It's Here, It's Here!!!

It's finally here! My favoritest day of the whole entire year has finally arrived. I spent the entire day getting ready. Do you know how long it takes to carve 10 pumpkins? Ten of them, each with indivual expressions, each one important. I carved two sets this year. One is called "Mmm, Brains!"

The other is "They eat their own..."

I know, I need serious help. We got all the details done for all four costumes tomorrow, spray-painted the cardboard that will become an electric chair and a coffin, dyed Jess's socks, and put Kris and I's hair up in curlers.
See, I look stupid.

We also got the blacklight and the spider webs put up in the stairwell, and picked up a bottle of Hypnotic to make Margaritas with, to give to the "big" kids (AKA the Good Doctor and his Wife.)

Tomorrow, we have to build an electric chair, a coffin, make a scarecrow, spiderweb the back porch, put up the in-house decorations, clean the kitchen and living room, get dressed up, help Jen, Jesse, and Kris get dressed, go to class, make Sam&Ham dinner (Ribs, cheesy mushroom rice, day-before mashed potatoes, roasted corn, Pomegranate Creme`), pass out candy, entertain the adults, and visit the Haunted House... All before Midnight.

Geez, I don't think I should sleep tonight, or we'll never get all of that done.

I Bought Black Candles

Since I have fallen into a wee bit of money (my student loan check came back today. Go, me!), and we needed some things from Wal-Mart, Jen and I went shopping at 3:00 am.

We picked up our necessaries, picked up some extras. Talked about how frickin excited we are for Halloween, what we're going to carve our pumpkins into. Decided on what we're having for Halloween dinner, since it's a big deal for me. Tried to figure out the best way to keep Kris from telling Jesse about Sam&Ham before she gets used to us enough for me to find a way to tell her about Sam&Ham, and why it's important without making her uncomfortable.

We also bought some Halloween supplies. Little decorations to go in our side of the house, since Kris and Jen & I are splitting decorations to the balcony. Kris's side will be spooky, Jen & I's will be for younger kids, and we'll give out candy in the back. Also bought some raisins to give the kids who are too old to be trick-or-treating.

We found some orange candles, purple lights, and some black-and-orange mixed candles. I have orange, I wanted all black. So, I took out the orange ones, and replaced them with the black ones from another package. (I know, I'm a monster.) Anyway, Jen's watching me do this with this annoyed look on her face, because, as a Wal-Mart employee, she HATES when people do that kind of stuff. So anyway, she's watching me do this, looking annoyed/horrified/disgusted, and I spout off:

"What? Do you think I'm going to use them and then eat babies? Take them off with me to them park, cook 'em up in my witches' cauldron?"

She started laughing so hard, if she'd've been drinking a glass of milk, the milk would have shot through her nose and left a dent in the far wall.

I love that my friends are so easily amused.

Project: Guinea Pig

There is a writer for Slate Magazine/Slate.com named Emily Yoffe who used to write a column called Human Guinea Pig, where she "embarrassed herself for fun and profit." She would do things that you'd always wondered about, but never really had the guts to do for yourself. She was a Nude Model, a Telephone Pyschic, the Washington someteams Mascot, a Mime, worked on a oil rig, all kinds of things.

Very talented, very gutsy woman.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Well, I'm not imitating her. I completely ripped off her idea. I even kind-of stole the name of her column. Bad Inyanna. Bad. Anyway, I'm enrolled in newspaper practicum, which requires that I write a column for the paper. Since I was such a fan of her column, and every other idea I had was taken, my professor and I decided to steal her idea.

A few weeks ago, I went out and spent the day working with a nice man named Derald Brown, City of Hickville's street sweeper. I got to drive, and refill the water, and sweep the streets. In a few weeks, I'll be riding with a police officer, and then I'll be teaching a freshman seminar class.

Yesterday, however, I was Rowdy Ranger, the mascot for my university, at our football game against the Warriors. A giant fiberglass head, a leather vest, leather chaps, black jeans, and a white button-down is all it takes.

It is impossible to see out of a fiberglass head. There is no airflow. You aren't allowed to talk, and even it you do, no one can understand you through the head. You can't take off the head, so you can't take a drink. You can't see the game, so you have to take cues from the cheerleaders and the band as to what you should be doing. And you must constantly be in motion, running and waving and dancing and generally entertaining people. But, I did get my very own personal assistant to walk with me, because you can't see. And, children consider it perfectly acceptable to kick and punch you, because you're not a real person.

