Thursday, April 22, 2010

Tidbits

I read in a magazine that every pair of dirty underpants has one-tenth of a gram of feces,

Not my underpants!  I don’t know what the rest of you people are doing, but I wipe!!  Then, I go through about six baby wipes afterward because I prefer to be REALLY clean.  I dare you to find any fecal materials in my underpants.

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I place make-up in the same category as hot dogs.  Everyone loves hot dogs.  You don’t know what’s in ‘em, you just know you like ‘em.  It’s better off that we do not know for sure what’s in a hot dog.  I personally have always believed they are nothing more than leftover parts, the beaks and the feets. 

Make-up is much the same way.  It was only a couple years ago I had learned that foundation had a base of animal fats.  Ew.  Did not need to know that at all.  Women (and a few men) love their make-up.  We go to great lengths to find just the perfect type, the perfect shade, the perfect match.  But we really don’t want to know what’s in it.

On The Discovery Channel, I watched “Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe”.  Mike had visited a pig farm where Las Vegas Buffet leftovers were recycled into pig slop.  The mess was sifted through by hand to remove non-food items, then boiled in what appeared to be the world’s largest soup can.  As it boiled, the fat and grease rose to the top and filtered into another area.  Mike asked, “What do you do with that?”  The pig farmer replied, “We sell it to cosmetics companies.”

Hmm.  Really didn’t want to know that!

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Couple days ago, I gave the dogs some flea medication.  It was a pill I had to split in two and crush into a fine powder because the little one, Lucy, will spit it out if she just slightly taste it.  I put the powder into little balls of cheese.  The dogs rarely get cheese and when they do, it’s simply a taste because I’m so paranoid about getting them constipated.  They’ve both got stomach issues so I’m careful about what People Food they get.

The dogs LOVE cheese!  And for Lucy to spit it out with mere crumbs of medicine in it--you can see how picky little dogs are.  So I divided it into several little balls for Lucy.  Our other dog, Prissy, licked the plate in one wide swoop and her cheese balls were gone.  I stood over Lucy so Prissy wouldn’t get a double dose.

Lucy picked up a cheese ball in her mouth, placed it on the floor.  She picked up another from the plate, placed it on the floor.  Sigh.  She finally began to chew on the cheese and looked comical as she smacked her jaws together as though she had just taken a huge bite of peanut butter.  About ten minuets later, Lucy has FINALLY finished all of the cheese while poor Prissy was searching nearby for more.

I was so paranoid I had gotten them backed them, I made a big bowl of vegetables for my supper and fed them all the broccoli they wanted.  I later had some Fiber One cereal and fed them more of that than I usually allow them.

I figured I may have upset things even worse as these two opposing forces would be battling it out within the dogs’ stomachs over the next two days.  So far, so good.  The dogs spent yesterday outside, so I’m not sure if they pooped or their bellies are in turmoil.

Ok, that’s all.  I don’t have kids so every once in a blue moon I have to tell a boring dog story.  Be grateful I don’t talk about my pets as though they were my kids.  I might be a little off, but I’m not like those crazy-cat people.  My dogs do not have more outfits than I do.  And they only get dressed in the bitter winter.  So there.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Well, at least i have a job

Wednesday, April 14th

Well today was certainly an interesting day.  Around 6am, I walked in through the back and noticed the tray around my dry cleaning machine was completely filled with solvent.  I clocked in, threw my sodas in the fridge and sighed.  Today was going to be a long day.

Unbeknownst to me, when I loaded the machine yesterday, I hadn’t latched the door completely, thus leaving the seal in the door, cracked just a smidge.  When Terry came in at 5am this morning, he turned on the machine for me and solvent slowly leaked out through the door and collected in the bottom tray.

I had not spoken to Terry yet, I just figured it was something to do with the lint filter, where solvent is pumped through continuously as the drum spins.  That’s usually where most of my problems begin.  I turned the pump off and just as I barely unlatched the clamp on the lint trap, petroleum spewed from the top of it like a volcano. 

I was drenched, head to toe.

I spent the next thirty minuets mopping up solvent with rags, spinning the rags out into the machine, mopping up some more.  My boss, Allan came in and asked what in the world happened.  “Go home, take a shower, change clothes.  I’ll finish this up and get your next load going,” he said.

By the time I walked though my front door, I was crying, purely out of frustration.  Shawn was only just collecting his things for a shower so I made it just in time.  Greatly concerned, he asked what in the world happened.  Through my sobs of “I hate my job!” I explained it to him as I peeled off my clothes and warned him not to light up anywhere me as I was covered in what is essentially, gasoline.

I soaped up and covered the red patches on my body with aloe vera.  This is the part where Shawn began to freak out.  My bras are slightly padded and that extra bit of padding soaked up quite a bit of solvent and held it there against my skin.  My belt and the waist band of my low-rise jeans, along with my underwear, also soaked up quite a bit.  So, you can imagine.

The fronts of my legs tingled, felt fuzzy.  I hung my under garments on hangers and piled the remaining clothes into a bag to take back to work. 

Shawn expressed great concern and demanded that I come home if I started to hurt or feel bad.  “I don’t give a **** about those people!  If you start burning, you come home and you call me!” he exclaimed.

I spent the better part of the day continuing to mop of solvent in between spotting job, loading and unloading washers, dryers, and the machine.  It’s not a big deal, really.  I’ve had this stuff irritate my arms pretty drastically.  It looks like I’ve been burned with boiling water, then my skin gets real dry and starts to crack.  Sometimes it feels irritating, almost like a slight burn, but it doesn’t really hurt dramatically.  Once you’ve had a few dozen steam burns, you change you mind about what really hurts and what is merely bothersome.

