My boss keeps trying to corrupt me (not my cousin/boss. The other one...). I call my cubicle "the cubicle of safety" and "the cubicle of peace" and "the cubicle of happiness" so that he can't come over and corrupt my space.
It doesn't always work.
But I refuse to give up.
More specifically, my boss tries to bring down my language to a more base level, though I will give him credit - he cleans his language up a lot when I'm around. And when I give him The Look. Then he laughs while apologizing to me.
Today he learned that a.) I have a blog - it's still a secret to most people, I'm self-conscious like that - and b.) I wrote the word 'hell' the other day on it. He was flabbergasted. I responded that I'm more likely to swear on paper than vocally. And just the soft swears. He laughed and thought of all the things I could/should say on paper, swearing. Then he decided/came to the conclusion that anytime I might swear, it was likely that I was talking about him. He started scripting out what I would say. Something to the effect of: That b&*%$d D. annoyed the s*#t out of me today....or close to that.
I think he's probably right. He may be the only person I could cuss like that about. And I think half of the reason is because he wouldn't be ofended at all. In fact, he'd marked it a sign of pride that he could be such a person that could elicit such a response from me. Ironically, that's just the sort of attitude that keeps any verbal assault at bay. I won't give him that satisfaction. A smug D is an intolerable D.
Utah has not been good for my language. Go figure.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Where I'm From
I found this blog that I absolutely love - the would-be writer's guild (it's linked from here, under my blogs to read). I probably love it because she is a writer, so she makes me want to write more. AND she has a few posts that have really good writing exercises, some of which I've started doing, and others I want to try.
One exercise has to do with a poem by George Ella Lyon, called, "Where I'm From." It's used a lot as a writing exercise, and I think it's just a fun way to look at your past, thinking of what really made you who you are today. Turns out, I have to teach at Church, in Relief Society, this coming Sunday, and I've finally figured out what I'm going to teach, and I thought this poem seemed like a great introduction to my lesson. So I wrote my own poem for me, and I'm thinking of asking 1 or 2 other girls to write a short poem to share as well. I'd like to see what has influenced other girls, forming who they are now as well.
I thought I'd share my poem here, too, hoping this might force me to keep writing when I know the whole world is just waiting to read it. Or just for my own amusement. Whichever. So here goes:
There was a lot more that I could've put in there - my list of ideas was quite long - but for a first draft, I think this is a decent representation of what has shaped me and what seems to have made a dent in my life.
It's kind of fun to look what stands out when I think of my life as a kid, considering my role in my family, looking at my heritage, and everything. I'm excited to ask someone else to do this and hear what they come up with for themselves. And I'm completely interested in you - how you would put your poem together? Where do you come from?
I really do want to hear from everyone, but I'm particularly looking at you, Abby. As my sister, what would your poem be? Talk about being put on the spot :).
One exercise has to do with a poem by George Ella Lyon, called, "Where I'm From." It's used a lot as a writing exercise, and I think it's just a fun way to look at your past, thinking of what really made you who you are today. Turns out, I have to teach at Church, in Relief Society, this coming Sunday, and I've finally figured out what I'm going to teach, and I thought this poem seemed like a great introduction to my lesson. So I wrote my own poem for me, and I'm thinking of asking 1 or 2 other girls to write a short poem to share as well. I'd like to see what has influenced other girls, forming who they are now as well.
I thought I'd share my poem here, too, hoping this might force me to keep writing when I know the whole world is just waiting to read it. Or just for my own amusement. Whichever. So here goes:
Where I’m From
I am from lilac bushes and cherry blossoms,
From wild weeping willows and green as far as the eyes can see.
From bluffs by the lake and landscapes carved by the glaciers.
I am from home-made, worn-in baseball diamonds formed by racing feet during pick-up games in our backyard.
I am from hand-made dresses and hand-me-down shoes,
back middle row seats and never shotgun for the youngest to ride in.
I’m from the sports-crazed and the self-proclaimed geniuses.
The sit straight, don’t slouch, the no elbows on the table.
I’m from “Isn’t she a sweet girl?” and “stop following me around!”
From I Know that My Redeemer Lives and Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam.
I’m from Articles of Faith and Scripture Masteries, each one memorized, but never for long.
I’m from Fantastic Mr. Fox and The Lorax, Elizabeth Bennett and David Copperfield, and the first chapter of the Hobbit we could never get past.