There are also two reactions children have to you. They either love you, and want to take a picture and touch you and try on your stuff and lift up your head to see who you are--- Or they're TERRIFIED of you, and run screaming the other way, which parents find hilarious. They will actually pick up the screaming child and carry them to you, just to get a better reaction.

Speaking of grown-ups, one piece of advice. It is simply not acceptable to try and steal the mascot's head to see who's under there.

Even if the mascot has suddenly, overnight, grown boobs.

It's Late

And I'm still wide awake.

You know, working close shift at McDonalds has rewired my brain. I am still wide awake at 3, 4, 5 in the morning. Not a problem, no yawning, no sleepy-eyes, no lethargy, no nothing. But, when I make it to bed at one of those times, FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY, do not attempt to wake me up before noon. I tend to be a bit viscious when woken before I'm prepared to wake. I throw things. And bite. And turn commonly-used, everyday phrases into swear-words that'll make you cower.

The problem here is that I have class at 8 a.m. Guess how many times I've made it to that? I'll have to be dropping it soon. My class at noon, however, is not a big deal, because I've known the teacher for three years, and she's cool as hell. So long as we make it one day a week, turn our stuff in, and do what she needs us to do, she's fine with it.

So, what do I do in these wee hours of the morning, you may wonder? Watch movies, hang out with friends (who are also closers), do laundry, clean house, mend clothes, work on costumes, buy groceries, and go shopping. Everything except send mail, because the post office is only open during the day.

And the only reason I'm ever awake in the mornings to go there (since class is in the afternoons) is if I'm still up from the night before.

Because, I'm still wide awake.

Harvest Time

I had a very productive day.

Well, Jen and I both had a very productive day. My kitchen is all clean and pretty and organized, my craft/sewing corner is put back to rights, and the dishes are all done.

We finished a massive pile of laundry, and got it all put away. We also went to the store to pick up some things we'd missed the other day, and I made crockpot stew.

I got a package from Willow. Oh, I was so excited to get it! Shoebox Girl got her package, too. Her cloak rocks, she let me try it on. It's really warm. Although, if she yells "Glomp!!" and swoop/attacks me because "Look! It can hide you and me at the same time!!" one more time, I might have to push her down the stairwell. ;)

Jesse came over, and I finished her Smurfette costume. She looked so cute in her little blue shirt and stockings, with the white dress and hat I made her. It went really quickly, I was so proud of myself.

While we were out running around, we stopped by the local pumpkin patch. I am now the proud owner of 12 pumpkins, that all have to be carved by Wed. But I've got a lot of them! And they're soooooo cool! They're all different shapes and sizes and one of them is huge!! Man, I can't wait for Halloween...

I've Been Missing Him Today

After yesterday's post, I started listening to some of Bonnie McKee's music. Her album Trouble is one of my favorite female albulms ever.

Anyway, one of her songs is called Sensitive Subject Matter. A girl's boyfriend has just broken up with her, but calls her his best friend, tells her he doesn't want to lose her, and asks her for her advice about another girl he'd like to date.

Baby it's you,
That kept my feet on the ground,
Thought that I could choose,
If I always wanted you around,
Darling I do,
Think we need time apart,
I still need time to mend my broken seams.


He meant so much to me. He was my present, my future, my strength, my weakness. He loved me for what I was now, not what I could be. He swore he saw beauty, even in my flaws. He held me when I couldn't hold myself up, and I held him when losing his Grandmother was too hard. I loved him, I supported him, neither one of us walked in front of the other, we walked side by side, but neither one of us was afraid to stand in front and lead when the other didn't know where we were going.

When he left, it had been six months in the making. Aside from the goodbye kiss, I don't remember hugs, kisses, snuggling, holding hands since Christmas. I don't remember sex after February. We felt more like friends than we felt like lovers. But, he was a dear friend, one I was loathe to lose. When he left, he said "You're my best friend. I don't want to lose that, I want us to be like you and Zillah." I couldn't do that. I could barely breathe, much less let him confide in me. He and I were lovers first--friends came after, and one without the other sliced through me.

Last time I heard from him was the first day of August, when I needed to know that he was alive, and that the flood hadn't harmed him or his family. He mailed back some of my things... And nothing since. It hurts to know I was so easy to forget. I was certain that at least on Oct. 7, the day that would have been two years, I'd at least get a Hey, How are You? email or phone call. Nothing. I didn't know he was capable of leaving an entire life behind without a backward glance. No one in our little college family has heard from him since he moved after graduation. How do you leave behind a family, a little sister, a big sister, two best friends, and an almost-fiance?