A couple of co-workers expressed concern for me, wanting to know what happened, was I alright, and so forth.  One co-worker nearly tasted the wrath that is The Back Of My Hand, simply because she spoke and words came out.  I wasn’t in the mood for her mouth today.  I bit my tongue because I was exhausted and really just wanted this day to be over.

Of course, it didn’t get any better from there.  I went on to burn two of my fingers and smacked my wrist into the dryer so hard that it bruised almost instantly.  People are complaining to me about how other people are doing things.  I’ve got my own issues to deal with.  You all just settle this amongst yourselves.

After work, I went to Sonic and got 5 strawberry slushes on their Happy Hour sale.  In all this time, I’ve never been to the apartment complex Shawn was transferred to.  I knew he would have a miserable day because they had to change out not one, but two building water shut off valves.

I figured this would be a great opportunity to meet everyone and spend the money I found in the dryer last week.  I got out of the car just in time to see Shawn and Ray coming up the hill and I handed them each a slush.  Once inside of the office, I finally got to meet Christy, the office manager.

Shawn had done some side work at Christy’s house after a major flooding and as mush as he’s talked about her, I feel like I sort of know her.  I was actually always surprised how Shawn was able to get along with her because he had issues with a man he’d worked with before.  The man was gay, and Shawn didn’t like that.

That’s about it.  It’s taken some time, but Shawn has softened a little.  He has now known two homosexual people and once he got to know them, he could get along with them.  I have no problems with Christy being a lesbian and I’ll tell you why:  It’s not for me to judge her.  I may not agree with that lifestyle choice, but no one has to answer to me.  I’d come to terms with this way of thinking a long time ago.  The only homosexuals I cannot stand are those fairies on TV that prance around acting like little six year girls.  They’re just really annoying. 

One of my own co-workers became a lesbian after her second divorce and it didn’t change how I viewed her, how I interacted with her, or our friendship at work.  She’s no different now than she was a couple years ago when all she did was gripe and complain about “that bastard who don’t pay no bills or nothin’!”

Christy seemed really sweet and asked how I was.  “Oh, you told everyone, huh?” I asked Shawn.  Of course he did.  Ray asked how I was, said that Shawn was concerned, that “we all were concerned.”  Wow, I’ve never even met these people, besides Ray!

“Oh, he exaggerates,” I told Ray.  “It’s really not that bad.”
“It was this morning!  At least what I saw!!!” Shawn exclaimed.  He must have asked me a dozen times if I was really OK.

Shawn called me later and said that Lou, the housekeeper said, “Shawn’s wife is pretty.  Why is she married to him?!” 
Shawn answered with, “I been asking myself that for many years now!”

Har har.  Still makes me feel good, though!  I know Ray and Christy are forever buying lunch and breakfast for everyone and we don’t really have the money to reciprocate for all of that.  I know slushies are not much, but it’s a start.  Maybe I’ll bake something in a few weeks.

Perhaps tomorrow will be better for both Shawn and myself.  He doesn’t have school tomorrow so we’ll have the evening together, at the very least.  This business thing between him and Ray may be getting started within a month’s time, on the weekends of course.  No one is quitting their job or anything.  The first project is to become a trike with NOS attached.

Of course it is.  Anything to give me a heart attack while I cover my eyes as my dear ‘ol husband goes screaming down our neighborhood street at 70 miles per hour.

You all may want to pull your cars into the driveways on first-test day.  And make sure your pets are all safely inside.  And place your children in the closet--especially the teenagers.  Not for safety reasons, they just get on my nerves is all.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Our Date With The Rock PART TWO

I had in fact, spent much time searching the wide, wide, world of web for a tape or a copy of the February 17th, 1998 taping of Shotgun Saturday Night, which aired that following Saturday (the 22nd, I think--not sure on that) with no luck.  As I age, my memory ages as well.  Old memories are replaced with the eye-hand coordination of remembering how to tie my sneaker laces each morning.
Ha, ha.

Even though Shawn never attended my school, he was the current gossip subject for about a month. No break up or pregnancy topped this story. And remember the three guys that jumped out of the first level seats to join us? They had witnessed they whole thing first hand and because of them vouching for my outrageous story, no one picked a fight with me the rest of my high school career.

It was insane. Everyone was afraid to mess with me for a while because they were afraid of Shawn. I got into a lot of fights with boys in school. I can actually say that to date, I've never been in a "girl fight". I didn't get along that many kids in school, and I still didn't after Shawn clocked The Rock, but I did gain a new found respect from the boys that picked on me.

(I was a little... Different. I didn't walk around wearing pounds of Gothic jewelery and dressing all in black but I didn't fit in with the country music fanatics. I didn't own a single shirt with Adidas or Nike written across the front and that made me an outcast!)

Shawn's parents had taped the Monday Night Raw saw so we could catch a glimpse of ourselves on TV. My face could be spotted for one-fifth of a second but you had to know where to look and what you were looking for! The main event had been taped for Shotgun Saturday Night, which as I mentioned, was never aired around here. So, if there's anyone out there with a recorded taping of the February 17, 1998 program, I'd LOVE a copy. I'm sure the camera men were instructed to veer away due to the reasonable probability of a pending lawsuit, though.

Several months later, however, we attended a another WWF show in Austin. Security was tightened. We had floor seats but had to remain in them. There was no roaming out of your seat for a closer look. When the people in front of us stood up to cheer or whatever all i could see were the backs of strangers. Every time I stood on my chair to better viewing purposes, a security guard would rush over and holler at me.

Howard Finkle was walking about the floor seats, working the crowd, early on. Shawn cheerfully shouted, "Hey! Remember me?"

Shawn explained who he was but Finkle seemed a bit confused. He quickly offered a "Oh, yeah I remember," and got out of there as quickly as he could. Maybe he did remember the young man who went postal over a ripped t-shirt. maybe he didn't remember at all.

