tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89029875134919151862024-02-18T17:42:59.896-08:00and birdy makes threeliving every week like it's shark weekHeatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.comBlogger239125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-86690038916428721902015-01-03T14:33:00.000-08:002015-10-19T14:56:59.640-07:00on being new this year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last year, around this time, was not an exciting time. It was not very hopeful. It was not very happy. I was very sad, and tired, and frustrated, and overwhelmed and also full of mourning.<br />
<br />
Last year, in January, being nine months pregnant (really ten, but who's counting) and having a husband you would rather have in the hospital than out, and not knowing how much longer he's going to be around, and how much this is going to cost, and how are you going to parent one child, let alone two, especially by yourself, does not lend a good outlook on the rest of the year. The Hoosband was in the hospital initially until January 4th. That night and the following two days at home were terrifying--when something goes wrong in the hospital, people who take care of other people professionally are around. At home there is me. And my daughter. And my mom, who is a nurse as well, but without the aid of anything life-saving around her.<br />
<br />
Would I wake up with my husband dead next to me? What does a stroke really look like? What does it look like when someone has blood clots in their heart? What if he dies in front of Birdy? These were my thoughts constantly while he was home. I never thought that he would get better.<br />
<br />
Then I went to work on Sunday. Then I got a call from him, sounding terrified, because he couldn't feel his feet. Or most of his legs. Then I ran home (one of the benefits of working and living on a college campus mean you really can RUN home), and nearly lost it while we were getting his stuff together, which made him freak out a little, and he asked me to stop. Then I did. I did the full face-wipe and willed myself to stop crying. I pulled it together, and to this day I have no idea how I did that. My mom and I got him out of our apartment, down the 12 concrete steps, and into our car. And I drove him to the hospital.<br />
<br />
Then he had two spinal surgeries in a week.<br />
<br />
Then he didn't come home for over a month and half.<br />
<br />
And he couldn't walk.<br />
<br />
Also, they discovered he had cancer, but that was the least of our concerns. I don't think many people have that experience with cancer.<br />
<br />
But the best part, the single best part of last year was when I had my son. My baby. I love him so, so, so much. It's so scary loving someone so much; having Birdy was terrifying like that too. And the Hoosband got to meet him, in his magic chair-transforming hospital bed, with all of us in our hospital gowns and blankets, in the L&D room. It was one of those "is this MY life?" moments.<br />
<br />
When you are saying your marriage vows, when you are 21 and have led a comfortable life with parents who love each other, things like the "worse" part and the "sickness" part are very distant probably-not-going-to-happen-to-me things. But sometimes they do happen, and most of the time they happen hand in hand. And very, very, very infrequently they happen alongside the "better" things, and the "health" things, and that's when it get really strange and hard and confusing.<br />
<br />
But we got through it. I got through it. And I wouldn't have done it as well if it weren't for our parents, and the incredible people in our lives.<br />
<br />
Last year was a year of things happening to me and my family, some very serious things, and some things that were easier to just have happen than to do anything about.<br />
<br />
But this year is different. There were a lot of struggles last year, but there were so, so, so many blessings. This year, this is the year of amazing things.<br />
<br />
The first thing I did was get a hair cut on December 31st. I haven't done that since June of 2013. Yep. Moving on.<br />
<br />
Then I bought some lipstick. Red lipstick. Well, a "lip crayon," really, which does sound more approachable than lipstick.<br />
<br />
Then I signed up for a lecture at my local REI on walking the Camino de Santiago in Spain. It doesn't matter that I won't be going for years. I'm doing it anyway.<br />
<br />
Then I joined Weight Watchers (again), but also added the meetings. I went to my first one today. I can't stop smiling about it, though I weighed in at 243 pounds (real talk), which is the heaviest I have ever been. But I don't care. My goal weight is 80 pounds from here, but I don't care. If I lose nothing at all, it doesn't really matter, since I'm me whatever I look like. I'm me. I'm me!<br />
<br />
And I kind of like me, and I'm working to like me more every day.<br />
<br />
Guys, I'm excited. I'm looking forward and not behind or at my feet, and I'm not afraid (maybe a little apprehensive, but not afraid) of the future.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-1705677209391037212014-11-10T13:58:00.001-08:002014-11-10T13:58:54.774-08:00monday, monday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is fall here.<br />
<br />
This means it's still sunny, and that it will only get to 75 degrees instead of 80. Also, there may be fog in the morning, but it will be gone in like, 20 minutes. So don't get used to it.<br />
<br />
Birdy is in school, and she's in first grade. This year's teacher is much more teacher-y than last year. Last year's teacher seems to perhaps have forgotten why she wanted to go into teaching and is hanging on until she can retire. This gives her about 15 more years molding young minds.<br />
<br />
Robin was in daycare, and now he's not. Something about pneumonia twice in three months really seems to answer the "should I go back to work?" questions fairly quickly.<br />
<br />
The Hoosband is still at work.<br />
<br />
I am having a Diet Coke for lunch.<br />
<br />
This is our exciting life.</div>
Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-8368049991269417172013-04-22T10:42:00.000-07:002013-04-22T10:42:02.463-07:00likes and maybesI have lived in California for long enough now that I can find things I like about this place. It took nearly four years, but I got there.<br />
<br />
I have always loved (even when I hated just about everything else here) late afternoon. The setting sun gives everything a golden quality and tone. Colors are brighter, the sky is bluer, and it seems like the best of California is crammed into the two hours before sunset. As we also live in the shadow of some rather large hills, the sky stays light long after the sun has retreated down the rambling tree-covered slopes on it's way to the ocean. When that happens, trees and buildings seem to be lit from within; the reflection of the sky throwing luminous, pearl-like light down to the earth, creating not-shadows--those slightly darker smudges you see only at dawn and dusk.<br />
<br />
And also, like Christine says, parts of 280 (I have not lived here long enough to call the major highways and freeways THE 280, or THE 101, like they are the only roads of importance anywhere in this world) are beautiful in the spring.<br />
