tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91692794469309980312024-02-19T02:13:47.539-06:00Miscellaneous RedheadMusings of a Single Redhead in a (Relatively) Small TownMisc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-84991486831634014762010-11-03T22:52:00.002-05:002010-11-04T16:47:17.491-05:00They're coming to take me away, ha ha!<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">...</span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They're coming to take me away, ho ho hee hee ha ha! to the funny farm...where life is beautiful all the time! And I'll be happy to see those nice young men in they're clean white coats...</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />Update: Soon after the last post, Sequin was placed in a facility of sorts. A few weeks later, she returned, but I was told she would not be making an actual appearance in room 406 as she wasn't allowed around other students. </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(If this year doesn't start looking up, they may soon say the same about me...)</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Now it seems she's gone again. Maybe for good this time. She pulled a knife on her mom.<br /><br /></span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They're coming to take me away, ha ha!</span></span></em><span id="BB_SIGN_BEGIN"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img alt="BlogBooster-The most productive way for mobile blogging. BlogBooster is a multi-service blog editor for iPhone, Android, WebOs and your desktop" src="http://theblogbooster.com/pixel.gif" style="border:none;" /></span></span></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-88994427446376302302010-09-22T19:46:00.011-05:002010-09-23T00:10:33.165-05:00All that Glitters is not gold. Or in this case - sane.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I will do my very best to write this scenario with 100% accuracy, no embellishments, and appropriate voice. This particular story begs to be reenacted (which I've done 4 times already today), but short of posting a video of myself doing said reenactment, typed words will have to suffice. Here goes...</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So far, this year has been - um - interesting. I have students unlike any I've had in the past...and I've had some doozies! Maybe I'll post a quick list of some of my most interesting students/moments in the future. But this one - well - she deserves a post dedicated just to her. Her name (for the sake of confidentiality) shall be...Sequin.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For lack of a better term - or a medically accepted one - Sequin is (simply stated) crazy. I'm talking "off-the-charts, has had assault charges filed against her (by family members), has threatened students and staff, and is supposed to have a constant shadow" level of crazy. Emotionally disturbed crazy. (Aside: There's an episode of W&G in which Grace and Will are arguing about who's "crazier." Grace at one point motions to herself saying, "Oh! This crazy is allllllll real!!!" That's what I think of when I see Sequin.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">School Day 2: Sequin shows up to my class. Now it's only Day 2, so I'm still optimistic about every one of my kids, but I've already heard rumors about Sequin, although I haven't received paperwork on her yet. I think she must have esp because she instantly makes it her mission to shatter my optimistic hopes and dreams and just piss me off. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She talks back. Loudly. Rudely. Constantly.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She makes fun of other students. Loudly. Rudely. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She refuses to do any work. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She draws and scribbles all over her paper. Angrily. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">After doing a group lesson and assignment during which Sequin did the aforementioned activities in lieu of her work:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead (<i>standing with my hand out, calm voice</i>): Sequin, please hand me your paper. (Note: I've got to document her behavior and lack of work, so I can cover my own ass in the future.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin (<i>crosses arms and begins a staring contest with eyes as evil as Damien's from The Omen</i>)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: (<i>continuing to calmly stand there holding out my hand</i>) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin (<i>yelling in an accent that can be described as 98% ghetto and 2% Spanish</i>): I ain't gonna give you my paper! (<i>wads it up into a ball</i>) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead (<i>determined not to back down, but can't lose my temper because - remember - I've heard she's certifiable...so, I just keep my hand out.</i>)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin (<i>shoves past me and throws the paper in the trash</i>) </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I walk to the trash can and my stubbornness starts to kick in.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead (<i>calmly)</i>: Fine, Sequin, then I'll just get it out of the trash. You know what? That's absolutely fine with me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin (<i>yelling)</i>: Man! You're nasty! You go on and dig in the nasty trash can, but don't come near me again after you get all nasty in the nasty trash can. (<i>pauses</i>) Nasty.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I WILL introduce her to a thesaurus if it's the ONLY thing I do this year.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">She is subsequently removed from my classroom following a quick phone call to the behavioral intervention teacher. I (nor any other teacher) will see her for several weeks as her behavior becomes so out-of-control that she is not permitted to be around other students. Then one day...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I see Sequin in the hall during my off period...wearing a t-shirt that says "Cute Psycho" (I kid you not. I couldn't have written it better if I wanted to. Or got paid to.). I'll call this version of her "Sparkle" because I guarantee you it's not the same girl that sat in my room. This one is all smiles with a sugary sweet voice. My stomach turns at how sweet she is. Or maybe it was nerves as I was worried (or scared shitless - take your pick) that I might end up with a shiv in my ribs the moment she flips and becomes Sequin again.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I convey this encounter to her behavioral intervention teacher when she claims Sequin is "scared" of me as the reason for her not returning to my class. Get serious. No kid is scared of me. Ever. She has just figured out how to manipulate this awesome education system of ours. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cut to today. Five weeks from our first meeting. Remember? When I was all "nasty"? Per a meeting with a cool acronym for a name, she's now "required" to attend class 75% of the time. Hey...two times in 24 days = progress!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin walks into the room. I smile. She sees another boy who is quite "special" but very sweet. Another kid with emotional and behavioral issues, but on a completely different level.