The Rock came out for Cage Match, I believe and noticed us right away. If I recall correctly, he was a baby face at the time. While everyone cheered for him, we squarely booed and cursed at him. Rock's eyes met our direction and they bulged and bugged out like they always do. He glared at us steadily and shook it off to get into the ring. Once again, I'm unsure if actually recognized Shawn, or was maybe thinking, "Gee whiz, that guy looks familiar."

We haven't watched wrestling in years. However in the time following that night in 1998, we did notice some abrupt changes within the WWF. The metal railing had been replaced with a thicker half-wall. It appeared that spectators had been restricted to keep back, at least for a period of time. The Rock had not spit once into the crowd, not once or ever more to my knowledge.

And finally, the fan-wrestler match up had been popularized. we witnessed on television the most fake "fans" screaming at a wrestler only to be plucked from the crowd and body slammed to the floor. Be a normal fan boy, I'm sure that would be cause enough for a sizable lawsuit. Although I would imagine the wrestlers would be able to restrain themselves from taunting. As the crowd watched in horror as some frail-looking young man writhed in pain on the flood, all we could do was balk at a stuntman and think, "Oh, that is so fake!"

Shouldn't Shawn and I get a little compensation for giving the writers a little idea? Sure it was group effort, but I'm sure The Rock doesn't have like, a mortgage or a car payment.
We never actually sued the WWF. It never entered our minds except in jokes. I would however settle for meeting some of my "heroes" as reimbursement. I did, after all suffer some humiliation and embarrassment. And Shawn suffered having his neck scratched. Whiplash!

All in all, I'd like to someday contact the wrestlers involved in that three-way tag match. I mean, this isn't exactly the days of Andy Kaufman, now is it?
For months afterward I watched every little interview that involved the WWF, hoping that the little experience would be mentioned. It never was. I contemplating reading every book that every wrestler put out with that same thin string off hope. I never did.

Perhaps I should get on the ball and email all those fan sites in hopes that The Rock or Mick Foley should see it. What if?
My biggest point about this story is that is was as real as real can get. It was unscripted. There was no planning who would win, who would lose, who would be the heel or baby face.
And you know what? We'll probably continue to tell the story whether you believe it or not.

 

Our Date With The Rock PART ONE

I write this in February 2006 so my writing style may have changed a little.  I've wrote this particualr story about five times, trying to trim it, make it more interesting to the reader.  This is a re-posting from my old blog, I didn't re-read it, I didn't check for spelling.  I am simply just copying and pasting here due to laziness and the fact that I have a cold coming on.  After taking Mucinex, I am officially coughing up a yellowish-greenish gift from my lungs.  Enjoy.

I promise to you that story is true. Every time I’ve told it I get a well deserved “Yeah, right.” But it happened and it’s one of my most favorite stories because it is so unbelievable.
While my would be husband, Shawn and I were dating in high school, we were wrestling fanatics. We were more particular towards the WWF, or as it’s now called, the WWE. Sure, we’d always known it was fake and somewhat scripted but we still loved it.

On February 17, 1998, Shawn and his older brother, Tim and I had floor seat tickets to the live filming of Monday Night Raw in Waco, Texas. Shawn and I had worked our way up to the metal railing just behind the bell ringer. As I remember, WWF had removed the flimsy railing for a more sturdy, solid half-wall that was padded. And for that, you’ll find out why as you read on. Before the taping of Monday night Raw began, we were entertained by new comers, followed by the taping of Shotgun Saturday Night, which unfortunately didn’t air in our area. Ever.

I’d spotted some guys from my school on the first level up of seating. They hopped the short wall and joined us on the floor. I was annoyed at first that they should use me to get closer to the ring, but I rather grateful later as these acquaintances would prove as witnesses to my story the next day at school. Shawn bought two Stonecold Steve Austin t-shirts for he and I and we eagerly awaited the main event. The last match of the night consisted of a three-on-three tag match. “Road Dog” Jesse James, “Bad Ass” Billy Gunn and The Rock were poised as “heels”, or the bad guys. “Stonecold” Steve Austin, Mick Foley, (a.k.a. Dude Love, Mankind, Cactus Jack) and Chainsaw Charlie (a.k.a. Terry Funk) held the role of the “baby faces” or good guys.

Of course, at the time, everyone’s favorite marketing tool was Steve Austin. And everyone’s you-love-to-hate-him-guy was Rocky, as he was called then. However, I’ve always held a special place for Mick Foley and Terry Funk. This especially became true after reading Foley’s book, Have a Nice Day. Go get yourself a copy and find out how tough the “sport” can really be when cutting your teeth. I mean, this dude lost an ear for Pete’s sake!

For several months, The Rock had been spitting into the crowd upon being announced and arriving into the famed squared circle. It was quite common to see him do so on TV since he was the biggest heel The three bad guys were announced one by one and entered the arena. The Rock glared into the crowd as he always did and was booed and hissed at. Somewhere from behind our place of standing a wet blob was spat into the air toward Rock’s direction. Someone had spit at The Rock! Well, he in turn spat back! Out of no where, not yet realizing what had taken place, I felt this mass of goo land right on my face. The vein on Shawn’s forehead leapt out and throbbed. Shawn perched his feet along the bottom rail and reared back. His upper body thrust forward over the railing and an enormous wad of spit was sent flying into the ring and landed…
Right on Rock’s jaw. Good aim. But now Rock’s eye bulged and bugged out. We screamed obscenities. Two hundred and seventy pounds of six foot, five inch tall muscle came thundering our way. He screamed at Shawn as he wiped the mess from his face. Shawn, 6’4” and weighing in at a small 135 pounds, reached for Rock, scrambling to get at him from behind the rail. Rock wrapped a large hand around Shawn’s throat; Shawn wrapped his own leg around a vertical rail to keep from being pulled away.