<br />
The little cave that leads to the river flowing into the ocean on Seabright Beach is beautiful, even if some of that beauty is due to the proliferation of seaweed growing on the old (really old, thank goodness) sewer lines from Santa Cruz that lead to the ocean.<br />
<br />
I like the coolness of the morning here, since it seems like the air is fresher at the beginning of the day. With so many people living here, the air at the end of the day and into the night seems tired from brushing over so many things while the sun is up.<br />
<br />
I like Bill's Cafe. No, I love Bill's Cafe. And Ike's.<br />
<br />
I like that Birdy's clothes are able to be worn all year long. No cold weather clothes needed here, saving us some dough.<br />
<br />
I like seeing the hills on either side of the valley and knowing the ocean is just over <i>there</i>. Living here made me realize that for me, hills and mountains are home more than just about anything else. Except maybe farmland.<br />
<br />
I like that the trees have green leaves for eight months out of the year.<br />
<br />
I like that we have farmer's markets all year round, and that you can buy cheese, meat, and fish there as well.<br />
<br />
Leading up to our move to California, I was worried. About our <a href="http://babybirdy.blogspot.com/2009/06/something-to-remember.html" target="_blank">marriage</a>, or the <a href="http://babybirdy.blogspot.com/2009/06/heather-in-real-life.html" target="_blank">distance from friends and family</a>. This was a <a href="http://babybirdy.blogspot.com/2009/06/hello-my-3.html" target="_blank">new place</a>, and unlike everywhere else I had lived. I had these ideas of "blooming where I'm planted," since we had no idea where we were going to live leading up to the job offer that came quite a long time after the interviews were over. And while I tried to talk myself into enjoying where we lived, I failed at it pretty miserably.<br />
<br />
Spectacularly, really.<br />
<br />
Several times a day I thought to myself, "if I just got in the car and drove, I'd be home in 13 hours." Home had regressed to where my parents lived, not where we had lived in Pullman or where we were living now. I was miserable, and took it out on The Hoosband. My worries about the health of our marriage were proving to be valid. I hated living here, away from everyone and knowing nobody but Ben, a friend and co-worker from our last jobs at RSU. But thank God for Ben--having him here gave us something to do on the weekends and someone to talk to.<br />
<br />
I didn't anticipate that moving from a rural town to the Bay Area would be very much like moving to a different country. People were so different here, and there were stores and restaurants and freeways and it was so overwhelming on so many levels. Every time I left the house, I would see no one I knew or recognized. It was never quiet; people were everywhere. The women dressed differently here, and I didn't fit in with both my clothes and the way I looked. We didn't know anyone with kids Birdy's age, or with kids at all, really.<br />
<br />
When I did find someone to be a friend, I had so much need in me I believe I overwhelmed her. I knew I was doing it, but I couldn't stop. I needed someone to talk to that would answer back in complete sentences (thanks for being a baby, Birdy), who I could talk about my feelings without making them feel responsible for them (the Hoosband), and who also had a small child and didn't have time to shower every day either.<br />
<br />
It has taken nearly four years, but I have a few friends here and a I have a job that at times may be annoying, it at least makes me annoyed at things I can walk away from at the end of the day. I still don't love it here, but I tolerate it, which is saying something considering where I started. I'm thankful also that I was miserable when Birdy was so young, since now she'd definitely notice, and as a parent you are supposed to a leader to your young children and not lean on them.<br />
<br />
Wherever we go next, whenever we get there, I'm hoping that I'll have a better attitude and be more prepared with my emotional health. Maybe next time, I'll be ready for the change--really ready. And maybe I'll be less like a standoffish Seattleite and stop looking at people like they have three heads when they start to talk to me at the grocery store. And maybe I'll seek out a community instead of waiting for one to come to me. And maybe we'll move back to Washington, where people are normal and it rains all the time and Birdy can ride a bus to school. And maybe I'll make some good friends, but live close to the ones I already have.<br />
<br />
Maybe.Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-50914845107590291492012-08-30T10:02:00.002-07:002012-08-30T10:02:42.449-07:00beer and tulips and beer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I may have some news.<br />
<br />
I may be going on a trip. In October. To foreign countries. On another continent. In October.<br />
<br />
I will not be accepting this will happen until I am walking down the jet way into an airplane destined for Amsterdam with my knapsack on my back (valdereeee, valderah, etc.).<br />
<br />
For now, with work squared away (they are being very kind an allowing me to be gone for nearly a month in a job that is only 10 months of the year), childcare taken care of (best sister-in-law ever!), Hoosband supportive, and a knapsack given to me for my birthday last year, this is still only a possibility for me.<br />
<br />
Allow me to explain.<br />
<br />
My father works in the glass finishing and manufacturing industry. Cosmopolitan, I know, and it's a testament to my parents that I grew up so modest and nonchalant about such things. Every two years, a large conference is held in Dusseldorf, Germany for all the exciting, globe-trotting glass finishing and manufacturing professionals out there. I was especially aware of this from a young age, since it meant my dad missed every other birthday of mine growing up because he was being an exciting glass finishing professional, while I got to stay at home with my roommates (mother and brother, respectively) and celebrate most birthdays without him. I was a little pissed. Most of the time.<br />
<br />
When I got older, my dad said I could come with if I wanted (perhaps to get me to stop complaining about my missed birthdays, since I could hardly complain when abroad). I did want to, but for reasons I don't understand I went on about school, and swimming, and then there was college, and then I had a job, and THEN I was actually going to go and then I got pregnant. That was my first conscious though as I looked at the positive pregnancy test: No Germany. I was angry for about the first 9 months of my pregnancy about that.<br />
<br />
So, fast forward three years and my mom finally decides "maybe I want to go to Germany." She said it with about that much enthusiasm, too. She's not one for long distance travel, which boggles the mind since pretty much all I want to do at any given time is travel long distance. So, with my mom on board on the condition that I go so she has someone to do things with during the conference and the knowledge that I had over a year to save up, I thought I was all squared away to go.<br />