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin (<i>yelling</i>): I ain't sittin' by him! I hate him! I don't even want to be in the same room with him! He's so gross! (<i>poor kid just has a "huh?" expression on his face during this whole scene</i>) Look! He put his stuff on that desk! That's too close to mine! Get it away from me! I don't want his stuff near me! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And on and on...while the rest of the class sits stunned while trying not to laugh out of sheer nervousness.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I just continue to smile and not confront her hoping she'll settle down. I continue on with class.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sequin (<i>again yelling and now pointing at me</i>): And I was only nice to YOU that day in the hall because I thought you was Miss Smith. If I had realized it was YOU, I would NOT have been so nice to YOU!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I feel every kid staring at me with wonder. I just smile and ignore her.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A few minutes later she's continuing her constant, loud, rude, back-talking (to herself mind you because I sure-as-hell am not talking to her) and is disrupting other kids. I look at her and quietly put my finger to my lips in the infamous "shhh" gesture. Sequin puts her finger to her lips, gives me a "go to hell" face, and loudly "shhh"'s me right back. Quick phone call. And then Sequin was escorted out of my room. Again. I won't bore you with the details of that scene. Same song. Fifty-second verse.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm guessing I'll see her in another 24 days or so. If I'm lucky. And she hasn't tracked me down with a sharpened toothbrush by then.</span></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-81818066604014959712010-01-12T19:40:00.002-06:002010-01-12T19:41:48.278-06:00"If I..." vs. "When I..."<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've now reached the point in my life where I say "If I..." instead of "When I..." in regards to marriage and kids. Part of me is saddened by this realization, while the other part feels it's liberating.</span></span>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-8827034665027697632009-09-13T21:03:00.006-05:002009-09-13T22:12:29.057-05:00Ginger Me This<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I haven’t taken the time to sit down and write lately, as it seems not much has happened that has warranted expression in the form of writing. Talking? Yes. Writing? No. You see, I don’t tend to write about things mundane. It has to be something that strikes my emotions or thoughts or interrupts my life enough that I have to express what I’m thinking, feeling, or experiencing. This is one of those topics. Not because it’s of great intellectual value; not because it’s enlightened my soul in some way. It’s just simply something that I have an interaction with on a daily basis, and for some reason, today, it’s been on my mind more than normal. Is the suspense killing you yet? Well, sorry to disappoint, but my topic today is just...my red hair, fair skin, and freckles. All the things that make me a ginger. </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mind you, growing up I was picked on as the redheaded, freckle-faced, awkward little girl, but the teasing terms didn’t truly bother me. For example, when someone called me a “carrot top,” my instant reaction (hands firmly placed on hips, of course) was one of, “Is this person stupid? The top of a carrot is green. If they’re referring to the rest of the carrot, it’s orange, and my hair is definitely NOT orange. Idiot.” (It’s amazing how much my personality was evident even in elementary school!) </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">My mom always called my freckles “angel kisses,” so as an innocent little girl, I assumed they were. It wasn’t until I went to my first dermatologist when I was about 10-11 that I began to have a hatred for these “angel kisses.” I had the misfortune of going to a dermatologist that apparently lacked the ability to interact with people. At all. She began berating me and my mom for the amount of skin damage I had already received. “Why didn’t you make her wear more sunscreen? Why did you let her play outside so much? I’ve seen girls die at age 16 from skin cancer!” And on and on she went. I was stunned, scared, and hurt. I had never thought of my freckles as “damage,” and I couldn’t understand why my mom had not been more truthful. I left the office and instantly went to the bathroom to cry. Uncontrollably. The only thoughts in my head were how close I was to 16, and I assumed based on what she said that 16 would also be my death. My poor mom was left to console me as best she could. I now understand that my mom was only trying to protect me from reality. She did try to keep sunscreen on me, but you probably know by now that I can be a wee bit stubborn and don’t like being told what to do. I repeatedly tried laying out in hopes that I would one day get a tan, despite her constant reminders that it would never happen. I was then left with numerous, painful sunburns. I can't tell you how many it took before it finally sunk it that it would, in fact, never happen. She knew I probably shouldn’t play in the sun so much, but how do you keep a cheery, chubby faced little girl inside when she just wants to run outside in the sunshine, play in the sprinkler, jump on the trampoline, and ride her horse? I realize now, I would have done the exact same thing. Let the girl play. After that eye-opening experience, I began wearing SPF 30 on my face every single day and I slather it up every time I’m going to be outside. It was and still can be a nuisance, but I now realize that hopefully it will be worth it. One, when I DON’T get skin cancer. And two, when all those tanned chicks look like leather, I’ll still have beautiful skin at age 50. Fingers crossed! </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Later in life, I randomly came across an article written about “gingerism.” Yes, it’s supposedly a legitimate form of discrimination primarily in Britain. It’s considered a huge insult to refer to someone as a “ginger.” (I personally L-O-V-E the term and would L-O-V-E it if more people called me that. I see it as a term of endearment and, more than likely, sheer jealousy. But, then again, I’ve never suffered some form of discrimination. It’s even the name of my imaginary shoe boutique that I hope to open when I come into obscene amounts of money. Apologies for the aside.) People were quoted discussing all the ways their jobs and lives had been negatively affected by “gingerism.” They even went so far as to liken it to racism. I couldn’t help but laugh. Seriously? I wanted to jump on a plane to Britain, just to see how I was received. Would there be torch-wielding villagers waiting at Gate 7? Would rotten apples and spit be flung upon my perfectly coordinated, stylish, yet still comfortable, flight ensemble? Needless to say, I opted not to test my theory at that time. I’ll report back when I do.