In mere seconds four security guards and roughly fifty fans were all on top of Shawn. They were Pushing, pulling, screaming. I’d gotten shoved slightly to the side of Shawn. I heard Mick Foley’s entrance music and couldn’t help but look away from the turmoil. The chubby wrestler bounded down the ramp and head for the ring. He stopped suddenly and appeared confused, as though no one had told him this would be going on. If the words, “This wasn’t in the script” weren’t written on his face, his expression couldn’t be more clear.

Just as The Rock had grabbed Shawn’s throat, someone from behind hollered, “Hit him with this chair, dude!” A metal folding chair waved in the air as two of the guards wrapped their arms underneath Shawn’s armpits, preventing him from swinging. (Who exactly are they protecting here? The Rock from someone half his size?) Somebody had one of Shawn’s legs while his other leg remained tightly wrapped around the rail. He held on with everything he had and turned to the pair of arms waving the chair. “You hit him!” Shawn hollered. He was a bit tied up at the moment, as you can see.
Of course you must also realize that all this happened within a matter of mere seconds and as quickly as The Rock grabbed Shawn’s throat and Shawn’s arms were taken hostage by the guards, he’d freed an arm and swung at Rock, hard.

I heard a flat popping noise as I watched my boyfriend connect his hard, skinny fist with that of the cheekbone belonging to The Rock, a professional wrestler! Rock was immediately pulled off and placed in the corner furthest from us. He slumped in the corner and glared in our direction. I jumped on the rail and screamed at him, when suddenly, Steve Austin’s entrance music blared over the speakers and all was forgotten by the crowd. Thousands of people screamed and cheered as Shawn walked away from our spot.

Now, all night long we’d been fighting elbows and shoulders. You didn’t have an inch to yourself and everywhere was the scent of beer and body odor. All night long we fought against strangers to keep our coveted spot and were happily bruised for it. Imagine a huge concert where one dude tries to protect his five foot tall girl from being pushed out of the mosh pit. This is the sort of event where you better not even head to the restroom. Just hold it and forget it. Otherwise, you’ll never find your way back to your original spot, and you’ll probably not see your friends till the end of the show. However, as Shawn turned and started to walk away in a fit of rage, a very strange event had occurred. A path had opened for him as if Moses himself had parted the sea of people.
Shawn walked in the direction of the exit and the hole had closed up. He turned, started back toward me, and ironically, the sea of people had parted again, allowing at least one foot of space on either side of Shawn. The sea of humanity began to pat Shawn on the back as he passed saying such things, “You got some big ones!” and the like.

Shawn’s new twenty-five dollar t-shirt was torn at the collar and he bore bright red scratches across his neck, nearly bleeding, but not quite yet. Howard Finkle, the WWF announcer was seated next to the bell ringer. Shawn trumped right on through the sea of people and tapped Finkle right on top of his bald head. Shawn screamed over the noise that he’s just bought shirt and Rock ripped it and he wanted another! He paid twenty-five dollars for this shirt and he wanted another! For a moment, I thought Finkle might wet himself. How often does the announcer get tapped on his bald head from a deranged fan?

An assistant, or stage hand or some kind of gopher was summoned from backstage and came running with a generic WWF Attitude t-shirt in hand. Shawn screamed about how he’d bought this shirt, tugging at his Austin Shirt and “you bring me this shirt.” “No!” he hollered. “I didn’t pay twenty-five dollars for that dinky shirt! I bought this one!” The young man retreated and returned with a shirt identical to the one Shawn was wearing. I seriously cannot recall a time when I’ve seen Shawn’s face so red or the vein on his forehead so close to bursting.

Obviously, we’d missed most of the match. At the end of the match and as planned, I assume, Austin had beaten Rock. As Austin delivered several of his signature move, The Stunner, to Rock, we howled. It was as though Austin was delivering real blows to The Rock just for us.
Austin straddled the ropes, poked his fists into the air (as he always did to get the crowd riled up) and looked right at us. Of course, not that I think about it, today, he was probably thinking something along the lines of, “Stupid punk kids!”

We were elated either way. Austin had beaten Rock and that’s all that mattered at the time. Everything seemed right in the world. Or at least our little worlds. On our way out of the arena, people hollered and shouted at Shawn, they honked their car horns. “Mini-Stonecold clocked The Rock!” they’d shout.

Shawn’s brother had wanted to leave right away to beat the traffic but it’s something I often regret. Perhaps if we’d hung around we could’ve gotten backstage? Maybe get some free stuff as an apology and hung out with the Stars? I often wonder “what if?”

Monday, April 12, 2010

Like A Record Skipping On Its Turntable Part 2

I apologize for the length of this story.  I'll be reposting The Rock story from my old blog in a few days.  I hope you enjoy part two.  This is as real as I get, people.

 

Afterward, and for the rest of the day, I was alright. 

Until this morning.  Monday morning.  Back to the old grind.  For as boring as my job may be, I may as well be shoveling salt into a cart for nine hours with no lunch break.  The thoughts entered my head. 

Of course it doesn’t matter what these women say or do.  What matters is what Shawn says or does.  It’s his reaction is what matters.  But his story had so many details; could he have made it up?  And if he didn’t make it up, how on God’s green earth could he remember her shorts were blue from eleven years ago?  Do I know him as well as I think I do.  Sure I do, I’ve known him since I was fourteen.  He loves me and would never do anything to hurt me. 

But what if?  This line of thinking betrayed my own trust.  Don’t I trust him?  He brought me the biggest bouquet of balloons to my English class in high school on Valentine’s Day!  He gives me his paycheck every single week, for deposit into the bank so I can pay the bills.  He’s not like some of his work buddies who cash their checks, go get drunk and give their wives what little is left over.