<br />
And then life, like it always seems to do, got in the way. And I couldn't make the trip. Again.<br />
<br />
But now, with all sorts of improbable things happening, it seems like I may be able to go.<br />
<br />
However, it's not going to real for me until I am walking into the plane, finding my seat, and sitting down. Flying up to drop Birdy off near Portland? Nope. Taking the train to Seattle? Nope. Packing everything away in aforementioned knapsack? Nope. I'm pretty sure that when I do sit down and buckle my seat belt, that I'm going to start crying out of disbelief and gratitude toward everyone in my life.<br />
<br />
My desire to travel is nearly corporeal; I catch glimpses of it out of the corners of my eye, seeing it near my luggage or travel books. I feel it's presence when I drive past the airport, and can nearly taste it's tang if I see a friend's photos from abroad or walk by a gate and see passengers boarding flights destined for London, or Amsterdam, or Barcelona. I want to go so badly I'm afraid of it. I don't think I can stand mourning (really, mourning) the loss of the trip again so everything in my mind is provisional. Months ago, I had given up on the trip and out of self-preservation got into armchair traveling. I decided I would read books and watch movies and see the world that way, instead of being able to physically visit. It worked for Anne, it would work for me.<br />
<br />
I was getting pretty good at it too, until my mom wanted to talk about Europe again this summer and my wanderlust came back so quickly it was like getting the breath knocked out of me. But I could not allow myself to think about it as real, even we sat down and talked (with both of them wearing matching bright pink reading glasses and identical expressions on their faces, which was hilarious) about airfare, and hotels, and places we each would like to see.<br />
<br />
So. <br />
<br />
I'm going on a theoretical trip halfway across the world to drink beer, see some flowers, visit some museums, and most importantly breathe air in a place I've never been before. </div>
Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-19671342510707744772012-08-29T10:21:00.002-07:002012-08-29T10:21:54.314-07:00feeling good inside and stuff like that<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Please watch, because it's too funny. And Murray's back! And the guys interview kids! And sing a song! Interviews start around 5:10.</div>
Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-6712912678595729012012-08-28T23:55:00.001-07:002012-08-28T23:55:43.076-07:00this beer's for you, ben<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Benjamin Franklin once said that "beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." This is also coming from the man who would walk around naked to "air bathe" and also sent a key attached to kite to learn something about lightening. Further, Wikipedia tells me that Mr. Franklin was the sixth president of Pennsylvania (I learned to spell that when I was seven--proof the Pennsylvania school system works). While I love beer very much, and kites and nudity have their place, I would say that day care is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.<br />
<br />
I love Birdy. I do. But do you know what else I love? Uninterrupted time to do whatever I want or need. Oh, the bathroom needs to be cleaned? Reorganize a book shelf? Go to the Y and work out? Catch up on all the True Blood episodes I missed over the summer? Have those Morningstar Farms fake corndogs and share them with nobody? Why yes, please, I'd like to do any of the above on either Monday, Wednesday, or Friday.<br />
<br />
BECAUSE DAY CARE HAS STARTED MY FRIENDS, AND I'M LIVING THE DREAM.<br />
<br />
I've forgotten what its like to live with no one else (mostly because I've always lived with someone else). I feel like I have so much time on my hands. The closest thing I can think of that is similar was when Birdy was taking two naps a day. I felt like there was time for everything, all day every day.<br />
<br />Also, and I say this with love in my heart, but Birdy is driving me nuts. I also drive her nuts. I don't have to constantly be answering "Why?" questions, I don't have to find a way to not play with Barbies or My Little Pony, there is no one asking to watch Blue's Clues or Wonder Pets. My house is silent. If there is noise, I make it. If the television is on, it's something I want to watch. And I have to share my vegetarian corn dogs with no one. Unless I want to (and I don't. Ever.). For Birdy, there are small humans to play with, play-doh to roll, books to read, a playground to explore, and hermit crabs to stare at for seconds at a time. We both win. <br />
<br />
So thank you God and Jesus, for day care and for the people who work there. Thank you for my job and the Hoosband's job who make this possible. And thank you for Birdy, and her brain that will be filled with fun things three days a week from 8-5. <br />
<br />
And thank you for my quiet house. <br />
<br />
And those corn dogs. Mostly the corn dogs.</div>
Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-21706229461612756542012-01-01T23:39:00.000-08:002012-01-01T23:39:42.643-08:00december, you sly dog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">In case you are wondering? It's January.<br />
<br />
Of 2012. What kind of a number is that? It's like 4 a.m., the made up time that doesn't really exist. It also seems like such a big number, and makes me realize I'm turning 29 for the first time this October.<br />
<br />
Five years ago, I had been married for nearly a year and a half and was in grad school. Also, getting progressively chubbier (still not really fat at that time).<br />
<br />
Ten years ago, I was a high school senior getting ready for a civics competition and thinking I was fat (I wasn't).<br />
<br />
Fifteen years ago, I was in seventh grade. It was predictably horrible, and I thought I was fat.<br />
<br />
Where did that time go, and most importantly, what happened to time since the middle of November? Did Thanksgiving actually happen, or are my memories just me in a Peanuts special? I remember popcorn and jellybeans, but I'm sure turkey was in there somewhere.<br />
<br />
I remember when we were living with my grandparents and I was 10 and the week between Christmas and New Year's was the longest week of my life to date. It took forever for something exciting to come, and New Year's wasn't even all that exciting for a 10 year-old. My brother and I did what we could to kill each other to help pass the time, but our plans were foiled every time by our mother and grandmother.<br />
<br />
I'll take time off of blaming my mother for everything that happened to me then and blame her for poofing December away from me. What did you do to December, mom? WHAT DID YOU DO?<br />
<br />
But really, it seems like time has flown by so quickly and I can't figure out where it went. We had a great Christmas, and a great Advent season as well. Having a child around who actually understands what is going to happen on December 25th puts joyful anticipation on whole new level. It's been one of the best seasons of Advent I've had, and I didn't even go to church at all.<br />