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Through the magic of Facebook, I was reminded of the infamous Ginger Kids episode of South Park today. Twice. It was a sign. I finally came around to watching the Ginger Kids episode a while back and just re-watched it today. Again, hilarious in my book, even if some did not find it so. Apparently, after the show’s airing, an informal National Kick a Ginger Day was formed in Canada and students were kicked numerous times at school and were sent home covered in bruises. Wow. As if redheaded kids don’t suffer enough! Back to the episode. I, folks, suffer from what could be considered a severe case of gingervitis. I do, however, have a soul. I think. (muahaha) Sometimes I wish I was a Daywalker (those redheads Cartman says do not have the fair skin and freckles and are therefore not harmed by the sun). So, in the summer, I do have that wish when everywhere I look there’s another bronze body. And I hate. Repeat, hate. Sunscreen. Those of you that slap on a mere SPF 15 or less and then immediately jump in the pool just. don’t. get. it. Never can. But once the miserable heat of summer is gone and fall and winter are sliding in, I once again embrace my fair skin and freckles. There’s something about the contrast between my hair and skin that I’ve grown to love. At times, it can be quite striking. And striking is not normally an adjective I would use to describe myself. So, if on the rarest of occasions, I can achieve even a glimmer of that, then it’s worth it. </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Speaking of fall and winter, I’ve found a shade of red I want to try out for this year. I used to be opposed to coloring my hair, as I thought it would be sacrilegious and a slap in God’s face to tamper with the colors he so expertly blended on this head of mine. But, I then realized, he wouldn’t have also given me the fair skin and freckles that can pull off multiple shades of red, nor would he have allowed scientists the ability to manufacture said color. So, there goes that moral quandary.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I consider it a blessing to be a ginger. It’s one of the things that make me unique, so for that, I’m thankful. I can only hope that I have a little ginger kid of my own one day on whom to impart all of my hard-earned appreciation and love of the rarity that is being a redhead.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Some good redhead quotes:</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Connect the dots. Redhead with freckles included. Two players required.” :)</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Blondes are noticed. Redheads are remembered.”</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“A face without freckles is like a night without stars.”</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“It takes balls, passion, and intelligence to love a redhead.” (I obviously have yet to find a guy who possesses all 3 of those qualities.)</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“Wow, the angels must have loved her the most!” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(In reference to my freckles coming from angel kisses.) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">-Addie Sykora, age 4</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 1.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead." -Lucille Ball</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 9.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Calibri; color:#333333;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“You’d never change your hair. It’s half your personality!” -Will to Grace</span></span></span></p>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-87772006920464421652009-05-29T18:27:00.012-05:002009-05-29T18:58:16.340-05:00If you know my mom...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">...then you know that I really need no explanation. In most ways, I am truly a carbon copy of the crazy lady. Things I got from Mom: </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my red hair</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my inability to say "no"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my tendency to take on too much responsibility because I know only I can do things the exact</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">way I have </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">pictured in my mind</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my flights of fancy<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my sarcastic sense of humor and quirky personality</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my love of being the center of attention<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my love of quiet solitude<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my passion for reading, but only if it's good, intelligent writing<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my obsession with proper grammar, capitalization, punctuation, and spelling<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my refusal to tolerate ignorance<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> my love of cooking (and drinking)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my overuse of ... but nothing else more perfectly represents my shifts between my random thoughts!<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> my great taste in all things</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">my love of great music...mostly nothing after 1980</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And the list goes on and on...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But today she and I entered into a thread of emails that had me laughing hysterically at my computer while my kiddos worked on a semester exam review. I couldn't stop laughing because it was one more thing that proved how much I'm like her! If the threads weren't labeled, you could truly not be able to tell which one of us is saying what.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: They just had a spot on "Today" about Prince Harry playing polo. As part of the spot they had a famous polo player (who also happens to be the Polo model) and "oh, my..." Forget baseball players! His name is Nacho Piedras (sp?) and all that can be said is "oh, my..." :)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Haha...Nacho...I guess you could look past the name if he's that cute! :)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: Oh, trust me - you could look past a lot of things...except, maybe, that wedding ring on his left hand. Then again... :)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Shame on you!! ;)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: I know you can't do YouTube at school but when you get home check out Nacho Figueras. He's got a couple YouTube spots and then you might be planning a trip to Argentina! Oh, my... :) I googled (and ogled :) ) him to send you a picture and the YouTube spots were the "best" - as if there could be a worst. :) !</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">How hip is she? She is adept at YouTube, and she uses "google" as a verb. I love her.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now that I've piqued your interest, here's a little taste of heaven. You probably don't remember when I dyed my hair dark for the shoot because I quickly went back to red. Enjoy!