I’m from a Cinderella tape, worn out from use,
And I’m a Little Teapot, performed repeatedly for my family's amusement.
I’m from a generous smile my mom says I got from my dad,
Green eyes I got from my grandma,
And a firm handshake I was trained in by my dad’s best friend.
I’m from a need to be kind to everyone,
And a wish to be better than I am.
From a thoughtful mind and an active imagination that sometimes gets out of control.
I’m from lessons my siblings learned for me, and a few I learned for myself.
I’m from a past of heartache and joy,
Pain and love,
Angst and peace,
Pain and love,
Angst and peace,
All cheering me on toward a future of amazing potential.
There was a lot more that I could've put in there - my list of ideas was quite long - but for a first draft, I think this is a decent representation of what has shaped me and what seems to have made a dent in my life.
It's kind of fun to look what stands out when I think of my life as a kid, considering my role in my family, looking at my heritage, and everything. I'm excited to ask someone else to do this and hear what they come up with for themselves. And I'm completely interested in you - how you would put your poem together? Where do you come from?
I really do want to hear from everyone, but I'm particularly looking at you, Abby. As my sister, what would your poem be? Talk about being put on the spot :).
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Nightmares
I had a nightmare last night. It was painful. Usually my nightmares have something to do with bees chasing me or giant daddy long-legs waiting for me in our basement storage room. But every once it a while, they become a little more real life-like. Like once when I dreamed my brother got shot in a drive-by shooting at our house, or when I was trying to hide behind a shower curtain in a decrepit house while a serial killer looked for me. Those weren't fun dreams. They always mess me up for a good day and a half.
Last night was one of those terrible, keeps you in a nervous mood, makes you really exhausted all day, nightmares. I dreamt that I was at house, with a ton of other people, and this lady had me come downstairs to the basement with her to help her with something. She started crying about how terrible her life was, and then she placed this ring on her finger. The ring had a short pointy thing on it, and she cried as I realized she was going to kill herself by poking her eye out. I tried to stop her, pulled her arm away, screamed louder and louder for help, but I couldn't stop her. She didn't die, but I was freaking out and screaming as loud as I could. But no one upstairs heard me, until I dialed 911. Then suddenly everyone was downstairs, and I was still screaming and crying, and she was crying, and bleeding of course. Finally this really tall, good-looking guy came over, gave me a giant hug, picked me up, and took me upstairs to calm down. We passed by the woman, who's husband was suddenly next to her, and she smiled at me like she was slightly embarrassed that she had made such a fuss. Then I woke up. Stock-still on my back. Wondering if any of those piercing screams had escaped my frozen shut lips. I took some deep breaths and wondered what in the hell was going through my head to produce such a terrifying dream.
I'm not sure why I felt the need to share this with the world - probably so everyone else can know why I'm been a little on edge today. I didn't spend much time figuring out any explanation or attributing any sort of psycho-babble to it, but I'm sure it means something. Like, maybe I should take a personal day from work tomorrow. Or perhaps I need a boyfriend. And the only way to get one is by screaming at the top of my lungs for five minutes after seeing a woman poke her eye out.
The lady's eye was fine, by the way. A little red, but I recall noting in my dream that her recovery was just short of miraculous. So that was a plus.
Last night was one of those terrible, keeps you in a nervous mood, makes you really exhausted all day, nightmares. I dreamt that I was at house, with a ton of other people, and this lady had me come downstairs to the basement with her to help her with something. She started crying about how terrible her life was, and then she placed this ring on her finger. The ring had a short pointy thing on it, and she cried as I realized she was going to kill herself by poking her eye out. I tried to stop her, pulled her arm away, screamed louder and louder for help, but I couldn't stop her. She didn't die, but I was freaking out and screaming as loud as I could. But no one upstairs heard me, until I dialed 911. Then suddenly everyone was downstairs, and I was still screaming and crying, and she was crying, and bleeding of course. Finally this really tall, good-looking guy came over, gave me a giant hug, picked me up, and took me upstairs to calm down. We passed by the woman, who's husband was suddenly next to her, and she smiled at me like she was slightly embarrassed that she had made such a fuss. Then I woke up. Stock-still on my back. Wondering if any of those piercing screams had escaped my frozen shut lips. I took some deep breaths and wondered what in the hell was going through my head to produce such a terrifying dream.