<br />
I know, I know. I need to work on that.<br />
<br />
There are many exciting things that are happening this year, and I hope that time doesn't go by so quickly I can't remember them or that I can't remember my mom stealing the time from me (I haven't forgotten your hoo-doo and the taking of this past December yet Beth). This year I want to try to live more intentionally and to focus more on what is happening right now. I miss so much by going through the days in a tired, hazy blur. 2012 will hopefully be full of good memories fueled by bracing cups of coffee that I'll be able to reminisce about far into 2013.<br />
<br />
And my mom is a lovely women who isn't a time thief, in case she's reading this.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-31129419921124593292011-11-25T17:22:00.000-08:002011-11-25T17:22:31.013-08:00wish i had a river<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><blockquote class="tr_bq">I want to preface this with saying that this post, like any other on here, isn't a ploy for sympathy or anything like that; it's just what I'm feeling right now as I sit down to write. I can be more candid here than in person because I can't see your face or hear your reaction. I try to be real here, because the impersonality of this blog is cathartic. So. Onward.</blockquote>Christmas for the Hoosband is exciting, and it's the same with Birdy. They are both so excited to get the tree up and listen to music and read Christmas-y stories. Hoosband gets such a feeling of satisfaction choosing the perfect gift for each person. Birdy yells "Santa! SANTA!" when she sees anything in red and white that may or may not have a beard.<br />
<br />
I am not that excited. <br />
<br />
Christmas makes me sad. It has for a while.<br />
<br />
I don't know why. <br />
<br />
If I think about the Christmas story, it makes me heartsick. Joseph, taking Mary on a journey so late in her pregnancy. Mary, scared that the baby will come too soon or too far away from a safe resting place. The sorrow and dismay they must have felt when there was no room for them anywhere but for a small cave that housed animals. Joseph, who must have been terrified (even if he had to marry the girl he was betrothed to when it was found out she was in the family way from God himself--and who wouldn't believe THAT story?) when Mary started to go into labor in earnest next to a bored looking goat. Or Mary, who was 14 or so and was having her first baby away from everything familiar except for her new husband (and that donkey they borrowed to go to Bethlehem in the first place, but who can count a donkey as a sincere friend?).<br />
<br />
It's just sad.<br />
<br />
When I think of Christmas, I have a feeling of longing so acute it brings tears to my eyes many times, yet I can't tell you what I'm longing for. Family? Maybe, but I feel it even when we are spending Christmas with our parents in Washington. I just know it makes my throat ache and my eyes water. I'm a grinch sometimes because I have to be--I don't want to feel like this all the time--not because I want to dampen the spirits of others. I look forward to the time after the gifts, when we're spending time together Birdy is in her cute dress.<br />
<br />
I just don't know what I'm sad about. I don't know why I don't get excited for Christmas morning, or giving people gifts, or singing songs. I just wish it was over. <br />
<br />
Which is also sad.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-61866501679045857712011-11-15T21:14:00.000-08:002011-11-15T21:14:12.461-08:00stupid brain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Today, my brain tryed to kill me, but its kung fu was no match for my karate. And my Aleve. And my bed, and napping. But it really did try to come out of my head, in the form of a migraine.<br />
<br />
Listen brain, I get it. I don't use you the way I used to, what with not reading the newspaper and reading escapism books instead of scholarly journals full of peer-reviewed articles coupled with my chronic dependence on calculators. I get it. I'm a total dummy now, and you find it insulting.<br />
<br />
But, let's face it, it doesn't give you the right to incapacitate me for the ENTIRE DAY. Luckily, the Hoosband was able to take the day off and watch Birdy, and I was able to make a date with my bed for the ENITRE DAY. I had the most cracked out dreams for the first five hours of intermittent dozing, and all had to do with how I couldn't call in to the sick line and say I couldn't come in. Some times, I couldn't find my phone. Others, I would dial the number, but be unable to talk. Or, I couldn't remember the phone number. So when I really did come out of my semi-coma, it was nearly one in the afternoon and I couldn't figure out if I DID call in or not. <br />
<br />
I didn't.<br />
<br />
So then I did.<br />
<br />
And then I checked in on Birdy and Hoosband, and then realized that the migraine wasn't gone and high-tailed it back to the bed.<br />
<br />
And that was my day. And now, all I want is ice cream, and I can't ask the Hoosband to go and get it because he's already been so nice all day.<br />
<br />
Meh.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-62949316471799149792011-11-14T23:42:00.000-08:002011-11-14T23:43:51.327-08:00you too much tv<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dealerrefresh.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/KarateKid_dealership2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" nda="true" src="http://www.dealerrefresh.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/KarateKid_dealership2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo from <a href="http://www.dealerrefresh.com/">http://www.dealerrefresh.com/</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
Birdy has taken to running around the house yelling "karate-YAH!" while air kicking.<br />
<br />
I have no idea where she gets this.<br />
<br />
I don't think I would do karate, and I'm reluctant to enroll her in classes where she could, in theory, learn to beat me up for putting her in time-out. It seems...worrying. Because, despite what Miyagi says, fighting is not fighting. No same same.<br />
<br />
Plus, with her being taller than a lot of other kids her age, I don't need to give her any unfair advantages in toy, art supply, or lunch money disputes.<br />
<br />
Perhaps, if things keep going this way, I'll have to turn into a single parent and move to China. Or send him to his auntie and uncle in Bel Air.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-23423138812919021582011-11-13T23:52:00.000-08:002011-11-13T23:52:40.300-08:00three wishes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm all out of good ideas, so I'm using one of the NaBloPoMo prompts: if you had three wishes, what would they be? <br />
<br />
I'm going to guess that wishing for more wishes is out, as is bringing back people from the dead or making someone fall in love with you (our time will come, Daniel Craig); I think it boils down to the rules for wishing in Aladdin. So, here we go.<br />