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DCgSnovHh5c&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DCgSnovHh5c&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-28580933776677835682009-05-24T19:32:00.006-05:002009-05-24T21:12:26.015-05:00How old am I again?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is a night full of contradictory components that make it hard to determine if I'm really almost 4 months shy of 30 or only 8 years old. I'm sitting in my big, comfy chair with pigtails, drinking a beer, painting my toenails, eating sour punch straws, and watching </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Reader</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. If you haven't seen it, it's got some pretty intense sensuality...but it's with a teenage boy! I'm a little, ok quite a bit, disturbed. Just now getting to the post-statutory rape scenes. I think...</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So Ralph Fiennes was in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Reader</span>. Just started <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Taken</span> with Liam Neeson. Two of my fave actors and some dang good eye (and ear) candy! :)</span></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-28338022703989413092009-05-17T13:27:00.023-05:002009-05-30T01:03:35.823-05:00Scenes from an Italian Restaurant<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I love that song...ok, I just love Billy Joel period. Today my parents and I took my grandma and great aunt out to lunch at the good ol' Olive Garden in celebration of AE's 91st birthday yesterday. Today was an all-around good day...everyone was lucid...no one thought anyone was stealing, plotting, or trafficking drugs. Little victories in my family that get us through. Thankfully, there was really, really good background music today that kept making me smile. I swear I was born in the wrong decade/generation.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #1</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(middle of a conversation with Mom about a tv show - keep in mind I am classic ADD and can't usually stay focused on one topic in a normal conversation, much less one involving these two)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: You haven't watched it yet?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: No, I just haven't gotten around to it this week.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grandma: What was the name of the lady who bought Lydia's house?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: What?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grandma: You know...the one who had that fat little dog.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc Redhead: Oh yeah...Speedy. Her name was Jean something.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(looking back to me)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">: Okay, go ahead.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: What were we talking about again?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: House.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Oh yeah. I don't know what I was even saying about it. Wait. I know. "Clang clang clang went the trolley" is stuck in my head. I think that's all I was going to say.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grandma </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(looking at me)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">: I bought that mirror you have from her.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Who?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grandma: That lady who bought Lydia's house.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(and on and on it goes)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Frank: Tell you that you're marvelous, tell you that you're marvelous, too marvelous for words...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #2</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(The hostess and a manager are setting up a table for 6 - the hostess originally sets up 2 on each side and 2 on the ends. The manager moves the chairs so there are 3 on each side.)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Manager: It's always better to arrange them like this because it encourages face-to-face conversation for the guests.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In come the guests...mom, dad, and 5 kids. I'm sure they're eternally thankful for the thoughtful layout of the chairs for face-to-face conversation comprised of crayons and menu/coloring pages folded over the kids' heads while they converse about politics and the state of the economy.</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dino: When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine, that's amore...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #3</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There's a cute elderly couple at the table next to us. They each have two glasses of wine with their lunch. He has red; she chooses a blush. I'd like that some day. Enjoying wine over Sunday lunch after church with the love of your life.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mr. Buble: But remember this, every other kiss, that you'll ever give long as we both live...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #4</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grandma: I think AE has a boyfriend.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">AE: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(just gives her a go-to-hell smirk...in case you've ever wondered where I get my face expressions from)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Grandma </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(laughing)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">: She does...my roommate's boyfriend.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: Oh really? You've been making at eyes at someone? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Mom's classic phrase when we tease AE about chasing men)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">AE: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(just gives a devilish grin and nods)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dino: When we dance you have a way with me, stay with me, sway with me...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #5</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Walking out of the restaurant - discussing the surprise get-together we're having for AE later today at the home)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: If you could get there a little early and take care of getting AE ready, I'd really appreciate it.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Of course...what time? What all do I need to do?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: I hung two outfits on her closet door that she can choose from. If she chooses the dress, there are some thigh highs in the top drawer she needs to put on.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Thigh highs? I didn't know it was going to be </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> kind of party! Wild Turkey too?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mom: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(didn't even notice my attempt at humor because she's in her planning zone)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> And I bought her some new lipstick, so help her with that too.