What did we do to deserve that? How did he manage to cut that part of himself off so cleanly? How did we miss that part of him, how was it so well hidden?

But I cannot forget how hard I cried,
When I discovered you had lied,
When you said I could never hurt like this.

Baby it's you,
That kept my feet on the ground,
Thought that I could choose,
If I always wanted you around,
Darling I do,
Think we need time apart,
I still need time to mend my broken seams.

Well I'm weary, I'm so weary,
I told you I'd be there,
I'm broken, I'm so broken,
But I'm here.
It's painful, It's so painful,
I told you I'd be there,
These are secrets I cannot afford to hear,
Oh, these secrets I cannot afford to hear.

I Can't Think of Anything

No, really. I've got lots to say, and lots of opinions, but nothing super-cool.

So, I present you with something else I've stolen.

Pick a band/artist and answer using thier song titles.
Band/Artist: Bonnie McKee

1. Are you male or female?: Confessions of A Teenage Girl

2. Describe yourself: Open Your Eyes

3. How do you feel about yourself?: Trouble

4. Describe your girlfriend/boyfriend/interest: Somebody

5. Where would you rather be?: Green Grass

6. Describe what you want to be: A Voice That Carries

7. Describe how you live: When It All Comes Down

8. What is most important in your life?: I Hold Her

9. Share a few words of wisdom: Sensitive Subject Matter

Happy-Perky-Secretary-Person Syndrome

Happy-Perky-Secretary-Person Syndrome is a term coined by my friend Chase to describe the way I act when working, or putting up with people I don't like.

It has been honed by years of training. Working as a customer service specialist at Sonic for two years meant my job was to go deal with the people screaming because my managers' lacked to social skills not to yell back. I can sincerely say "I'm sorry that happened; How can I fix it?" in my sleep. Working at a truck stop allowed me to master the I'm-too-ditzy-and-naive-to-know-you-just-said-something-inappropriate, so that I can smile, nod blankly, and giggle with while in my head I'm going "Eeeeeeeeeew, you're fifty and haven't showered in a week, don't touch me!" Being the funeral director's daughter lets me be sympathetic and understanding, and growing up in FFA means I can pretend I remember you with the best of them. And being the annoying voice in the box at McDonald's means I can be cheerful and helpful, even when I WISH STUPID PEOPLE WOULD DIE AND NOT COME THROUGH DRIVE-THROUGH!! (Can you guess what inspired this post tonight?)

The only time the happy-perky-secretary personality cracks? The more pissed off I get, the sweeter I get, and the thicker my accent drips. Right before I really do snap, the day I actually gut someone like a trophy buck, I swear it'll sound like this. "I's just aahwful saahhrieE 'bout that, Mister. Iss'er sumpin I kin do-tah feex'it for yah?" followed by the Valley Girl Giggle. (Adopt a Southern Bell accent and read that out loud. Proceed to laugh hysterically. Everyone else does.)

And the more I watch people the more I see it, and can tell who's worked in service and/or food service occupations before. It makes me feel good to notice that I'm not crazy... People who need things make everyone else crazy, too!!

I Already Knew

I bet you think I'm talking about Dumbledore, don't you? Well, you're wrong. I'm not. Although, I already kind of suspected.

I'm talking about my knack for knowing things. Whatever little bit of insight you have, or little tidbit of gossip that you just found out and you're so excited to share with me cause you knew first?

Yeah, you can just chill. I already know.

I am, by my very nature, an intensely nosy person. I'm also very insightful, very empathic, very people-observant, and very sweet-innocent-you-can-trust-me-tell-me-everything-I-won't-judge-you-I'll-just-hug-you-tell-me-everything looking. And please don't let that come off poorly. I don't tell people what you tell me; I'm completely trust-worthy. Ask my friends. But, if I want to know something, I WILL know it, and you WILL tell me, or someone else will.

I can tell when you're hiding something from me, or when you're lying. I notice subtle gestures, pronunciation, glances, and changes in posture. Just ask Jen, or Zillah, or Ishie, or the Ex, or Stevo. Don't lie, don't keep secrets, I will sniff them out.

I also know when you're lying to yourself. Example: one of my friends recently (about two months ago) realized she is gay. I've known for two years.

I also know what you're deepest desires are, what it is you desperately crave, but are afraid to admit to yourself, because you are afraid of it. I know what it is; let me help you acknowledge it. Fear of your own desires simply breeds more fear, and a twisting darkness that can eventually blind you to real issues.