<br />
1. Health for my family. I would want the three of us to be healthy--especially Brandon. We're lucky so far, but if I could make his back better, I would.<br />
<br />
2. Financial security. Enough said.<br />
<br />
3. For all my friends who are trying to conceive to get pregnant and have tons of babies. Or, as many as they'd want.<br />
<br />
My wishes are so grown up now, which is kind of sad in itself. I guess that's what happens when you turn awesome. Five years ago, they would be so different from the wishes I would have had 15 years ago. Remember we would have wanted candy? Or to be an adult so we could do what we wanted? Or a swingset?<br />
<br />
What would your wishes be? </div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-2517736318483877162011-11-12T23:50:00.000-08:002011-11-13T00:04:09.262-08:00adventure time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3066/2839090909_7ede127c78_o.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" nda="true" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3066/2839090909_7ede127c78_o.gif" width="320" /></a></div>Today, Birdy and I went river rafting.<br />
<br />
In our living room.<br />
<br />
On the Xbox, the new sister-wife we welcomed into our family in an intimate ceremony involving our debit card and a rather crowded Microsoft Store.<br />
<br />
Xbox is fitting in well, and has already helped facilitate family time today. She seems to be a real gem.<br />
<br />
But the river rafting. Like I said, it was on the Xbox, and it's pretty simple. Like any river rafting experience, you're on a raft, and you have to get as many tokens as you can by leaning around the raft and jumping. Totally normal, done it a thousand times in real life. But doing it with a three year old is an etirely new experience. Those are times that I realize just how competitive I am. She was irritating the bejeezus out of me because she didn't understand the leaning and shuffling side-to-side. The fact that she is three and never had done it before escaped me as all the little tokens kept going by, unclaimed by us. I did manage to get a hold of myself and calmed down so I wouldn't be such a nut about it.<br />
<br />
It does seem pretty fun, and the Hoosband is enjoying his Christmabirthday present quite a bit. I just need to get that other kid off my raft so I can get those precious tokens.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Photo from </em></span><a href="http://www.thedomesticscientist.com/2008/09/08/home-is-where-the-controller-is/"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>http://www.thedomesticscientist.com/2008/09/08/home-is-where-the-controller-is/</em></span></a></div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-89947724492015722182011-11-11T17:57:00.000-08:002011-11-11T17:57:05.282-08:00the black pearl<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.celebrityimage.info/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Johnny-Depp-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="http://www.celebrityimage.info/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Johnny-Depp-1.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>There is a student here who looks EXACTLY like this photo. It's uncanny, really, and a little disconcerting, to be showing someone how to make coffee and BAM, there's Johnny. Or, checking menus or stocking cookies and BAM, Johnny. I see him nearly every night, and I'm still not used to it.<br />
<br />
I'm serious: he has the facial hair, and the hats, and the glasses. I'm sure he has a French wife hidden somewhere on campus, and giant scissors under his bed, and is planning a lunch date with Tim Burton to discuss his latest project.<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo courtesy of celebrityimage.info</span></em></div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-35904384702248000212011-11-10T23:34:00.000-08:002011-11-11T17:48:52.581-08:00harrassing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Tonight I had the privilege of completing a company-wide mandatory three hour sexual harassment training. On the computer. And it was narrated, and you had to go at a set pace...no skipping ahead.<br />
<br />
Within 30 seconds of the narration beginning, I imagined sitting down to this training and having my mom narrate it. It entertained me for <u>literally</u> three hours, imagining that it was my mom saying these things to me. One of the better parts was when they were talking about tone and inflection in compliments,as in "Nice haircut." Try and say that as skeezy as you can. Then imaging your mom saying it. That's the kind of humor you have to grasp at on your last work day of the week, you know?<br />
<br />
The training was also full of photos of people looking vaguely accusatory. They seemed to be thinking "this is your fault, you and your sexist thoughts and having relations in the bank vault with me, your assistant (that really happened, it was a court case, and I learned all about it). <br />
<br />
Did you know propositioning someone you work with is sexual harassment? I can't believe there would need to be clarification on that. I think propositioning ANYONE, ANYWHERE would be sexual harassment. That just seems like a no-brainer. In fact, so much of the information seemed like a no-brainer. The kinds of behavior that people think are acceptable, funny or whatever are mind-boggling. <br />
<br />
However, I did decide to treat myself to chicken fingers and sweet potato fries for being such an awesome and responsible employee coupled with the fact that I'm about 100% positive I haven't sexually harassed someone in the workplace before.<br />
<br />
I am also 100% sure that sweet potato fries are delicious.<br />
<br />
Also, NICE HAIRCUT.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-92060939947352773562011-11-09T23:52:00.000-08:002011-11-09T23:52:14.670-08:00metamorphosis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhjQaH7GbaRpmvwdvaKZROXao43eD2opLuFe7454_yCtBQx5OwVMsxb4cbj2OsUFxxRg0eHGKmMfgwhyEAnC8JKtHCkX7GTkM0Qj9npRNfpZOMITIiZciy9S4lEVt2iS_x7YPm08-h9Y/s1600/DSCN3321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhjQaH7GbaRpmvwdvaKZROXao43eD2opLuFe7454_yCtBQx5OwVMsxb4cbj2OsUFxxRg0eHGKmMfgwhyEAnC8JKtHCkX7GTkM0Qj9npRNfpZOMITIiZciy9S4lEVt2iS_x7YPm08-h9Y/s400/DSCN3321.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>I have some hard news to share: Birdy may be a vampire. <br />
<br />
On the day this photo was taken, she insisted on sleeping with all the curtains shut tight so it looked very close to twilight in the house. And then, when she got up, she wanted a snack. Like anyone would do, I put her in her chair and opened the blinds.<br />
<br />
You would have thought the sun was burning her alive the way she screamed that it was too bright. Please note the lighting in the photo--it was cloudy outside. She wouldn't calm down until I found her sunglasses; she proceeded to wear them for the next hour. In the semi-darkness.<br />
<br />
Does this mean we have to move to Washington now?<br />