For Pete’s sake, he cried when he watched the DVD I had made from ages-old VHS cassettes all about us.  I made it for his birthday to demonstrate how much I loved him, because I’m no good at speaking my feelings.  (It really was beautiful, if I say so myself!)

He sneaked into my car once while I was working and had placed dyed posies on the passenger seat.  He comes home to me every night.  In high school, he beat up Karl, when I got hit in the eye.  He took on The Rock at a WWF show after The Rock had spit into the crowd and the loogie landed right on me.  He took on a 6’4” and 260 lb beast, all because he was playing the villian and just so happened to spit on me (it’s in my other blog--I’ll post that story here soon).

All for me.  He talks about getting out of this dead-end job so he can give me and buy me all the things I deserve.  I tell him I do not deserve anything.  “You deserve everything,” he says.

But what if….?  The temptations are certainly there.  Shawn is easy to talk to, he’s fun and somewhat charming.  The women these days simply do not hit on the men any more--they go after them like monsters.  They flirt in a much more aggressive manner than I was ever aware of.

Shawn doesn’t wear his wedding ring because he often works with electrical stuff.  Understandable.  But these women do not ask, they assume nothing, they simply pounce like a hungry cheetah taking down the weakest of the gazelles. 

Still….

What if…..?

I couldn’t take it anymore.  I can’t live like this!!  My stomach was in knots.  I can’t read his mind.  Yes, I believe him, but can anyone be 100% sure of what is being said.  It’s only words, after all, I wasn’t there to witness anything personally.  You can bet that if I had been there, Little Miss Blue Shorts would have making a trip to the emergency room with a broken nose and I‘d be having my fist tested for blood-transmitted diseases.

No, I suppose that’s not very Christian-like. 

I couldn’t take it anymore.  I felt like I would throw up!  I recalled something Brother Henry had said, maybe it was at Easter service.  Maybe a few weeks ago.  I couldn’t remember.  He said, in so many words that you’ve got to be willing to give it to God, no matter what it was.  Be willing to give it all to Him, and he will take it from you, like that!

I’d spent the better part of three, four hours going through this back and forth.  I’d prayed God would remove this doubt, these ugly thoughts---then the torture would start again, like a broken record, skipping on it’s turntable…

Alright, God.  I AM willing.  I am willing to give it ALL to you, right here, right now.  Please take it from me, all these thoughts of doubt, any thought that I have against Shawn which is not true, take it from me.  I give it all to You.  I cannot do this by myself, I cannot live like this.  I know he loves me so I am asking you to please hear me and take away this pain, this torture, these thoughts that keep running through my head, I give it to you!!!  Let me forget all of this, as though it never happened.

There it was.  I was pressing a cotton blouse on the hot-head while I did this.  A wave of calm washed over me.  I was not light as air and hyper-active as I was last time, no this was different.  I was calm, mellow.  You must understand, I am NEVER calm.  I’m full of anxiety, most times, and when I am calm and mellow, it’s usually just before bed, or an hour after taking a Benadryl.

This was….so different.  I felt rational.  I felt very…calm.  I didn’t really think much about it the rest of the day until I sat down to write this. 

For the next couple of hours, at least, I prayed to Jesus that Shawn be given a new job, a good job, with good, decent people.  I prayed for a welding job, which he loves so much, and that the job would be so perfect, there would be no question whether it be right or wrong.  I prayed for Shawn to be showered with blessings, to be given strength, patience, to be led away from temptation and closer to God.  I prayed for my family, that they too, might know God.  I prayed for myself, for patience and understanding, for a direction in my life and guidance.  I prayed for a nudge to make me want to read the Bible, that I might learn something.  I prayed for Shawn to quit smoking, and for me to get off my nicotine habit, the Electronic Cigarette (see past posts).  I prayed that we would find a wonderful church here in the city instead of passing on the forty minuet drive nearly every Sunday to our regular church.    I prayed for strength in our marriage.  I prayed God would reach both me and Shawn and make us into He wants us to be, that we might help others and do what He wants us to do.

I do not yet know what my purpose is here.  Sure, we all have the purpose to love each other as much as possible before we die, but what are my aspirations?  What should I strive to do in life?  Surely it is not to clean stains from business men’s white shirts.  My relationship with God is easily described as my emotions--as a roller coaster.  Near and far, near and far.  Sometimes I battle God, sometimes, I yearn to be closer.  I prayed especially that He might show me what I am supposed to do while I am here.  Twenty-nine years and I am still not sure.  Maybe this is it.  This blog.  If I reach one person, would I be serving a purpose?  I think so.

I’ll admit that I am not a very good Christian.  I am not regular in church, I’m judgmental, and I complain too much.  I take everything for granted and I spend way too much time in front of the television.  I don’t treat my body as a temple, I’m addicted to nicotine, and I can be downright mean at times.  It’s hard for me to forgive, much less forget.  At times, I take too much stock in the things--merely things--that I don’t have, rather than be superbly grateful for all the blessings I do have.

Nobody said it was going to be easy.  But, I do believe I change.  Yes, I am that psycho girlfriend portrayed in all the romance-comedy movies.  But with God’s help, I can work to change that.  As it says in the Bible, and as my best email-buddy tells me so often…

I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.

Like A Record Skipping On Its Turntable Part 1

Something had been nagging at me to write this out.  I'm going to be showering about an hour before bed, still reeking of work but I felt like I needed to do this.  Usually when it's something very personal, I write it out onto a flashdrive to work out anger, depression, to maybe help me see some prespective.  I later delete it all when I'm feeling better.  However, I was hoping this might be of use to others.  For me, it has always helped to know I'm not the only one suffering through such irrational mess.  