I'm not sure why I felt the need to share this with the world - probably so everyone else can know why I'm been a little on edge today. I didn't spend much time figuring out any explanation or attributing any sort of psycho-babble to it, but I'm sure it means something. Like, maybe I should take a personal day from work tomorrow. Or perhaps I need a boyfriend. And the only way to get one is by screaming at the top of my lungs for five minutes after seeing a woman poke her eye out.
The lady's eye was fine, by the way. A little red, but I recall noting in my dream that her recovery was just short of miraculous. So that was a plus.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Flirting
So I'm getting ready to go to this kid's house for a birthday party for my friend.
My mother yells down the stairs, "try and flirt with some boys tonight."
I yell back, "What is it that you think I usually do?"
She responds, "I know you are a friend to all, considerate of everyone."
I hate that she doesn't even hang out with me when I'm with friends, yet she knows me so well.
I'll try, Mom. But no promises.
My mother yells down the stairs, "try and flirt with some boys tonight."
I yell back, "What is it that you think I usually do?"
She responds, "I know you are a friend to all, considerate of everyone."
I hate that she doesn't even hang out with me when I'm with friends, yet she knows me so well.
I'll try, Mom. But no promises.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Difference Between Boys and Girls
Last night, I made my way back to the gym (yeah, I was impressed with myself, too). I walked in to a crowded gym - 2 high school boys and an older guy. I felt claustrophobic right away, but shook it off and tried to act like I came all the time and totally knew what I was doing. I grabbed a remote that went to a TV that was, luckily, not being watched by anyone (at least I'm pretty sure none of the boys were watching the soap opera channel...), jumped on the squeaky elliptical while I searched for my Wheel of Fortune. Found WoF, switched ellipticals when I got too self-conscious of the irritating squeak, and tried not to solve the puzzles out loud, while also not looking like a complete idiot working the elliptical. I had to keep sneaking glances at the mirror on my side to make sure I wasn't accidentally pulling off my quite accurate impression of Phoebe from "Friends" running. I got myself into a good groove, mentally calling the letters the WoF contestants should've been calling, while attempting to maintain my heartrate at a brisk 128 for the optimal fat burning exercise.
One of the high school boys was somewhere behind me doing weights that were no doubt to heavy for him as he waited for me to turn around and check him out (don't you ever feel like things should happen like they do in movies and you get to imagine that you're the cute girl who still looks cute while working out? Yeah, that's the only way I keep getting to the gym, too...). The other boy was working hard on the treadmill just ahead and to the side of me, watching his own TV program 2 TVs down from me. But he didn't last long after I came in - I think picking up his pace so dramatically when I walked in tired him out too much, too quickly. He soon joined his friend in hoping to miraculously obtain amazing biceps and impressive pectorals.
When I refused to recognize their presence lurking behind me, the two high schoolers left, leaving just me and the creepy older guy who was working the weights in front of the mirror. I imagined him kissing each bicep as he curled the weight up, thinking, "You are just a magnificent specimen. I mean, look at you. A sculpture of beauty, that's what you are. Lovingly carved, the light catching your sweat just enough to create a perfect sheen. Wonderful. Wonderful."
Okay, I'm sure he probably wasn't thinking anything like that. If he's anything like me, he was probably really thinking, "WHY am I putting myself through this again? This hurts. I hate weights. Yeah, it's important to be strong, and I definitely DO NOT want flabby arms, but seriously. Isn't there a better way? And by better, I mean easier." Yes, I think in capital letters and strong emphasis often at the gym.
But that is one big difference betwen boys and girls: Whether or not we have the same general thought about our flabby arms, I have a strong inkling that boys don't generally use the term 'flabby.' They might say 'weak,' 'small,' or 'girly,' but not likely 'flabby.' Also, I'd like girly arms - I imagine slender, toned arms. Boys would not like girly arms. All it means to them is that their arms are useless for the 'manly' things they should be participating in daily.
Impressively, I soon lost interest in thinking what these boys might've been thinking. The young boys left, the older guy faded into the darkness in my mind, and I went back to focusing on my breathing and my puzzle solving.
Wheel of Fortune ended; I had solved the bonus round, won $30,000, hugged Pat, celebrated with my family and friends who'd joined me from the audience, and then remembered that I wasn't the girl on the screen. Instead, I was the loser on the elliptical, solving the puzzle for no money, no prize, and very little pride, since I wasn't about to shout the answer to the whole gym and earn the weight-lifting narcissist's attention for my brilliance.
