if I want to stick to the formula for blog success, I should probably pick one topic and pay attention for related stuff I can talk about every day.
But the question still is...which one?
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Airing of the Grievances
The holidays have ended. But let's rewind. Step back in time with me, for lack of a less lame phrase, to December 23rd.
FESTIVUS! Why do I desire to celebrate the holiday that some guy who worked on Seinfeld-'s dad created because he didn't like Christmas, or something? Because it's a chance to clear the air, to air some grievances. To set up the Festivus Pole and participate in the feats of strength, or whatever.
This year, for Festivus, I know who I want to wrestle. I want to wrestle...
the U.S. Postal Service.
That's right. This, coming from a postal family (not postal like crazy, but postal like multiple family members have worked and/or work for the post office, like my grandpa, my aunt, an uncle and an uncle-in-law [Yes. Uncle-in-law.]) member, is due in part to the fact that, for some reason unbeknownst to me, every employee of the postal service who comes in contact with mail that I send, is incompetant. To put it nicely.
I forgave them for the time the mail didn't come until 8:30 at night.
I forgave them - eventually - for the time 17 of the 20 college graduation announcements I sent disappeared. (They're probably where the socks go. Or maybe lodged under the seat in my mail carrier's car? Hmm.) (I sent them two weeks before I graduated. The missing 17 are still in limbo. My return address means nothing to them! And I've had a BA for months, now. No excuse. None whatsoever.)
I'm still in the process of forgiving them for when my aunt's Christmas card never arrived (despite the fact that I mailed two cards to her house that day, from the same mail box outside of Publix, and the other one arrived).
And I am at an utterly complete loss for words since today, I came home to find that half the mail that arrived was not, in fact, ours. At all. Not even close. Well, a little close. But no cigar. And considering the afforementioned no-no's committed by the postal service, it's not good for business to try me any more than they have.
Or alas...is it? See, they're just mocking me now, and I know it. I see the dirty looks she gives me when she slips right past my box without filling it some weekends. I know she's got mail for us just as much as she knows I call to complain, now, every time something slips up. (i.e. the FIVE times during the last two months I've called for reasons similar to today's mishap.)
I. Will. Not. Lose. This. Very frustrating, borderline incredibly unbelievable, battle.
I absolutely will not. I will just FedEx. Maybe even UPS. Hand deliveries, anyone? In fact, the post office sent a survey recently - in response to my many complaints - and a self addressed stamped envelope. Ha! They want me to mail it back. The U.S. Postal Service...such a tease!
FESTIVUS! Why do I desire to celebrate the holiday that some guy who worked on Seinfeld-'s dad created because he didn't like Christmas, or something? Because it's a chance to clear the air, to air some grievances. To set up the Festivus Pole and participate in the feats of strength, or whatever.
This year, for Festivus, I know who I want to wrestle. I want to wrestle...
the U.S. Postal Service.
That's right. This, coming from a postal family (not postal like crazy, but postal like multiple family members have worked and/or work for the post office, like my grandpa, my aunt, an uncle and an uncle-in-law [Yes. Uncle-in-law.]) member, is due in part to the fact that, for some reason unbeknownst to me, every employee of the postal service who comes in contact with mail that I send, is incompetant. To put it nicely.
I forgave them for the time the mail didn't come until 8:30 at night.
I forgave them - eventually - for the time 17 of the 20 college graduation announcements I sent disappeared. (They're probably where the socks go. Or maybe lodged under the seat in my mail carrier's car? Hmm.) (I sent them two weeks before I graduated. The missing 17 are still in limbo. My return address means nothing to them! And I've had a BA for months, now. No excuse. None whatsoever.)
I'm still in the process of forgiving them for when my aunt's Christmas card never arrived (despite the fact that I mailed two cards to her house that day, from the same mail box outside of Publix, and the other one arrived).
And I am at an utterly complete loss for words since today, I came home to find that half the mail that arrived was not, in fact, ours. At all. Not even close. Well, a little close. But no cigar. And considering the afforementioned no-no's committed by the postal service, it's not good for business to try me any more than they have.
Or alas...is it? See, they're just mocking me now, and I know it. I see the dirty looks she gives me when she slips right past my box without filling it some weekends. I know she's got mail for us just as much as she knows I call to complain, now, every time something slips up. (i.e. the FIVE times during the last two months I've called for reasons similar to today's mishap.)
I. Will. Not. Lose. This. Very frustrating, borderline incredibly unbelievable, battle.
I absolutely will not. I will just FedEx. Maybe even UPS. Hand deliveries, anyone? In fact, the post office sent a survey recently - in response to my many complaints - and a self addressed stamped envelope. Ha! They want me to mail it back. The U.S. Postal Service...such a tease!
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Haste makes waste.
I have a hilarious family, with one catch: we're probably just hilarious to us. Mostly just to me. Regardless, I think we could have a show. Even if I'm the only one who watches it.