This turned out to be just over five pages (!!!!) on Word, so I've split it into two parts.  



I’ve never apologized for who I am, which is one of the reasons I may not have any friends.  Shawn is my best friend, my mother is a close second.  I rarely speak to my sister, sometimes at family gatherings.  There’s no grudge there, we just don’t anything in common other than our mother.

Yeah, I’m loud, opinionated and I rarely think before I speak  This is difficult for me because I was raised in a strong Christian home and I always thought if I acted more like a Christian ought to act, maybe I could make a friend before I die.  Friendships are overrated.  Just one more way to get hurt.

So I’ve never apologized for who I am though I do hope you forgive me if I am coming off as “preachy”.  I do not mean to sound “preachy”, I merely wanted to explain something fascinating that’s happened to me over the last few weeks.  As you might’ve already read about my mood swings and severe depression, you know by now that I make no effort to hide myself.  There are plenty others who go through what I go through, and it always helps to know you’re not the only one out there suffering through the same mess.

Shawn and I had a HUGE fight beginning somewhere around March 15th and wrapping itself up late Sunday night, March 21st.  Even though we had settled and things had been resolved, I could not help but stew over things.

This went on for about two weeks straight.  I may have mentioned that while at work, I have nothing to occupy my brain.  So when a thought enters my head, it plays over and over and over, like record skipping on a turntable.  That’s annoying by itself, but imagine it being one, painful thought, torturing you all day, everyday.

Maybe I had not yet forgiven him.  Maybe I had and was simply still angry that we continue to have this fight.  Somewhere near the end of the second week, or maybe even possibly into the beginning of the third week, I’d just had it.

I can remember sermons being preached about banishing evil spirits.  Not everything evil is like the movie Poltergeist, I assure you.  And I’m not talking about sending legions of demons into a herd of swine.  This had become much simpler than that.

Something had seemingly taken over my thought process and I had let it.  I could not let this go, no matter how hard I tried.  But there it was.  It was I that was trying.  I searched my memory for past sermons I had heard as a kid and as an adult and I prayed I would do it correctly.  I had to try it; I was desperately tortured and the problem was that I was trying to take care of on my own.

I stood over the spotting board at work, working on a stain and prayed silently.  I asked Jesus to forgive me of my sins, sincerely, and I prayed for strength.

In the name of Jesus I command you to leave my thoughts.  I command you to immediately leave my head and leave me alone, by the blood of Christ, that was shed for me.  You have no power over me; I am a child of God and I belong to God and you shall not harm me!  You will leave and never come back.  I have the power of God in me because Christ shed his blood for my sins and by that power I demand that you leave!

This went on for about ten minuets.  I looked down at the stained shirt and had seen that I was merely drying a wet spot that had dried several minuets ago.

Immediately, I felt lighter than air.  I cannot fully explain it.  I felt as though load of cinder blocks had been lifted from my back.  I was elated.  I felt….

Free.

That, in itself is the only word that can really come close to describing what I had felt.  I was free from this mental torture.  It has not come back as of yet while I write this.


On another note, something else happened.  I am beginning to sense a trend here, as though there are unseen forces working to destroy either me and Shawn, or rather, just me.

Something that Shawn said in our last huge fight had hung onto me and I wanted to know more.  He works in apartment maintenance, which means he regularly goes into people’s homes.  I’m not naïve.  I know he sees things.  I know how women are these days and how aggressive they can be.  I questioned him about it on Friday, in a friendly, non-confrontational way.

He told me a couple of stories and I accepted them.  Of course the next day I was a wreck.  I found myself crying, hard, and after some reassurance and loving, kind words, I was alright.  Sunday morning, it started again.  Shawn was still sleeping while I tooled around the internet, making sure our online customers were happy and checking for orders.  The record continued to skip.

This time I became angry.  I prayed a prayer similar to what I had done at work, but this time, I did not ask politely.  I was downright ticked off!  The dog was so freaked out by my anger, she ran off to the living room.

Afterward, and for the rest of the day, I was alright. 

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Untitled

Shawn called in on Monday saying he had "personal issues" he needed to deal with and went to work at the welding gig--where supposedly things like safety had been corrected.

I personally had a good feeling about it all morning until Shawn called me on his lunch break.  He said first thing, they had a safety meeting.  All good intentions aside, literally less than 5 minuets after the safety meeting a man was screaming "Get it off me!  Get it off me!"

Apparently while lifting a panel, 2 on one side were ready, two men on the other side were not and it landed on one's foot.  The man's foot is broken.  On another occasion, a clamp broke and began to fall towards one of the workers.  Thankfully, luckily, the worker saw it just in time before it hit him in the back of the head with about 800 pounds of metal.

Shawn debated this all day, thinking this may be his only chance to weld.  "Do I go back to a job I hate, or do what I love and just wait to get hurt?"  This argument lasted hours but to sum up, Shawn went back to old job where he "might" get hurt and it wasn't a definete thing.

So when he came home yesterday he had a proposal.  Shawn has ALWAYS been in love with motorcycles and yet has never had one.  He once planned to build chassis and sell them over eBay until he made enough to buy his own bike.  He did sell one, but the profit was barely worth the time and effort put into it.  He continued to buy parts here and there (to my dismay) and there they sat in the old den and the garage.

He said he wanted to talk to me first.  He proposed going into buisiness with Ray.  Ray is the guy who was hired shortly after Shawn transferred in apartment complexes.  Ray and Shawn hit it off right away and I was glad to see it because Shawn has a thing about making friends:  They always burn you and it's not worth the time and grief.