Just look at Dumbledore. If he'd admitted he was in love with Grindewald, nobody would have blamed him for writing those papers. Boys and Girls in love do stupid stuff, and then people forget. :P

I Like Pie

In case you couldn't tell from my picture, I'm a big girl.It's not something I'm ashamed of. I come from a long line of german-anglo women, and native american women. Everyone in my family believes in food. We eat when we're sad, when we celebrate, we eat for holidays, special occasions, and not-so-special occasions. I've used my weight to call attention to an important cause, and thoroughly enjoy the attention my ample cleavage recieves when we go out.

But, this is the heaviest weight I've ever been at, and it's starting to reach unhealthy. I've got the genetics for diabetes, heart problems, stroke, you name it. Plus, I've got weak bones and stressed joints, and my weight is starting to it's toll on them.

So, someone on the forums is trying to group-motivate for weight loss. My goal is ten pounds by Christmas, but I'm not going to judge this by weight. I'm going to judge this by how I feel, and my goal is to be healthy, not skinny. Jen's joining in, too. We got groceries and vitamins tonight, and are really going to work for this.

While we were grocery shopping, we picked up stuff for Zillah's birthday. She now has a package with six birthday cards, Mardi Gras beads, a slinky, a green Rubber Duckie, balloon rockets, Star Trek Nemesis, and a happy birthday banner. The priority shipping box has been drawn on, colored, sprinkled with Happy Birthday Confetti, and laminated with clear packing tape.

Let's see her try and have a quarter-life crisis while she's laughing at us!!!

Worried About My Roommate

Meet Jen

She's 20. She's a sweetheart. She's funny, and shy, with a heart of gold, an infinate amount of patience, she's undstanding, flexible, a little niave, and manages to not only live with me (which is a feat in and of itself), but to enjoy living with me, laughing at my quirks and putting up with the constant danger of having me around.

Jen grew up with a Mom who was a user, and bounced from boyfriend to boyfriend. She remembers her best Christmas was living with her grandparents for a year, because they could afford presents. She has a little sister in Texas that her mom had to give up for adoption because she couldn't afford her. She has a little sister that she helped raise, because Nicole was born when Jen was 12, while her Mom was working two jobs and her step-"father" worked, and smoked pot in the back shed when he wasn't smacking her mom around.

Because she grew up so fast, she's taken the opportunity to be on her own, and to enjoy being a kid now that she can. That makes her sulky, with serious passive-aggresive tendancies. She doesn't handle money well, and usually overspends herself. She's also gained about 50 pounds from high school, and is frustrated with the fact that she doesn't wear the same size, so she still buys juniors' clothing, which pulls and squeezes and bulges, and refuses to wear anything that doesn't look like it belongs on a fourteen-year-old. She never learned how to cook (She can screw up boxed macaroni and cheese), can't iron or sew or do laundry or change a tired or handle conflict. She's a slob, even when she's trying to be neat.

And she never learned what a healthy relationship is. He very first boyfriend cheated on her, demeaned her, used her like a doormat. Her second used her, when he wanted her. Her thrid was good for her, but moved to Colorado when he graduated. Her latest, well, he liked her well enough to have sex with her, but not enough to call her back when she called him.

That second boyfriend, the flake? He called tonight, wanted to hang out, watch a movie. That was an hour and a half ago, and she's still sitting on the couch, filling out a word search, waiting on him to come by and get her.

A Show of Support

My dear friend Willow had a new blog on her list, and because I'm an incredibly nosy person, I clicked it.


http://www.iamemilyx.blogspot.com/


These women amaze me.

I am pro-choice, and have taken a lot of grief in my life for being that way. I believe that it is a woman's body, and she had the right to make whatever choice she wants with it. THIS DOES NOT MEAN I ADVOCATE STUPID CHOICES! I disapprove of people who choose abortion as a means of birth control AT ALL. I however, think that a woman should be allowed to terminate life if it is for the good of the child, or for the good of the mother. If you can't care for it, please, give it up for adoption. If you don't want it, or you are a single parent without means for a child, give it up for adoption. If it will kill you to have the baby, choose whatever is best for you. If the child will be born to a short, painfilled life, do whatever you think is best. If your child is caused by incest or sexual assault, it's your choice.

At the age of 18, in my freshman year of college, I was held hostage, raped, assualted, beaten, and sodomized. After he was arrested, I skipped my next period. A Planned Parenthood Clinic had me blood-tested for STD's, had a Pap Smear done to determine any damage, treated me for a UTI, and gave me a pregnancy test. I was sick with worry.