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: So that's a no to the Wild Turkey?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(AE perks up at the mention of Wild Turkey...she has a "history" with the stuff that we tease her about relentlessly)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 15.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Frank: But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well, I´ve got you under my skin...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #6</span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I run into my dad's long-time business acquaintance/friend. He's one of the kindest and cutest old men with the brightest sparkly blue eyes. When he sees me, he tells the hostess, "Excuse me while I go hug that pretty girl." How could your heart not melt? He's a former city manager for this (relatively) small town and started talking to me a while back about wanting me to ghost-write his memoirs. He has some really good dirt about all kinds of scandals, dirty deals, and underhanded dealings from back in his day. I hadn't heard from him in a while and had honestly forgotten about it. </span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mr. S: How ya been, girl? Hey, I don't want you to think I haven't been working on my stories. I have; I've just gotten busy and haven't </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">called you recently.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: Oh, that's okay. Just start sending me stuff whenever you're ready. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(thinking, holy crap I completely forgot about this...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">is there a way to back out?)</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Mr. S: Well, I've been jotting down some of my stories and I've been using little tape recorders. Would that work for you? We can just keep </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">swapping them back and forth when you're done with one, etc.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Misc. Redhead: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(thinking...what the hell have I gotten myself into? - but of course I adore this man and could never tell him no...plus I have </span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">the chance to write a book! So against my sanity the words fall out of my mouth.) </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Whatever works easiest for you! Just give me a call!</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Not really playing at the restaurant, but I thought this would be more fitting:</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ado Annie (from Oklahoma!): I'm just a girl who cain't say no...</span></i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Scene #7</span></i></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dad: Mom and I were going to go see </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Soloist</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> on Friday, but it wasn't out anymore. So, we went to the Slippery Minnow instead.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Those're my folks! </span></i></span></p></span>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-75564736347743141962009-05-16T21:31:00.015-05:002009-05-16T22:49:53.846-05:00Cirque du Gouge my eyes out with a dull spoon<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">As the first number in the dance recital came to a close, I immediately whipped out a receipt and my trusty retractable Sharpie to begin taking notes...I could already tell I had some good material heading my way. And in the words of my mom, "You can't make up shit this good." Buckle in; it's going to be a long one.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now before I fill you in on all the ridiculousness, I must first give you my qualifications for being such a harsh critic. Dancing was pretty much my life for about 20 years. During that time, I took ballet, tap, and jazz, and was usually (actually </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">always</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">), front and center. The stage was mine, and I loved it! For four years in high school, I was my dance teacher's assistant and pretty much ran those classes. Also, for two years in college, I was a full-fledged dance teacher with classes all my own. Oh yeah - and I have eyes. That last one is pretty much the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">only</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> qualification needed to realize this show - the choreography, music choice, and all-around circus concept - was crap...absolute...utter crap.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The show started with the ballet (and I use that term </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">very</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> loosely) portion of the evening. Every single song was one of those French pieces used by Cirque du Soleil and the like. Those guys can get away with that annoying, uninspiring music because they are simply amazing at what they do. Not so with little girls who don't know their right from their left. That same monotonous cringing noise with pseudo-ballet went on for about 35-40 minutes. One of my dance studio pet peeves jumped out during this time. Would you try to teach differential equations to a 4-year-old? Hell, no. So, why in God's name do these small-town dance teachers think it's appropriate to teach 5-year-olds pirouettes and leaps? They can't and shouldn't do them yet, so don't put them in the damn dance! (Same goes for older girls. If they can't do the move, don't use it!)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We now enter the jazz set. I can pretty much sum this up with a verbatim quote from my receipt notes: "more freaking poms." Seriously. Poms have no place at a dance recital. Save them for the football field, people! But, I kid you not, over half the jazz numbers used poms. The song "A Little Less Conversation" has now been ruined for me for eternity. Then comes the performance to "Circus" by good ol' Britney. I'm thinking, "Okay, this one's got to have some energy....it's Britney freaking Spears after all!" Nope. Boring. I guarantee you, I could have gotten on stage in my 4-inch wedges and free-styled some better moves than what she had done. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In between every single dance number, the "ringmaster" for the evening came out in a top hat and tails to introduce the next "act" of the show. He's a high school senior who I actually adore, and he was - hands down - the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">only</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> truly entertaining part of the night (my weird enjoyment from watching the massacre of the art of dance doesn't count as real entertainment). At some point, there's also a "performance" by some high school students doing random crap like riding a tricycle, bouncing on a pogo stick, hula hooping, and blowing bubbles while roller-skating around the stage. I know - I couldn't have made it up if I tried.