</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-62839283314824831192011-11-08T12:04:00.000-08:002011-11-08T12:04:33.326-08:00NaBloPoMo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If you are either a writer, someone who wants a challenge, a challenging writer, or whatever, you may have heard of <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">NaNoWriMo</a>, or National Novel Writing Month. It's in November of each year, and the challenge is to write a novel in one month. I actually know <a href="http://www.kpquepasa.com/" target="_blank">someone</a> who has done this, and it's pretty impressive. I'd like to do it one day (year), but that is on hold for a while.<br />
<br />
Thus, since novel writing is too daunting, I'm doing something a little more manageable: NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month. They do it each month with a theme, but November is the general themed month where the object is to post every day. This, again, sounded manageable.<br />
<br />
I've found, however, that getting into the groove of writing again is difficult. It doesn't matter that I can string words together and have them make sense; it's that writing something that I would actually want to read again every day is hard. If this was in a journal, that would be fine, because no one reads that but me and that sounds like a much better place for writing exercises to take place. When I'm doing it here, in front of people, it's different. Having people see you when you know you aren't your best is humbling, to say the least. And it's also funny to me that I'm self-conscious about this. <br />
<br />
I suppose that is the goal of this exercise though, pushing me to be better at something every day that I wouldn't do otherwise. Perhaps next year will be the novel?</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-7583264222962561332011-11-07T12:14:00.000-08:002011-11-08T00:26:39.531-08:00fashion nonsense<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPv5MzlZKxQJVI-zDuHWl81ErSXfoB5fSTtJvt9Tw_wg8NN59KVQh3Ly5p12UPqsIjfSgtQgv-xZHB1paEQMl5nd7RZwywZCuhhITvFmZjsBbBrgdrVo5T7MwpZvXgrnKwT67g8PE-suc/s1600/DSC_4739.JPG" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPv5MzlZKxQJVI-zDuHWl81ErSXfoB5fSTtJvt9Tw_wg8NN59KVQh3Ly5p12UPqsIjfSgtQgv-xZHB1paEQMl5nd7RZwywZCuhhITvFmZjsBbBrgdrVo5T7MwpZvXgrnKwT67g8PE-suc/s320/DSC_4739.JPG" style="clear: both; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>Isn't this photo precious? Birdy, holding her puppy away from the other puppy, wearing a poufy skirt and no shirt? News flash: it's endearing when you are a toddler. After that, we wear clothes. Who failed to communicate that to Birdy?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This photo was taken a year and a half ago. Fast forward to now, and the not wearing clothes thing is wearing a little thin. Birdy has always enjoyed being in her underwear, but now that she's three and a half (gulp), I'm kind of sick of it. I didn't get to go to pilates today because SOMEONE didn't want to wear a skirt over her leggings. Now, as some of you may know, I hate it when people wear leggings as if they are pants. They aren't pants. They are underwear. However, all of the women at the college where we live failed to get that memo, and I live daily with women in leggings acting as if they are pants. So this issue? With the leggings and no skirt? It's the hill I decided to die on today. And die I did.<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="ext"><img align="middle" alt="Posted by Picasa" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" style="-moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; background: 0% 50%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I gave her the option of a dress or a skirt, but none were "comfy" enough. And pants were an automatic no, as all pants are not comfy, unless they are one of the two pairs of Children's Place yoga pants we inherited from the Mak Attack . So after a 2 time outs and much weeping and gnashing of teeth, Birdy decided to compromise and put on <u>bicycle shorts</u> over the leggings. She better get this out of her system now, because no one wants to be friends with the 12 year-old wearing leggings and bicycle shorts. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Though, that would save me from carpooling her friends around...</div></div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-57374089592938372892011-11-06T14:52:00.000-08:002011-11-08T00:04:05.999-08:00sweat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I want to share something with you, friends.<br />
<br />
My name is Heather, and I hated gym class.<br />
<br />
The cool feeling of buying the uniform we wore for P.E. in seventh grade (I'm a teenager! I have braces! I could be in a John Hughes movie!) quickly wore off when I realized after the second class that we wore different clothes in P.E. because we would sweat. And when you are a teenager, you smell like puberty. And for the sake of the adults who have to be at school with you, they make you wear different clothes when you are not sweating. However, being a teenager, you are inherently smelly. Especially if you are a boy. <br />
<br />
But anyway, I hate sweating. A lot. That is why I liked swimming, because you knew you were working hard, but you didn't feel yourself sweating. Because it's a gross feeling. Just...gross.<br />
<br />
So here's the thing they really try to teach you in gym class: you feel like an idiot when you work out. But so do most people. Thus, get over it and work out because it's good for you and no one really cares that you look like an idiot on the treadmill or whatever because WE ALL LOOK LIKE IDIOTS RUNNING IN PLACE.<br />
<br />
I'm on strike from running for a while, until I'm convinced I'm not going to just fall down when my ankle decides to sprain itself for the third time this year. THE THIRD TIME. Ugh.<br />
<br />
So it's swimming for me, because if you can fall down while swimming then you must be given some sort of award, right? And swimming is good, but realizing how good it is is rather difficult when the pool is outside and it's 45 degrees and dark. And also 7am. The benefit is that I'm not terrible compared to other people, but I am terrible compared to how good I used to be. I think that is the hardest part: coming to terms to how different things are now. I have a benchmark (several, really) of how I used to be able to swim, and having concrete information to compare myself to now is kind of a bummer. <br />
<br />
In conclusion, being fat is lame on a variety of levels. Everything is harder, and nothing is easier until you've done a lot of changing. And sweating. Ugh.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-74562009329573426252011-11-05T23:52:00.000-07:002011-11-06T10:17:21.677-08:00it's always sunny on my couch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So...there's this show. Well, if we're splitting hairs here, there's two shows...Family Guy and It's Always Sunny in Philidelphia. They are awesome, and they are shows my mother hates.<br />
<br />