I was not capable of raising a child. I had no income, no family support, no friends, no education, no nothing. I knew I wouldn't be able to give the child up for adoption, knowing that one day it would come back to me and want to know why. I also wouldn't be able to keep it, knowing that I would spend the rest of my life going through custody battles, knowing that my rapist would use our child to spend the rest of my life torturing me. What if it had his personality? Would I see him every time I looked into it's face?

I could discuss this with my nurses, with my doctor. They listened without judgement, and told me that it would be my choice, and they would support whatever I chose. Thank Goddess I never had to make that decision. The nurse almost cried with relief when she told me I wasn't pregnant.

These are the women that are accosted every day. These women are the support system for education, for choices, for life. For women they've never met, they are everything for as long as they can.

Since I can't afford to donate to them, I'll offer them what I can. I offer support. And thanks.

Thank you, Emily X. Thank you each and every person at Planned Parenthood, for what you do for women. Thank you.

I Hate Kids

Ok, that's not entirely accurate. I hate kids as a collective. I like children as individuals, so long as they belong to someone else, and I can give them back when I'm done with them. I really like babies, and can handle them for longer periods of time, but give me more than one of any child ages 2-14, and I will tear my hair out and struggle a serious internal battle between wanting to shake them, and wanting to run.

I know, that makes me a bad person. I can't help it. Just looking at me, you'd never know I dislike your child. I'll play with them, I read to them, I listen to stories and piggyback them around. I've worked as a mentor to children's groups, taught a class to 3rd, 4th, and 5th graders, and worked as a camp counselor for a summer for grades 3-12.

But they cry, and they whine, and they're loud, and they scream and sulk and need your attention constantly and they're sticky and they want to touch you. Even when I was a child, I disliked that. In third grade, my best friend was a 12th grader.

I like grown children. I like teenagers, and twenty-somethings, and desperately enjoy playing Mom/Mentor/Best Friend/Advisor/Co-conspiritor to people that age. I have a maternal streak a country-mile wide; I just prefer to use it on older children, and people my own age.

I also don't want to have children of my own. *Rolls Eyes* Yeah, yeah, I know. "I'll grow out of that." Whatever. Exhibit A: I've never liked children, nor wanted any of my own, in 21 years. Exhibit B: Due to medical problems, I may not be able to have children. Exhibit C: I want to adopt/foster teenagers. I watched my cousins torn apart in the foster system, because it is impossible to get teenagers adopted.

Why can't I? I like teenagers, I want to be able to make a difference in someone's life, I want to give someone a fighting chance at a good life. So, why is everyone so opposed to me doing this?

Oh, right. Because little kids are cute and cuddly, and I do not like them, therefore I must be a monster. Pfffft. Fine. If you like them so much, you let them put their candy-sticky hands in your hair while they screech at the top of their lungs.

It Rained Today

Yes, it did. It rained for almost 4 hours, a very light, soft, soothing gray rain. I sat outside and watched it for a while, and then sat inside watching TV with the window open, listening to it.

It was a very condusive atmosphere for a nap. So, I took one, and Jen took one. I snored and drooled all over my pillow, so you know it was a great nap. After I woke, the neighbor and I *glomp*ed Jennica while she was sleeping. I think I gave her a heart attack. I felt bad, but it was a lot fun until she screamed.

I've been working on my costume. It started out as a Red Cloak, jeans, and a red shirt. Then, I decided to be Little Red Riding Hood. So, I decided to make a skirt out of some cheap material. Finished the skirt, and decided I needed a cheap Can-Can (the underskirt that makes skirts poofy). Now, as I'm working on my Can-Can, I'm thinking I need a better shirt. Maybe a white RenFair/PirateWench type shirt, and a red corset-style shirtvest.

I know. I get easily carried away.

Ode to the Coccyx

O, Dear Coccyx
The End of the Spine
The support of the Buttocks
You do Your Job,
Day in, Day Out,
Without any Need for Me
To remember You're
There.

But, I assure You,
Today I Remembered
You Are There.
Will you Please
Stop Hurting
Now?




Are you curious now? No, I haven't lost my mind. So, in my last post, when I slipped down some stairs, and my bum hurt?

I was very sore today, and unable to work from the soreness, so I called my boss, who insisted that I go to the hospital to be checked out. I, personally, though this was a stupid idea, as I was just sore from my fall, but it was not negotiable. So, I went to the hospital. Can you guess what they found?

Yup. I snapped off the last two inches of my tailbone. I get a butt-pillow, three days off work, and some freaking awesome painkillers, plus orders that I'm not to lift of 25 pounds for three weeks.