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Back to the "dancing." This one poor group of girls did a pom dance to "Get Ur Freak On" by Missy Elliott. I bet Missy would DIE knowing they used poms for one of her hard-hitting tunes. That then transitioned into "Super Freak." Remember the awkward stripper-style number done by Olive at the end of Little Miss Sunshine? It was awesome compared to the choreography these poor girls had. I promise you - I'm not exaggerating. (I love that scene though!)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then comes the number one of my students is in. I'm still trying to think of what to say to her come Monday morning. But anyways, it's to "Whip It" and they use those ribbon sticks. You know, like what they use for rhythmic gymnastics in the Olympics except instead of ribbons, it's plastic pom-like strips instead of actual ribbon. Needless to say, they're flying all over the place, not to the music, getting tangled together, etc. Just a train wreck that should never have made it past the "now what about this?" phase. One group performs to "Route 66" and at the beginning and end of the number, a weird person dressed as a cat drives a toy car across the stage. Don't ask me - I have no idea.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then there's the "How Much Is That Doggy" number...the quintessential little girl's dance number seen in every dance recital across the nation. The girls were, of course, cute because they're the 3-4-year-old class, and they're wearing these pink poodle costumes made entirely of tulle. Literally. You don't see any leotard...the whole bodice is tulle. But the weird, weird, weird part is this grown man dressed as a dog juggling at the back of the stage the entire time. Again, I have no idea what was going through this lady's mind when she came up with this stuff. Even if it sounded good in her head, how did she not realize how ridiculous it was during rehearsal? Why didn't someone speak up??</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Now, I already told you I was an assistant and dance teacher for a total of 6 years. I stood on the downstage right corner behind the curtain (out of sight) and dorkily danced the numbers in exaggerated fashion to help the little girls who forgot the next move, etc. But, oh no, not this lady! She shouted the moves the entire time. I was on the very back row of the auditorium and heard "shuffle ball change," "arms up," "move to your circle," etc. throughout the entire dance.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The biggest travesty of all came at the end, thankfully. If it had come at the beginning, I may not have lasted. I feel it best to just, once again, quote my receipt notes: "Ring of Fire, tap, red cowboy hats, fake red boots, red sequined vests. Johnny Cash would die if he weren't already dead." That pretty much sums it up.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Those are just the highlights, and I probably didn't even do the show justice. It is disgusting, sad, and somewhat criminal that all those parents truly believe their money has given their daughters a dance education. I have, however, semi-calculated what that woman makes per month. Ladies and gentleman...I am opening a dance studio! </span></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-34497948250741879172009-05-03T20:54:00.004-05:002009-05-03T21:02:53.471-05:00Because I'm worth it (said in Beyonce's attitude-filled voice)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was in Target (shocking) the other day and ran into an old high school friend's mom. She didn't immediately click as to who I was and said, "Oh, I almost didn't recognize you! Your hair doesn't look as red."</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What?!? Get me a box of Miss Clairol, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">er</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, how about an appointment with Jennifer instead, stat! I can't become the Miscellaneous Blah-head!</span></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-16387829361706477432009-04-30T20:33:00.015-05:002009-04-30T22:12:13.573-05:00Hey Big Spender...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I have this tendency to call my students my "kids." I'm not really sure why I say this. I guess it makes me feel like I have a closer relationship with them than just strictly student-teacher. I'd like to think that they also view me as more important in their lives than simply someone who teaches them proper grammar and sentence structure. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So the other morning, I was enjoying some brunch with a group of girlfriends. An acquaintance of one of the girls comes up, and we begin discussing the Walk for Autism that was held that morning. Without even thinking twice, I said, "Oh! One of my kids' moms helped organize that!" The woman had a perplexed look on her face, and I could read her thoughts: "One of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">her</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> kids' </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">moms</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">??" I instantly clarified that I meant one of my students' moms.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I've made several more "kids" references this week, and it reminded me of a joke my mom emailed me a while back because she knows that I use this term of endearment. Her preface suggested I watch my words at the grocery store when talking to men. Keep in mind, I am hit on every time I'm at the grocery store. It's just usually (okay, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">always</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">) by little old men buying a six pack and some chicken, and we discuss how he's going to prepare his chicken and what I'm making for dinner over the gentle hum of a conveyer belt. I'll flirt with whatever I can get sometimes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Anyways, here it goes:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px; ">A guy goes to the supermarket and notices an attractive woman waving at him. She says hello. <br />He's rather taken aback because he can't place where he knows her from. <br />So he says, "Do you know me?"<br />To which she replies, "I think you're the father of one of my kids."<br />Now his mind travels back to the only time he has ever been unfaithful to his wife and says, "My God, are you the stripper from my bachelor party that I screwed on the pool table with all my buddies watching, while your stripper partner whipped my butt with wet celery?"<br />She looks into his eyes and says calmly, "No sir, I'm your son's teacher."</span><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 1px;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">The only caveat is that I'm pretty sure <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I</span> would never be mistaken for a stripper...I don't think I meet the, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">er</span>, requirements if you know what I mean. Kinda like the fact that no matter how high I can kick (which is still pretty damn high), I'll never be a Rockette.</span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-56760242809776878292009-04-22T22:17:00.003-05:002009-04-22T22:20:20.153-05:00Going for a Record Tonight<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Calling all Miscellaneous Redhead virgins...