I started watching Family Guy in college, and it's the cause of my reoccuring sprained ankle injuries. It's a long story, but it involves the Shapoopie song from Music Man and myself dancing enthusiasticly with Peter Griffin. Also, it really, really, really hurt. I love all of Family Guy, because it's terrible. It's horrible. And it's wonderful, and hilarious. There are things on that show that keep me chuckling for days, and I'm at the point where when watching, the Hoosband just looks at me, knowing I'm going to start laughing like an idiot. <br />
<br />
And I really am an idiot, because I also like It's Always Sunny in Philidelphia.<br />
<br />
It's also terrible, and horrible, and much more so than Family Guy. But it's hilarious. Much like Family Guy, they start out doing one thing, and something totally different happens. But with the gang, it's most likely illegal, immoral, involving drugs, or people in green body suits. That show is guilty humor to the max. If you haven't seen it, it centers around these 5 people; a brother (Dennis), sister (Dee), their dad (Frank), and two friends (Charlie and Mac). Dee is probably my favorite character, but the triangle between Dennis, Charlie and Mac is my favorite dynamic. They're always competing and ganging up on each other, and, of course, shenanigans ensue. My favorite episodes cover topics like rum hams, crack, YouTube videos, bar advertisements, and North Korea. The gang takes care of business, okay?<br />
<br />
So I encourage you to watch an episode, but please don't judge me. <br />
<br />
April, you shouldn't watch any of them, because you will throw up all over Mark, the computer, or the sofa. Or all three.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-28303365839869733232011-11-04T20:53:00.000-07:002011-11-06T10:16:59.606-08:00running to the hills<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWKiRmnx5ZutHdcegqhtTl3Y0NsNGRTmGZgvUUQnn-P8DdFxxttqLExuQb3eQLSbq8RB_DR0bdlspec6kPwPh0vxr1FXknR1fCYwcBvaQ46l_XOlTGrCEsnoXvO-3syREudTM9OwCKP9Y/s1600/bear_grylls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWKiRmnx5ZutHdcegqhtTl3Y0NsNGRTmGZgvUUQnn-P8DdFxxttqLExuQb3eQLSbq8RB_DR0bdlspec6kPwPh0vxr1FXknR1fCYwcBvaQ46l_XOlTGrCEsnoXvO-3syREudTM9OwCKP9Y/s200/bear_grylls.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>When I get interested in something, I <strong>really</strong> get interested. And the first thing I do, after Wikipedia-ing it to death, is go to the library and check out way too many books on the subject. Then, I proceed to think about it all the time and obsess about it in general. Recent topics have included Appalachia, Amsterdam and earthquake preparedness.<br />
<br />
In the last month or so, I've been obsessing about survival. I mean, when the world ends and junk, we're going to have to go to the hills. And I'm totally going to be prepared. Justin, a friend down here who actually COULD survive in the hills if need be, assured me that when the time comes to go to the hills, I'll be ready. But I want to be the ready-est, if you know what I mean. <br />
<br />
I remember reading My Side of the Mountain when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade and being amazed that a kid could just run away and live in the mountains. I re-read this book in college and found it still interesting, but it was a bit of wake-up call. I know no practical skills that would help me stay alive. I can write papers. I can find information. I can't tell you what plants to eat, or how to grow my own food. Or build a house. Or anything along those lines.<br />
<br />
Living in an area that is prone to earthquakes coupled with my worrywart tendencies have created a perfect storm of paranoia surrounding disasters and survival. Christine, Justin's wife, is more than ready to join me in the paranoia, and we've compiled large earthquake kits and worked out a plan to get us together at the university if something should happen. Not that it will. Hopefully. Anyway.<br />
<br />
Luckily, my best good friend Brianna humors me, and even checked out books on survival as well; in my mind, it was so that we could compare trapping tactics and sod-house building, but I really know it's because she thinks I'm ridiculous (which I fully admit I am). She also, to further demonstrate her awesome-ness, got me <a href="http://www.adventureout.com/survival.html" target="_blank">this</a> for my birthday. We're going in the spring in the Santa Cruz mountains, and it's going to be a great story to tell people later on. Plus I'll learn how to make a fire! And find things to eat! And stuff! Junk!<br />
<br />
So, when the time comes to go to the hills, you can come with me. Unless you become a zombie, and then I'm going to ask you to forget that I mentioned going to the hills and stay in the abandoned cities, if you please.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-23971462235740364072011-11-03T09:36:00.000-07:002011-11-06T10:16:34.690-08:00the sound of silence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have a confession.<br />
<br />
I don't really listen to music.<br />
<br />
I'll listen to the radio, and there are artists I like, but I'm fairly indifferent to the whole thing. My Hoosband, on the other hand, loves music. I shudder to think about the number of albums he has. He loves going to concerts and watching documentaries on music or artists or whatever. He was even going to be a music teacher at one point in his life. My lack of appreciation of music is, I believe, quite a thorn in his side. <br />
<br />
I know I'm in the minority. I see people walking around with their iPods or whatever in their ears at all times, and I'm constantly amazed by how much stimulation they can handle. How do they think? I barely think, and I don't listen to music. <br />
<br />
Again, I do like music, I just don't listen to it much. It's like sweet potatoes; I like them, if other people are having them I will too, but I don't think I want to eat them every day, like cheese or anything. The music I do listen to (usually in the car or cleaning the house) falls into two categories: "how awesomely ridiculous is this song" or "how great are these lyrics?" The former deals with mostly pop songs, which are awesomely ridiculous in themselves for the most part. The latter has artists like James Taylor, and the Beatles, Johnny Cash and others; songs that meant something to the writer or the musician.<br />
<br />
If I had the choice between music or books, it would be books all the time. Hands down. I even choose to listen to books on tape when I work out. I feel like that's on par with buying a sweet sound system for your car and then blasting NPR, with the bass turned up. Which, probably, is something I would do also.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-2602767940803330432011-11-02T14:54:00.000-07:002011-11-02T14:54:31.208-07:00absolutes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I am, as my husband would assure you, a person of absolutes. Many of my statements begin with "can I just say how much I love ______?" The blank can be filled with anything from socks to money that grows on trees, but it always begins on with how much I either love or hate something. Hyperbole like this is common in my speech, but rarely so stridently defined in my actual thoughts. Now, if you had to pin me down on my favorite color, that would be easy. Favorite book? Psh, that depends on the day and the time. I don't want to commit myself to just one favorite, right? There are many favorites out there for many moods. Food is an excellent example.<br />