Yay, Me!! >>Stupid stupid stupid sheepish stupid<<

I Smell Like a French Fry

I smell like a French Fry. So does my hair, my clothes, my laundry basket, my chair, my covers, and my bed.

"Why, Inyanna, do you smell like a French Fry," you may ask.

Well, Good Reader, that's a good question. I smell like a French Fry because I work for McDonalds, who prides themselves on smelling like French Fries 24-7. And since I've currently worked 14 days in a row without a day off (since I've filled in shifts for people with some extenuating circumstances), all of my work clothes are dirty. And since my bed is also my couch, I sit on it in my work clothes, smelling like a French Fry.

Methinks I might not be working tomorrow, though. Not because I'm off, mind you. No, no, please don't get that idea. I kind of fell down the stairs tonight. I was walking down the rubber-coated steps in my grease-watery-not-non-slip shoes (because I can't find my non-slip ones, since I haven't gotten a day off in two weeks) and slipped on the second step. I fell on my butt, and bounced down about 6 steps, and came to a stop by catching myself with my hands and feet.

So, my butt hurts, my lower lumbar hurts dead center vertebrae, and there's a definate line of hurt (skin-deep only) where my head bounced off a step. The company nurse says I can't lift over 10 pounds, I shouldn't lift over my head, I should ice the "injured area", and take some Tylenol. Methinks my back and butt will hurt like hell tomorrow, and I will be in bed with said ice and Tylenol when I should be working.

Spirit in A Parking Lot

Tonight, Jen and Kris and I went out running around. We swung by Mickey-D's and picked up salad, then went out to the park and ate them. We played on the swings, visited about how excited Kris is to get her cloak in soon, and how much Jen would love some fairy wings, and how much I would LOVE a day off. (I've worked 14 days in a row now, eight hour shifts a day. I don't get another day off until Tuesday.) We looked at the place I'll spend Halloween night, and whether or not we would be safe out after dark.

Then we went to Walmart to find fabric to make my Halloween Costume out of, and some lipstick. I'm going to be Little Red Riding Hood. As we were cashing out, we overheard some of the employees talking about something in the parking lot under the basket.

Being the naturally nosy person I am, I starting asking questions like "What's under the basket?" Apparently, someone driving into town had hit an owl, and she'd been trapped against the grille of his truck until he slowed in the parking lot. She had a broken wing, so they tipped over a cart to protect and contain her, and then called the police, who called the game warden, who said he'd come get her. "You should go look at her, she's huge."

So, we went to look. Sure enough, a very large, very scared, very beautiful Great Horned Owl lay on the ground under the tipped-over cart. We approached her slowly, as not to offend her dignity. Heaven knows her pride would never forgive us for spooking her. I walked slowly, surely, with an even, slow pace and stride, and she watched us approach. Jen gave her a start when she cooed and jumped around and got right up next to the cart, but I squatted 5-or-so foot from her, and just rested there on my haunches. When she settled, she sat there, and looked at me, great yellow eyes wide with fear, imploring us to help her. Her wing was broken, her foot bruised, some of her tailfeathers broken.

We had to leave her. Even though I begged and pleaded to move her from the middle of the parking lot, even though the bar would be loosening the drunk college people into the town in thirty minutes, even though we offered to put her in a temporary cage in the foyer of Walmart, we were told that since the game warden had been called, she was considered a ward of the Fish & Game, and as such, a ward of the State, and touching her, or her container, would be a felony. And, then we were told to shoo.

It broke my heart to watch that creature, a creature sacred to my Choctaw heritage and sacred to me personally, sit in a vast expanse of concrete, trapped under a makeshift net, broken and in pain, pleading with me, and know that I could do nothing. Not because I am afraid of some law, for there are some things worth fighting for; because I was too weak, without knowledge, and her pain too great, her fear too strong. I could not save her, any more than I can save myself.

I hope she forgives me.

Stupid Little Twit

Meet my little brother. His name is Twit, and man, is he living up to it right now. And when I finally get my hands around his little neck, we're going to have a heart-to-heart about him reconnecting the side of his brain that tells him what's right and what's fun.

My little brother and I were pretty close when we were growing up. Typical brother and sister tear-each-others-eyes-out-I-hate-you-Mom-he's-touching-me-I'm-not-touching-you-stay-on-your-side-of-the-car-you're-on-my-side! kind of feuding, but we were mostly pretty close. We talked about a lot, very honestly, and spent a lot of time together on the golf course, and in a car on the way to a golf course. When I moved to college, we still stayed fairly close, even though we ran in different social groups, and were very different kinds of people.