</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is a note sent out to some new potential Misc. R readers: </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Based on a recent personality profile I conducted, comprised of your history of drinking with me, laughing with me, making fun of others with me, or some combination of these characteristics, I've decided to invite you to read my blog. (Please realize this is an honor and this decision has not been made in haste.) This also means you are not likely to be the subject of one of my blogs...at least not one of the "what the hell was this person thinking?"-type posts. If so, I wouldn't be inviting you to read. I'd be making fun of you...behind your back.<br /><br />I don't blog regularly, only when something I feel is somewhat interesting happens. I don't promise you'll think it's interesting or entertaining, but I do promise to write the truth, the whole truth (unless I can embellish it to make it better), and nothing but the truth (see previous aside regarding embellishments). Feel free to use any information you read in my posts against me.<br /><br />Enjoy. </span><a href="http://miscellaneousredhead.blogspot.com/" onmousedown="return wait_for_load(this, event, function() { UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "3c0ef92637c7b22b682f0eaab74faefd", event) });" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">http://miscellaneousredhea</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">d.blogspot.com</span></a><br /></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-87769038861412138982009-04-22T21:23:00.010-05:002009-04-22T22:02:51.396-05:00It Ain't Easy Bein' Red<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;">I wanted to expose a glimmer of my neuroticism. (See "Shirley" post regarding my destiny.)</span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">As is obvious by my blog moniker, I have red hair. Not just red hair. Red hair with fair skin and freckles. Here's what happened when God created me. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">God: "Hmmm...I need to create one perfect poster child for skin cancer. But who can that be? Ahhh...I know. Sweet Miscellaneous Redhead. She won't get picked on enough as an awkward elementary school kid, so I'll add the fear of Myself and skin cancer into her worries along with just a dash of family history to top it off!" (note: When this creation happened, I don't believe He'd quite mastered the fine art of proportions yet considering my top and bottom halves.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">So, I'm basically a little neurotic, perhaps obsessive, when it comes to my hair and skin. To quote Will and Grace (don't worry, you'll get used to it), my hair is half my personality. See pic below showing just how much I like hair products. Granted many of these are empty, and I just leave them here until I'm ready for one mass rinsing before putting them in the recycle bin (yet another obsession).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4-xyiJ910TYZdSTjA8QxzX4Sfk9aMT-AnjU8BOQBD9Vfr4ZLS9ZnH6KDF1bUa8vWEdJePQb3zSE5GFC-Pwri7mQCAgpp44tnAXx97xl4O7f9DHEgaS7P1YIo1gQPxbBAnCPVIz79rKFf/s200/shampoo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327708704022878802" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And now for the skin. I decided that since God did not grant me the ability to tan, I am going to make damn sure that when all the current tanned folk look like leather handbags, my skin will look like the lily-white ass of a newborn...with a few freckles of course. This doesn't even show you my Smithsonian-worthy collection of sunscreens of every shape, size, scent, and spf.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9Rkn0ieRAOWLmW7SeFQfj4GPrjB2KJx1F29TjAXAIoNsf3hX3sFyZE4VF0cOj1CYdxqWMDfAk-vtzx_Bmf8ToTs8OUzpIxPjbqg3_5XZf8M8zxVcIE7-vLqEg3cUQfHHOI0eUlL22292/s1600-h/face.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9Rkn0ieRAOWLmW7SeFQfj4GPrjB2KJx1F29TjAXAIoNsf3hX3sFyZE4VF0cOj1CYdxqWMDfAk-vtzx_Bmf8ToTs8OUzpIxPjbqg3_5XZf8M8zxVcIE7-vLqEg3cUQfHHOI0eUlL22292/s200/face.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327709327861840930" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Not the most interesting of posts, but perhaps as insightful and eye-opening as if they'd done an E! True Hollywood Story on the life of a redhead.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-10542264988510396522009-04-22T20:26:00.007-05:002009-04-22T20:54:39.063-05:00Why do you drink? Give me another drink and I'll tell you.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Pretty sure everyone who knows me, knows that I pride myself on my ability to insert quotes from plays, musicals, and Will & Grace into any conversation no matter how off-topic they may at first appear. Hence the blog title. (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Cat on a Hot Tin Roof </span>if you're not already aware...and if you're not, why are we friends?) But I digress (note: digress is one of my all-time favorite words...I think because I do it about every 4.76 seconds). But again, I....say it with me...digress.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Those people who are lucky enough to have known me most of my life know that I was not much of, nay, not at all, a party girl growing up. I've always tried to ask my mom how she instilled this intense guilt and fear in me, but she just taps her fingertips ala Dr. Evil and snickers saying it was all part of her "master plan." I call b.s. on her because I, for one, know that one of my main reasons for not drinking growing up and mostly through college was due to the stories I heard of my grandfather's alcoholism. The intense and inate guilt that I felt just thinking about the possibility of letting my mom down in any similar fashion was enough to keep me from the liquid I now cherish and adore. My parents have never had a problem with alcohol, and in fact, alcohol flowed freely in my house growing up (still does, although I think these days gushes is a more descriptive verb for my parents and their wine and beer!). So, all through my college years at wild and crazy M&A, I rarely drank...save for a few random occurrences.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">But nowadays...things could be considered, shall we say "different." A few reasons come to mind:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">One - I think I matured to the point that I realized I could drink without becoming the grandfather I never got to meet. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Two - I consider myself a "late bloomer" and didn't really come out of my shell until after college. Now I bet some of you are wishing I'd shut my mouth and go back in said shell.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And three - I became a teacher.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Now if you're not a teacher, you may be rolling your eyes saying "yeah yeah yeah." But seriously. I'm not kidding when I say that 7th graders and other adults at my school have led me to drink. Often. As I was updating my Facebook status the other day, it dawned on me that I had four happy hours last week. Four! (Now one was a solo ride on my back porch, but it still counts.) As people, including my former boss, commented on it, I couldn't help but laugh at the vast difference between Misc. Redhead now and Misc. Redhead then. I had an offer for another drinky drink this evening, but after having gone out last night too, I decided to stay in and try to act like the pushing-30 grown-up I should be. So, I'm doing some innocent stalking on Facebook, blogging, and laughing at the cute face one of the cats is making while he sleeps.