Ray is a real cool dude, his english is about 90% (this IS Texas, duh) and mostly all he does is work, work, work to support his wife and two boys.  When Shawn called in on Monday & didn't provide a thorough reason, Ray and the manager over there blew up Shawn's phone with concerned vioce mail messages.  Ray even left a message on our home answering machine saying, "...If there's anything I can do or anything you need...."

What Shawn wants to do is build mini bikes to start, then graduate to full size custom bikes, building from the profits and so forth.  We can buy much of what we need on eBay as we always do and keep everything right here in the garage.  Supplies and materials would be split down the middle, as would profits, after the cost of another round of materials.  I told Shawn I had no problems with this as it has been his second love for many, many years (I'm his first, duh)

Ray seemed really excited about the deal though Shawn did tell him to talk it over with his wife first and foremost.  Shawn does not want to be the cause of any ripples.

Sometimes things are meant to be.  Shawn started looking for a job soon after he transferred to the complex.  Shawn has also been looking for an engine guy forever, someone he could really trust.  Shawn is great with his hands, knows a lot of stuff, but knows little about engines.  Coincidenatlly, Ray knows tons about engines.  Coincidents are God's way of remaining annonymous, right?

I was at first concerned about going in with someone else as I've read story after story of two friends going into business together, one burns the other, and they never speak again.  Shawn reassured me over and over this would not happen.

This could be a really great thing & I'm interested to see how things pan out.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Weird Weekend

Shawn had went back to his old job last Monday.  He went to the welding job he had quit to pick up his check and spoke to the boss for about 30 minuets.  They discussed the issues Shawn had at great length.  On Saturday, the boss called twice.  He wants to make Shawn a table foreman, they’ve fired the trouble makers and the losers.  They want to send Shawn to get a couple of welding certifications.

They’re fighting to get Shawn back.  We’ve been struggling with this all weekend.  On the one hand, if Shawn stays with Kenny, he has job security to some extent.  But Kenny has never cared about Shawn’s safety.  Shawn needed extensive knee surgery due to this type of work and no one there seemed to care.  Workman’s comp didn’t pay much, it simply kept the bills paid while Shawn laid up in the bed for a month healing. 

He’s ran into apartments and put out fires before the truck arrived.  He was involved in a police shooting where a bullet whizzed by his head by a few inches.  And has Kenny recognized Shawn for any of this?  Has Shawn received any extra benefits or pay?  In fact, he received a pay cut in January.  Also, I always consider the fact that many of the employees are riding on free rent and titles.

Where opportunities where open or available, they were not given to Shawn.  He’s worked there almost twelve years, working HARD, and has been passed over at every chance. 

I personally didn’t know what to tell him.  I was split down the middle.  My dad said that going with the welding job was risky because they might lose the contract, yes.  However, staying with Kenny would certainly be risky because Shawn would never get anywhere, obviously.

Shawn has had no intention of staying with Kenny; he merely wanted to finish school.  And Kenny has made even this simple task hard on Shawn.

The welding job would give Shawn experience, knowledge, something on his resume’.  After a week with these people, they want to make him table foreman and pay for his certs.  Either choice is a gamble.  Shawn hates working for Kenny and only wants to weld.

Shawn’s mother said it seemed these people for fighting to keep him and asked would Kenny ever do that.  Good point. 

When Shawn was transferred from one apartment complex to the other, the first fell apart around itself.  It was quite obvious who was getting things done over there.  So when Shawn put in his two weeks’ notice, Kenny said, OK, bye-bye.

Kenny didn’t offer Shawn anything to make him stay.  Kenny has never offered anything to Shawn other than grief.

After much prayer, I myself am leaning towards the welding job.  Shawn has apoken to much of our family and they all seem to push him towards this choice.  “If they want to put you in a position of power, that’s going to look good on any application you fill out anywhere,” my dad said.

There are so few choices in the job market these days.  Shawn’s been looking since last October.  He doesn’t want to leave us stranded if the contracts don’t pan out, yet he doesn’t want to work for Kenny a second longer. 

I told him last night that I could push a mop.  If he took the job and the worst were to happen, I could push a mop in the evenings, he could get a couple jobs pushing a mop; we would not be left without.  Even though the job market is tight, you can still find part-time jobs around here cleaning toilets.  A job is a job, and it would keep us fed. 

Of course, I hope it would not come to that.  I hope in whatever Shawn decides, he would thrive and be happy with his work.  I don’t know yet what Shawn will decide, ultimately.  I think today, we will do our normal Easter Sunday thing and continue to hash things out.

I haven’t been to church in a couple months.  Perhaps it will do us some good.  It could not hurt! 

Friday, April 2, 2010

Part Two: My Inner Child Says You're A Big Poopie Head

Another excerpt from what I had originally planned to become a book.  Or a really thick pamphlet.

When you consider that I am twenty-seven years old as I begin this, you may say to yourself, “What do you know?  You’re a baby!”  Yeah, well….YOU”RE A BABY!  Nanner-Nanner!  Of course, I might be forty-seven by the time this is completed and then you might be saying, “My, how you’ve grown and….wait, you didn’t mature at all!”  To which I will say, “Maturity is overrated!”  And it is, when you think of it.
  
When we are younger, we laugh out loud, to the point of almost crying when someone embarrasses themselves by letting out one of those squishy farts at an alarming, startling audible level.  Though it seems to lose its laughability as we age.  Why is that?  Booger jokes are no longer funny, they’re just dumb.   A belch that rattles the windows is no longer a situation that causes us to laugh until we pee a little (though it might produce a soft applause, which is a standard response to window-rattling).
  
This is why I have refused to mature.  Yeah, yeah, I go to work and pay the bills.  I run errands and take care of all the necessary stuff that life requires us to in this day and age.  But--and this is a big “but” so get ready--I have refused to grow up.  I am grown up in the sense that I vote, pay endless amounts of money to the government and occasionally get constipated just from stress alone.  The difference between me and most adults is that I find a good, smart booger joke to be completely hilarious.
 