In waiting for my next mental exercise - Jeopardy - I surveyed my surroundings. On the TV next to me, the Hallmark channel was on with some weird, supernatural show that kept holding my casual glances longer and longer. On my elliptical, I saw that I was running slow enough to keep my heart rate at 128-ish, which also meant that I hadn't even reached 1 mile in 10 minutes. The TV to my left had some boring news channel on that practically yawned for me when I tried to figure out what was being talked about. Then came the TV to the far left, the one the treadmill-running adolescent had been watching. I looked at the corner and saw it was on Spike - the man's channel. Perfect for at 16-year-old boy to work out to. I, on the other hand, rolled my eyes when I saw what he had been watching - Ultimate Fighting Conferederation Championships. Ugh....I don't know what it is, but UFC is one of the ugliest, uncompelling things to me, and, I think, to most females. These guys are ugly, bloody things, attacking each other by any means possible - a spin kick to the stomach, and punch to the mouth, a tackle and strangle, and then they get scored by judges to decide the winner? DUMB. I watched for a few seconds to see if I could figure out why this seemed so appealing. I found nothing. In fact, I dislike it even more now.
A while ago, my friend G. was getting asked out quite often by this guy who had found himself in one of her circles of friends. She went out with him once or twice, and she quickly realized she was not going to be interested in him anytime soon. Ever, in fact. So she stopped going out with him. He couldn't understand why she was always busy and didn't seem interested. I thought it was pretty obvious. He's an ultimate fighter. Way into it. He was quite the catch, as far as his guy friends were concerned. But that's the difference between boys and girls. All of his guy friends thought he was so cool, so awesome, so 'manly.'
But G and all of us girls were totally put off by it. I'm sorry, I just don't think I'd like to think of my date potentially coming to my door with a bloody, toothless smile or a broken nose because he had been fighting all day. For work. I want a guy with soft hands and aligned teeth, who wears a power suit to his job. I want a guy who who's quietly muscular, who is well toned, who doesn't break the seams of his shirts and suits. I want a guy who looks normal in regular clothing. In short, I want a guy, not a "man." "Men" are kind of scary and really boring to me. I know, their life seems quite un-boring, but I don't think I'd enjoy hearing about an ultimate fighter's job, or what he loves to do. Hearing about the last guy he just beat up is less than exciting to me.
But guys think "Men" are so cool. Even if they'd never think of being one, it's still rather impressive. Perhaps it's like being a runway model for a girl. I'd never want to be a runway model because their lifestyles are full of smoking and starving themselves, but the idea of being pretty and skinny enough to be one is kind of desirable. Yes, that makes it less weird to me. Comparison analogies - amazing things. Work wonders for my understanding.
At any rate, Jeopardy soon started and I left the Ultimate Fighters to people who wanted to watch them duke it out in a cage for supreme 'man pride.' I made it through my workout on the elliptical did a few reps of an impressive 50 lb. weights to tone up my girly arms, and tried to figure out what in the world the Hallmark channel's movie was about. Ultimate fighting can't seem to keep my attention for longer than 48 seconds, but a muted 1990s C-movie kept me captivated with the apparent "secrets of Grey House." Now that's what I call mindless entertainment!
One of the high school boys was somewhere behind me doing weights that were no doubt to heavy for him as he waited for me to turn around and check him out (don't you ever feel like things should happen like they do in movies and you get to imagine that you're the cute girl who still looks cute while working out? Yeah, that's the only way I keep getting to the gym, too...). The other boy was working hard on the treadmill just ahead and to the side of me, watching his own TV program 2 TVs down from me. But he didn't last long after I came in - I think picking up his pace so dramatically when I walked in tired him out too much, too quickly. He soon joined his friend in hoping to miraculously obtain amazing biceps and impressive pectorals.
When I refused to recognize their presence lurking behind me, the two high schoolers left, leaving just me and the creepy older guy who was working the weights in front of the mirror. I imagined him kissing each bicep as he curled the weight up, thinking, "You are just a magnificent specimen. I mean, look at you. A sculpture of beauty, that's what you are. Lovingly carved, the light catching your sweat just enough to create a perfect sheen. Wonderful. Wonderful."