Take, for example, today's burger adventure. While my mom and I wrapped up a church function, my dad unwrapped a $13 package of ground round, rolled it into balls that he flattened, slapped the patties onto a plate and covered it with plastic wrap. We walked in, and since all I'd had all day was a breakfast bar I shouldn't have eaten, and a chocolate kiss I shouldn't have eaten either, I really looked forward to a burger, medium-well with melted cheddar, sprinkled adobo and a freshly baked bun from Publix.
But the burgers weren't on the grill.
My dad couldn't find the metal spatula with the long wooden handle, and he won't grill without it. So we tore through the kitchen, the pantry, the dining room bar. No metal grilling spatulas. None. Then, we toyed with the idea that we may have tossed it, due to brokenness or rust, and forgotten. So he settled for metal tongs, and in a hurry, took the plate of patties through the porch to the backyard, where the grill sat, with grates that needed to be scraped before grilling any more food.
I'm not really sure how the burger blunder came to pass, but a few minutes later - and probably due to the fact that he only has two hands - my dad walked into the kitchen with a plate of grass-covered patties.
I, bright as I am, thought the grass was rosemary. My mom, on the other hand, knew right away.
My dad placed the plate on the counter, and turned on the faucet.
I totally thought he planned to rinse them off. Lol. It turned out, however, that he'd planned to wash his hands and send me to Publix for another $13 package of meat. While I was there, I ventured to the kitchen utenstils aisle, just in case.
No metal grilling spatuals. None. (Apparently, they only sell those in the summer. Because people only grill in the summer?)
My parents called while I was out buying meat and not buying spatulas, because they decided they wanted fries to go with the burgers. That didn't work out, though, since my phone was on the living room table the whole time.
I love us.
- - - -
Me: "Dad, you left one of the lights on."
My dad: "I know. I have to synchronize the switches again."
- - - -
[during the movie "Two Weeks," a split second after Sally Field's character passes away:]
my dad: "She probably had too much Boniva."
- - - -
Me: [sneezes]
My brother: "Shut up."
- - - -
My dad: "Pass the salad dressing, please."
Me: "In a minute."
My dad: "What up wit 'dis?! What up wit YOU?!"
- - - -
:)
Take, for example, today's burger adventure. While my mom and I wrapped up a church function, my dad unwrapped a $13 package of ground round, rolled it into balls that he flattened, slapped the patties onto a plate and covered it with plastic wrap. We walked in, and since all I'd had all day was a breakfast bar I shouldn't have eaten, and a chocolate kiss I shouldn't have eaten either, I really looked forward to a burger, medium-well with melted cheddar, sprinkled adobo and a freshly baked bun from Publix.
But the burgers weren't on the grill.
My dad couldn't find the metal spatula with the long wooden handle, and he won't grill without it. So we tore through the kitchen, the pantry, the dining room bar. No metal grilling spatulas. None. Then, we toyed with the idea that we may have tossed it, due to brokenness or rust, and forgotten. So he settled for metal tongs, and in a hurry, took the plate of patties through the porch to the backyard, where the grill sat, with grates that needed to be scraped before grilling any more food.
I'm not really sure how the burger blunder came to pass, but a few minutes later - and probably due to the fact that he only has two hands - my dad walked into the kitchen with a plate of grass-covered patties.
I, bright as I am, thought the grass was rosemary. My mom, on the other hand, knew right away.
My dad placed the plate on the counter, and turned on the faucet.
I totally thought he planned to rinse them off. Lol. It turned out, however, that he'd planned to wash his hands and send me to Publix for another $13 package of meat. While I was there, I ventured to the kitchen utenstils aisle, just in case.
No metal grilling spatuals. None. (Apparently, they only sell those in the summer. Because people only grill in the summer?)
My parents called while I was out buying meat and not buying spatulas, because they decided they wanted fries to go with the burgers. That didn't work out, though, since my phone was on the living room table the whole time.
I love us.
- - - -
Me: "Dad, you left one of the lights on."
My dad: "I know. I have to synchronize the switches again."
- - - -
[during the movie "Two Weeks," a split second after Sally Field's character passes away:]
my dad: "She probably had too much Boniva."
- - - -
Me: [sneezes]
My brother: "Shut up."
- - - -
My dad: "Pass the salad dressing, please."
Me: "In a minute."
My dad: "What up wit 'dis?! What up wit YOU?!"
- - - -
:)
Friday, January 18, 2008
In granddad's steps: stories you stumble upon
One day last month, I showed up to work a little later than usual. I was so stoked when I saw six twenty-somethings riding fixed gear bikes around the parking lot. (Fyi: I did not know they were fixed gear bikes at the time. I also didn't know what fixed gear bikes were. Lol.)
Anyway, I could not get me to walk away without saying something to them. Something in my head kept saying, "talk to them! talk to them!" So I said hello. Lo and behold, five of them were siblings. Lo and beholder, one of them was Nate Young, Anberlin's drummer.