Now, don’t get me wrong.  I do have standards.  I will not laugh at something so juvenile that a five-year-old wouldn’t snicker at.  But yeah, I do like some good toilet humor as long as it’s smart.  I play pranks at work.  I tell stupid jokes.  I like Monty Python.  The odd thing about me though, it’s hard to get me to laugh out loud.  I might think something is funny and not laugh at all.  On the other hand, when one of our dogs farts and the stink is so bad it could be considered a weapon of mass destruction I will laugh until tears are running down my face and I pee just a little as I run with my legs crossed to the bathroom, laughing all the way.  It takes real talent to run with your legs crossed.
 
You just can’t beat a good dog fart.  I don’t know if it’s the food, or the fact that they eat their own doody, but bottle this stuff up and drop it over whatever country we’re invading at the moment and I guarantee victory or your money back.
 
If your reading this and thinking, “Oh my!  How disgusting!”  I would suggest that you take a deep breath before reading the following statement:  It’s going to get much worse.  
 
Disgusting words you may find leaping off the page at any given time, but not necessarily pertaining to any subject:  booger, snot, diarrhea, toe jam, any and all forms of the word poop--including doody, fart, underpants, and any degree of the various disgusting infections that you can hear any patron loudly, yet calmly, discussing over their cell phone while in your local supermarket (I hate those guys, don‘t you?).  If any of these words truly offend you then I would advise that you read no further.  I would also advise that you take yourself down to your local hardware store (also known as “Home Depot”) and purchase yourself a sense of humor, preferably a new model.  Those used models tend to break down very quickly.
 
Why can’t we talk about this?  Why is it embarrassing?  Why do we giggle behind someone’s back instead of laughing with them?  It has long been considered in our American society to be gross by farting in public.  Why?  Who made it a rude gesture?  I get more rude gestures on the interstate than in the local Wal-Mart.  I wish we could trade flipping off motorists for farting.  Now that would be fun. 
 
It’s not like I don’t know that you fart.  Like, you’re the only one in the world that that has never farted (your stomach cramps must be unbearable).  As if I don’t know it was you as you hurry away from the canned goods.  And why should you hurry away?  You should be proud!  That was a masterful feat.  You must have had Mexican food for supper last night.  You should admit to your triumph and expect a soft applause from people like me and accept it graciously.  But don’t get cocky about it. 
  
All I am saying is that we should lighten up as a society.  We’re so tense and I think a lot of that comes from holding it in.  It comes out in other ways such as cutting off each other in the streets, gabbing loudly on our cell phones in public, and screaming at the solicitor who has just called in the middle of dinner.
 
Just let it out.  The whole lot of you.  If we all do it, it won’t be considered gross or rude.  And who knows, we might get a nice little chuckle out of it.
   
    Hey, that was a nice one!  Did you have a burrito for lunch?  I’d be willing to bet that your stress level has already decreased.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Part One: Introduction

Finally, I'm going to start posting the best of the best (or what I thought was the best) from my old, abandoned blog.  Here is page one....

As a child, I loved to draw and write.  Even if I wasn’t very good at it, I would create little “books” out of notebook paper, stapled together and complete with illustrations.  I was going to be an artist, I told myself.  Of course at one point in my young life, I also vowed to become a ballerina.  No one told me then that short girls do not become professional dancers, so I had no reason to believe otherwise.  I was determined to be a ballerina-princess.  Yes, a princess!

    Naturally, the wish to become a dancer only lasted for about a minuet.  Later, I wanted to become a rock star, only minus the cocaine habit.  In the end, I decided that I was simply in a rush to begin adulthood.  I moved out at seventeen, after receiving my high school diploma, thank you very much.  I moved in with my boyfriend of three years and we married three years later.  I was twenty for those of you with fuzzy math skills. 

Shawn (the husband) was twenty-two when we married.  I had begun a--ha ha--lucrative career in blue collar and Shawn had done the same.

    Still, I kept writing.  As an adult I had found the notebooks I had filled with teenage angst.  A whole pile of them.  I browsed through them.  Whole pages, front and back, in tiny writing were nothing more than the words of a seriously messed up teenage girl filled with anger, depression, and self loathing.

    I decided it wasn’t worth keeping.  I bagged them up and carried them to the Dumpster behind our house.  I considered the hours and hours I put into writing those pages.  Then I considered that those long hours and hours were merely a waste and wasn’t me anymore.  Hasn’t been for a long, long time.  I had a sense of pride as I trotted (yes, trotted) away from the Dumpster.  The old me was in the trash.  I had little to remind anyone of the old me unless you count the thousands of photos my mother hoards in her albums. 

    I still think I was too short to pull off the Grunge Look.  My generation was told that we could be whatever we wanted.  They were wrong.  My fingers are much too short to be a concert pianist.  My feet are too ugly (thanks, Dad) for me to become a foot model.  But anyone can be a writer.  Anyone.  In the age of YouTube and blogging, everyone can have their very own fifteen minuets of fame, even is all it amounts to is a prospective employer viewing some embarrassing footage of you on the internet that your college roommate posted, unbeknownst to you.

    So why not me?  I’ll probably write hundreds of pages, only to lose it all in a horrible Pepsi Virus (Definition:  When someone spills Pepsi onto the keyboard and the computer explodes), cry for days until I try to give it another go.  Then I’ll spend two years trying to get published until I give up and offer my book for free in a downloadable form and continue on in the wonderful world of blue collar.

    But I’ll never know if I don’t at least try.  If you’re reading this, I only hope it is in the form of a real book and not a bunch of papers stapled together.  Please don’t laugh at my illustrations.