Okay, I'm sure he probably wasn't thinking anything like that. If he's anything like me, he was probably really thinking, "WHY am I putting myself through this again? This hurts. I hate weights. Yeah, it's important to be strong, and I definitely DO NOT want flabby arms, but seriously. Isn't there a better way? And by better, I mean easier." Yes, I think in capital letters and strong emphasis often at the gym.
But that is one big difference betwen boys and girls: Whether or not we have the same general thought about our flabby arms, I have a strong inkling that boys don't generally use the term 'flabby.' They might say 'weak,' 'small,' or 'girly,' but not likely 'flabby.' Also, I'd like girly arms - I imagine slender, toned arms. Boys would not like girly arms. All it means to them is that their arms are useless for the 'manly' things they should be participating in daily.
Impressively, I soon lost interest in thinking what these boys might've been thinking. The young boys left, the older guy faded into the darkness in my mind, and I went back to focusing on my breathing and my puzzle solving.
Wheel of Fortune ended; I had solved the bonus round, won $30,000, hugged Pat, celebrated with my family and friends who'd joined me from the audience, and then remembered that I wasn't the girl on the screen. Instead, I was the loser on the elliptical, solving the puzzle for no money, no prize, and very little pride, since I wasn't about to shout the answer to the whole gym and earn the weight-lifting narcissist's attention for my brilliance.
In waiting for my next mental exercise - Jeopardy - I surveyed my surroundings. On the TV next to me, the Hallmark channel was on with some weird, supernatural show that kept holding my casual glances longer and longer. On my elliptical, I saw that I was running slow enough to keep my heart rate at 128-ish, which also meant that I hadn't even reached 1 mile in 10 minutes. The TV to my left had some boring news channel on that practically yawned for me when I tried to figure out what was being talked about. Then came the TV to the far left, the one the treadmill-running adolescent had been watching. I looked at the corner and saw it was on Spike - the man's channel. Perfect for at 16-year-old boy to work out to. I, on the other hand, rolled my eyes when I saw what he had been watching - Ultimate Fighting Conferederation Championships. Ugh....I don't know what it is, but UFC is one of the ugliest, uncompelling things to me, and, I think, to most females. These guys are ugly, bloody things, attacking each other by any means possible - a spin kick to the stomach, and punch to the mouth, a tackle and strangle, and then they get scored by judges to decide the winner? DUMB. I watched for a few seconds to see if I could figure out why this seemed so appealing. I found nothing. In fact, I dislike it even more now.
A while ago, my friend G. was getting asked out quite often by this guy who had found himself in one of her circles of friends. She went out with him once or twice, and she quickly realized she was not going to be interested in him anytime soon. Ever, in fact. So she stopped going out with him. He couldn't understand why she was always busy and didn't seem interested. I thought it was pretty obvious. He's an ultimate fighter. Way into it. He was quite the catch, as far as his guy friends were concerned. But that's the difference between boys and girls. All of his guy friends thought he was so cool, so awesome, so 'manly.'
But G and all of us girls were totally put off by it. I'm sorry, I just don't think I'd like to think of my date potentially coming to my door with a bloody, toothless smile or a broken nose because he had been fighting all day. For work. I want a guy with soft hands and aligned teeth, who wears a power suit to his job. I want a guy who who's quietly muscular, who is well toned, who doesn't break the seams of his shirts and suits. I want a guy who looks normal in regular clothing. In short, I want a guy, not a "man." "Men" are kind of scary and really boring to me. I know, their life seems quite un-boring, but I don't think I'd enjoy hearing about an ultimate fighter's job, or what he loves to do. Hearing about the last guy he just beat up is less than exciting to me.
But guys think "Men" are so cool. Even if they'd never think of being one, it's still rather impressive. Perhaps it's like being a runway model for a girl. I'd never want to be a runway model because their lifestyles are full of smoking and starving themselves, but the idea of being pretty and skinny enough to be one is kind of desirable. Yes, that makes it less weird to me. Comparison analogies - amazing things. Work wonders for my understanding.
At any rate, Jeopardy soon started and I left the Ultimate Fighters to people who wanted to watch them duke it out in a cage for supreme 'man pride.' I made it through my workout on the elliptical did a few reps of an impressive 50 lb. weights to tone up my girly arms, and tried to figure out what in the world the Hallmark channel's movie was about. Ultimate fighting can't seem to keep my attention for longer than 48 seconds, but a muted 1990s C-movie kept me captivated with the apparent "secrets of Grey House." Now that's what I call mindless entertainment!
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