This is cool for two reasons:
1. Anberlin was like my favorite band in high school.
2. Reunion! I interviewed him for this a few years ago (fair warning: old stuff. Not my best work ever.)
That morning, I chatted with one of the Youngs about the upcoming Gasparilla race. She brought it up when I told her where I work. High fives all around to Stephanie, for spotting such a great story idea. I hope I did it justice.
This is why I eavesdrop. Lol. Talk to strangers. Have a staring problem. It's a great way to stumble upon great stories!
Anyway, I could not get me to walk away without saying something to them. Something in my head kept saying, "talk to them! talk to them!" So I said hello. Lo and behold, five of them were siblings. Lo and beholder, one of them was Nate Young, Anberlin's drummer.
This is cool for two reasons:
1. Anberlin was like my favorite band in high school.
2. Reunion! I interviewed him for this a few years ago (fair warning: old stuff. Not my best work ever.)
That morning, I chatted with one of the Youngs about the upcoming Gasparilla race. She brought it up when I told her where I work. High fives all around to Stephanie, for spotting such a great story idea. I hope I did it justice.
This is why I eavesdrop. Lol. Talk to strangers. Have a staring problem. It's a great way to stumble upon great stories!
"I cannot believe how you attract pitbulls." -Laurel
I can't say I was surprised Monday when I found a pit bull in the yard.
She was beautiful, clean, red and sitting in the grass near the street. Another dog, I accepted the truth about my family. Dogs like us. I mean, they really like us. They jump-into-your-car-when-you-open-the-door like us. (True story.)
"Well hello, puppy," I said.
We've housed them, found homes for them, bailed them out of the pound. But I had places to go, people to see. I hoped, a little, that she'd ignore me so I could leave with ease and without the guilt of leaving behind one of the big puppy dogs with the big puppy dog eyes that make the toughest guys with the thickest skin tear up a little.
But she stood up. My greeting sparked her interest. I didn't want to make any sudden movements, for fear of scaring her or losing some of my limbs, but when she wandered into the street - apparently for a nap - I decided to intervene.
"Puppy, don't sleep in the street," I said.
In dog talk, I guess "puppy don't sleep in the street" means "please, charge at me, I beg of you!"
So there I stood, with this ginormous pit bull charging up the hill toward me. I kind of wanted to cry, but I mostly just said "please don't bite me, please don't bite me" until she sprung up, slapped my stomach with her paws and commenced Lick Fest 2008.
It was kind of gross. But she sat on my foot and I stooped to her level, which is when she lunged at my face. That was slightly horrifying, but I'm pretty sure she was playing and since she didn't bite me, I'll cut her a little slack.
I was late, by then, for my chiropractor's appointment but I still didn't have the heart to leave. I wanted to find her house, or tie her up so she wouldn't get hit by a car. I didn't want to call animal control. So I did what anyone would have done: just kinda stood there for awhile.
She peed by the mailbox.
She sniffed the neighbor's grill.
She chased a jogger. (She growled, and snarled, and everything! But seriously. Somebody needs to tell that guy not to swat and/or run while he's the subject of a pitbull chase.) (And she didn't bite him, just so you know.)
Then, she wandered off.
I made it to the chiropractor. Hopefully, she made it home.
She was beautiful, clean, red and sitting in the grass near the street. Another dog, I accepted the truth about my family. Dogs like us. I mean, they really like us. They jump-into-your-car-when-you-open-the-door like us. (True story.)
"Well hello, puppy," I said.
We've housed them, found homes for them, bailed them out of the pound. But I had places to go, people to see. I hoped, a little, that she'd ignore me so I could leave with ease and without the guilt of leaving behind one of the big puppy dogs with the big puppy dog eyes that make the toughest guys with the thickest skin tear up a little.
But she stood up. My greeting sparked her interest. I didn't want to make any sudden movements, for fear of scaring her or losing some of my limbs, but when she wandered into the street - apparently for a nap - I decided to intervene.
"Puppy, don't sleep in the street," I said.
In dog talk, I guess "puppy don't sleep in the street" means "please, charge at me, I beg of you!"
So there I stood, with this ginormous pit bull charging up the hill toward me. I kind of wanted to cry, but I mostly just said "please don't bite me, please don't bite me" until she sprung up, slapped my stomach with her paws and commenced Lick Fest 2008.
It was kind of gross. But she sat on my foot and I stooped to her level, which is when she lunged at my face. That was slightly horrifying, but I'm pretty sure she was playing and since she didn't bite me, I'll cut her a little slack.
I was late, by then, for my chiropractor's appointment but I still didn't have the heart to leave. I wanted to find her house, or tie her up so she wouldn't get hit by a car. I didn't want to call animal control. So I did what anyone would have done: just kinda stood there for awhile.
She peed by the mailbox.
She sniffed the neighbor's grill.
She chased a jogger. (She growled, and snarled, and everything! But seriously. Somebody needs to tell that guy not to swat and/or run while he's the subject of a pitbull chase.) (And she didn't bite him, just so you know.)
Then, she wandered off.
I made it to the chiropractor. Hopefully, she made it home.
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