This year, my little brother started his freshman year of college 4 hours away from me. He got a scholarship to play golf at a private minority Christian College. $16,000 a year. Plus, he gets a $2,000 stipend a year.

He's about to get himself kicked out of college. Skipping classes, sleeping through practice, and was even taken to jail, but released when the police realized it was just a wrong place, wrong time scenario. Weekend before last, he was supposed to go visit my Mahaw and Pahaw, who are thirty minutes from him on vacation. At 4:30 in the afternoon, after 23 phone calls from all kinds of people, his hangover cleared enough for him to wake up. Scared us all to death. Last weekend, he had to go to Kansas for a golf tournament. He showed up to the bus so hung over, he was puking. Coach called Dad, who was on his way to see the tournament. Twit was bumped down to last man on the team, and is now on probation for violating the morality clause in his scholarship contract.

So, to celebrate the last tournament of the season, the whole team went out and got drunk last night. And, he was still in bed, hungover, at 2:30 this afternoon when I called to say hi. Course, he was the DD last night, so he was just hung over. They other guys were still drunk >>insert whiny little boy voice here<<.

I'm gonna kill him.

I Want

I've stolen this from my dear friend Bonnnie. You simply write the words "I Want" as many times as there are years you've been alive (In simpler terms, one wish per year), and the fill in your wish. It can be simple, or petty, or fantastical, or concientious, but it must be something you want.

I want... An unlimited supply of Braum's Frozen Yogurt. Twist, please.

I want... To be warm, and safe.

I want... To sleep more.

I want... To visit my grandparents. And some dear friends of mine, that'll I'll probably never actually see.

I want... To feel with every fiber of my body.

I want... To be happy with myself.

I want... To see the good in others.

I want... To be purely passionate.

I want... To stop hiding everything.

I want... To be unafraid of judgement.

I want... My bills paid off.

I want... Violence to stop.

I want... Women to rule the world!

I want... To find someplace to volunteer.

I want... To ache for all that is good.

I want... To do something meaningful.

I want... To change the world. Slowly. Overnight.

I want... To change someone. Preferably, for the better.

I want... To be a pretty pretty princess.

I want... Someone to snuggle with.

I want... I want something.

Toolin' Around Town

I got to ride a motorcycle today.

It's been since I was, oh, eight or nine since I've been on a motorcycle. My grandparents own a Honda Gold Wing, and it used to be the neatest thing I'd ever seen.

13 years later, a friend of mine owns a Honda Street Bike. I finally talked him into taking me out on it. Strapped myself into a helmet, hopped on behind him, and we went for a ride.

Despite the heat from the exhaust, despite the 30 mph winds that day, despite the 90 degree weather, it was awesome. A chance to feel true power, with nothing to hide me from the energy of nature.

And even though my face felt like a peeled grape afterwards, it still rocked.

Besides, women go to spas and pay lots of money to make their faces feel like peeled grapes. I got a facial for free. ;)

Failing Sex Ed

I think sexual education should be mandatory. I also think, sex ed should be a full-fledged class, split into single-gender classrooms for a semester, and then merged for second semester. I also think it should be a second-semester required course for all collegiate freshmen.

Now, before everyone gets their backs up about "it's my child, and I'll decide what's healthy for them to learn," "if we teach them about sex, they'll have sex" or my favorite "It's against our religion to teach kids about sex," hear me out. I've a few valid points.

Sex is something your child is going to hear about, even in the bible. It's in music, on TV, in classroom, and in their parents bedroom (otherwise, they would not exist.) Therefore, you must assume that you child is going to recieve some kind of sexual education. It is your job as a parent, and teacher's jobs as professionals, and the state's job as education mentors, to provide that child with the best, most correct, most comprehensive information possible.

Now, I am in no way advocating showing pornography or graphic pictures, or teaching masturbation and oral sex techniques in a classroom setting. No. I'm proposing that we teach children things like birth control options (alongside abstinence lectures. Because, let's face it, no state would be so liberal as to forget the "stay abstinent" lecture.), practical STD information, sexual health information (like signs of cervical or breast cancer, god forbid they ever need it). Teach them that the pull-out method and the rythym method DO NOT PREVENT PREGNANCY. Teach our boys how to put a condom on properly, explain to them the female menstrual cycle, and the dangers of promiscuity.

Then, merge the classes, and show them the last ten minutes of the movie "Knocked Up." (Just kidding.) Teach them together, in a non-threatening environment, about various kinds of sexuality (straight, gay, bisexual, asexual) and the science behind that, WITHOUT SLANDEROUS SUBJECTIVITY.