<br />
I am a woman of simple tastes. Simply delicious tastes, really. There are many things that I think I could eat a lifetime of: cheese and saltines, cheese quesadillas, cheesecake, or brie en croute (fancy for cheese and dough). Cheese, my friends--good cheese especially--is why I don't think I could be a vegan. I'm pretty sure that I could give up all other animal products or by-products, but not cheese. Well, to be more specific, melted cheese. Or maybe just cheddar. Or melted cheddar? It's too hard.<br />
<br />
For instance, let's say your next meal would be your last meal. What would that be? This is where it gets too hard, like cheddar versus melted cheddar. Becuase if I knew my next meal was my last meal, I'd have to consider some very important things. First, how do you know it's your last meal? How long after that meal would you be dying? 10 minutes? 10 hours? 10 days? How would that food sit on your nervous stomach? Would it make for some super funky nervous-burps? If, after the meal, would you be attempting a long trek though snowy wastelands? Would the eating of that food as your last meal then ruin that food? There are so many implications to such a simple problem. I don't know how people can decide something like that.<br />
<br />
But seriously, can I just say how much I love nachos? Because I could eat that every meal every day for the rest of my life. </div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-58598324665527039472011-11-01T10:12:00.000-07:002011-11-01T10:12:14.842-07:00writing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Writing is something I forget I love to do. In actuality, I should really sit down and make a list of things I persistently forget I like. This list would include, among other things, hot showers, eating whole apples, pilates, and talking to friends I haven't seen in forever on the phone. The latter always seems to be a chore until the other person picks up the phone. Looking at that short list, it becomes apparent that I forget I like things that are good for me, and writing definitely falls into that category.<br />
<br />
When I go back and read old posts, or papers, or journals, I'm always amazed at how well it sounds. Not to brag or boast, but it continually surprises me that my jumbled mind can put together coherent and sometimes entertaining strings of words together. I forget that I can do that; there are days that it seems like the only thing I know how to do is make my daughter throw temper tantrums (I am stellar at that, and rarely forget it).<br />
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Like few things in my life, I don't feel like I need to work at it to make it decent. The only other things I can think of in my life like that are going to sleep within 5 minutes of laying down and swimming. Not the most helpful of lists, unless I find myself in a situation that requires me to swim somewhere, write something, and then fall asleep...perhaps a shipwreck? Though, if shipwrecked, my skill set would diminish quickly after the sleeping part of the program.<br />
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Upon re-reading, it seems I am also fairly adept at making lists. I should remember to write that down.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com2Santa Clara, CA, USA37.347557833043304 -121.9415026898437937.299509333043304 -121.97932018984379 37.395606333043304 -121.90368518984378tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-12096290778008022302011-05-26T23:53:00.000-07:002011-05-26T23:53:09.332-07:00math<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Did you know I'm kind of a big deal at work now?<br />
<br />
And I mean the "kind of." I'm not a really big deal, and I don't want to be. That's a lot of responsibility, and the world (and me) just isn't ready for that. Also, I don't think that sentance is grammatically correct. But you know what? I count enough money each night that if that money were mine, I could pay someone to not only ghost-write for me, but ghost-speak. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure what that would look like; a sheet with eye-holes standing in front of me? Do you actually have to pay a ghost-speaker in money, or endoplasm, or maybe kryptonite?<br />
<br />
But anyway. I am no longer the queen in my small principality of a campus store. I'm more like the daughter of the empress of a much larger empire, and one that counts at least 10 cash register drawers a night now.<br />
<br />
The summer is (FINALLLY) fast approaching, and those students are (FINALLY) about to leave to wherever they are going for the summer (FINALLY). I realize that students are the reason for my job. But they still drive me crazy, because for a fairly selective school, they can be astronomically dumb. I was going down the stairs last night at the student center, and I heard this conversation:<br />
<br />
"I just really want to be naked right now, you know?" said a girl.<br />
"Yeah? It's a good thing you aren't fat then." said her friend.<br />
"I know. I just want to take my clothes off. Ugh."<br />
<br />
This actually happened. I had to hear it. I couldn't not hear it, as I was needing to go downstairs, and they were 2 steps ahead of me, and I couldn't just turn around at that point since I was halfway down the second flight of stairs. Plus, I might miss some other pearls of wisdom falling from their lips.<br />
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It turns out I didn't miss anything.</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8902987513491915186.post-73787808298435725842011-04-15T16:09:00.000-07:002011-04-15T16:09:50.837-07:00oh hi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Birdy is playing with Mr. and Mrs. Potato head. I was tempted to get her another Mrs. and have them be Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head with Extra Lesbian Lover. But I didn't, even though it would be culturally relevant since we are so close to San Francisco. But it made me chuckle anyway. She might show up regardless; if so, I'm sure photos will follow.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">She insists on making potato versions of Brandon and myself. I usually have wings instead of ears, and wear high heels. Anyone who knows me knows I look like that all the time. Except for when I wear my flowered hat and 3 purses.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWynr32MTA0tPH0I0y1zaQZubNeKW3QGrKEhpovhbpmkLzd6a-ZFU8PPQEVFvWHobhi-Sh2gS7Y1CEYhvEKFnYK5e4QBPIHNtgjawFm-5VvJNYBICH-_f4AiU6bqixqDyAxZg3OpA5Js/s1600/DSCN2605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWynr32MTA0tPH0I0y1zaQZubNeKW3QGrKEhpovhbpmkLzd6a-ZFU8PPQEVFvWHobhi-Sh2gS7Y1CEYhvEKFnYK5e4QBPIHNtgjawFm-5VvJNYBICH-_f4AiU6bqixqDyAxZg3OpA5Js/s320/DSCN2605.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>It's sunny and nice and California like here. Is it still winter where you are? That's too bad. Perhaps you should move down here. Stanford is hiring.<br />
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</div>Heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03683097399448974060noreply@blogger.com3