In college seminar, set the boys on one side, set the girls on the other. Set a panel with one expert, one teacher, two male college students, and two female college students at the front of the room, all of whom have been selected for their ability to be open and honest. Then, let the questions begin. Anything and everything, truth and rumor, fact and science, wivestales and positions. ANSWER EVERYTHING.

Then, I won't ever have to explain to a 28-year-old man what a menstrual cycle is EVER AGAIN.

Think about it?

The Top 10 Things I Love

1.My family

2.My friends

3.Having my own place (That does not belong to the school or my parents.)

4.Dancing, movies, music, and Theatre

5.Passion

6.That I can cook just about anything. (Thank you, Mahaw.)

7.Fall

8.Rainy lazy days in bed with a new book

9.People. Their noises and colors and motions, and thoughts/opinions/beliefs.

10.The current limbo I'm in. For now, it's nice to be comfortable wiht who I am, where I'm at, and who I'm with, without the need for a roadmap or a deadline.

My Parents

It never ceases to amaze me how much my parents have learned in such a few short years.

I was a typical teenager. About the time I turned eleven, my parents became stupid. Intensely, unfailing stupid. I'm not sure exactly how that happened, because they had been very intelligent up until then, but one morning, I woke up and then -bam- They were dumb. They never understood anything that I was going through. They ruined my life, with all their rules, and chores, and jobs, and errands, and punishments. Didn't they realize that I, as the oldest child and their only daughter, was the most important thing in the world?

About the time I turned 14, my distrust in them turned poisonous. They had such high standards. Involved in sports, in FFA, in FHA, In Band, choir, speech, academic teams, and student government, every other parent would have been thrilled to have me. But not my parents. My father had a temper that leaned toward abusive, and my mother was a sheep, following his lead blindly.

At sixteen, I'd fallen into a sneaky depression, contemplating suicide on the inside, happy-perky-bubbly and outgoing on the outside. I had to have my gallbladder taken out (two weeks of throwing up even water before the doctors figured out what was wrong), and was put on Demeral and Loritab after they let me go. I got hooked hard.

Finally talked to my creative writing teacher, who talked to my school counselor, who called my parents.

Things got better, but my parents were still dumb. Even into my first semester of college, they still had not regained any of their once-astonishing intelligence.

Now, it amazes me how much my parents learned in the last three years. They know everything. If I need something, or some advice, or have a question as to how things are done? They know the answer. I also now realize that it must have been hell trying to let me grow up, when I was so stupid. Dad and I have a semi-truce, and Mom and I are getting to be good friends.

What brought this up, you may ask?
This video.

Enjoy!

I've Got Nothing to Talk About

I've got nothing to talk about... It's been a slow day, and it'll be a slow evening. I go in to work a little later, which will be fun.

So, I'm going to tell you about the time I met Paris Hilton and Nichole Ritchie. I was waiting table for Flying J in my little hometown, and saw a black-shirted bulky dangerous-looking man conversing with our manager. There were only three of us on the floor, so, of course, we huddle up and try to decide who he is and what he wants. (Don't ever let anyone tell you waitresses don't gossip. They're lying.)

While we're watching, he turns and walks off, and my manager makes a beeline for us. She shoos away the other two girls (who are 16 and 17, I am 18, which makes me Head Wait for the evening, since they can't do a lot of things. Like use knives. Company Policy.) and proceeds to explain that "a couple of celebrities are coming in, they will be in the corner booth with two bodyguards, I am to wait on them, there will be a camera, and they must not be treated as special in any way, but," she hisses, "Make sure they are completely happy. This might be on TV."

And in walk Paris Hilton and Nichole Ritchie, filming The Simple Life 2. So, I seat them, and wait on them.

Paris had fish with a side of lemon, rice pilaf with no oil or butter used to make it, salad with raspberry vinegarette, and a bottle of Evian, and was a complete b**ch. Picked at her food with her noise in the air the whole time. Don't-look-at-me-don't-touch-me-those-people-are-sitting-too-close-make-them-leave-why-is-my-napkin-made-of-paper.

Nichole had Chicken fried steak, smothered in white gravy, mashed potatoes, mixed veggies, and onion rings, with iced tea. Ate half her plate. Was a total sweetheart, laughed, joked, asked about school, and in general, was just a nice person.

Left me a 15% tip, which equivalates to $4.50.


And that, Ladies and Gentleman, is the time I met Paris and Nichole.