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Damn that sounds sad. I should have gone to the bar.</span></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-46755553101726727292009-03-29T16:23:00.015-05:002009-03-29T21:34:11.669-05:00Running does a body (and mind and soul) good<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I got home from a friend's wedding with a completely different, emotionally raw, and probably embarrassing post drafted in my mind. You see, I got into a kind of a funk this morning on my drive back to my (relatively) small town. I think it was the long stretches of country roads flanked by cedar trees and wildflowers, with virtually no one else on the road; Brian Wright was providing some background music to my mind's thoughts that just seemed to wander and never stop. All of the worries that have been piling up in my mind all decided to rear their ugly heads at once. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I need a change of some kind in my life. It's hit me that my life has been rather stagnant for over 6 years now. Everyone around me has moved on to new stages in their lives...new jobs, marriage, kids, etc. But not me. Same job, same town, no marriage, no kids. My problem is that I don't know what kind of change is best for me. Do I move to a new town? I don't feel drawn anywhere, and I do love my family and the friends I have here even though I'm the last of the singles. Do I change careers? (Uh well-considering the job market right now, that's probably not the best idea. This kind of market is what got me into teaching in the first place!) Do I order a husband and baby off the internet? Does Amazon carry an assortment of ethnicities and qualities to choose from, or is it pretty much a "you're shopping for a husband and baby on the internet - take what you can get" kind of thing? I've always thought family pics would look cool if I was with someone completely opposite me: dark skin, hair, etc...but I digress. Maybe I just simply need a new haircut. I don't know. Basically, I don't know where/when/what I'm supposed to do to bring about this mysterious change I feel I need. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(Those were my worries in a little nutshell - probably a walnut - and my earlier draft was going to be much more </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">oh-woe-is-me</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> crap. Trust me - be thankful I spared you and gave you the synopsis.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Anyways, as tired as I was when I got home, I couldn't let this beautiful weather pass me by. I threw on workout clothes and decided to go for a run along the river. The weather was absolutely beautiful; people were out enjoying picnics, fishing, playing frisbee golf, and just relaxing in the sun. I smiled at everyone I saw along the path, and they all smiled back; I stopped and chatted with the two older gentlemen who were having no luck with the fish, but were, nonetheless, enjoying the gorgeous weather. It's funny because I was once again listening to Brian Wright, but the result was vastly different this time around. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Driving home 45 minutes later with the windows rolled down, I couldn't help but wonder why my worries had taken such a strong hold on me for a good two hours this morning. It's not that the worries are gone - I still have them - but they suddenly seemed so trivial. I have an amazing life - albeit not the one I ever thought I would have pushing 30, and not the one I want for much longer - but for now, I guess it'll do. I just have to trust that when the change I need is ready for me, I'll recognize it and embrace it. Until then, I'll just revel in the stereotype of an aging school marm who spends some good, quality time with her cats watching Will & Grace reruns.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'll leave you with this clip from Peanuts. One day maybe I'll find someone who dreams about this little red-haired girl, but for now Charlie Brown will do.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DSbBiM7V1JmQQyZehWbuyueONl4s7Nwe6iSk8EspHodt_OOQSgYAjm9m4rcOGXWefwrg_3TVW15pYC22-7W8rDEYHCNlFZSSf1YrP1NjZI17oGsa4UUKqDZxGUtmz5zDYm7Ve5sBkrlp/s200/blog_peanutsredhaired+girl+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318737875891063058" style="cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 200px; " /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-79083559256850948022009-03-22T21:10:00.002-05:002009-03-22T23:24:58.519-05:00The Prime Suffering Years<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">This post is inspired by the Recent Conversations of The Cachinnator.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Friday night verbatim text conversation with a 12-year-old student (boy), whom I'll call Z. He's a very witty, sarcastic kid who loves to banter, and I typically oblige. (Note: I am generally opposed to texting with my students. I'm </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">not</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> one of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">those</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> teachers.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Z</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Hey</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> Misc. R, its z</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Misc</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">. R</span>: What? How the heck did you get my #?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Z</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">: Cause I'm kool like that haha</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Misc</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">. R</span>: Right...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Z</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">: Haha I'm at (my asst prin)'s house</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Misc</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">. R</span>: Y</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">ou</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> boys need to get a life...Kinda sad that you're texting a teacher on a Friday night.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Z</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">: I got it from Mr. (asst prin)'s phone geez rude. (Confirmed later this is not where he got it, but I have a feeling I do know where.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Z</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">: Might I ask what you are doing tonight haha</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Misc</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">. R</span>: No you may not</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Z</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">: Ok This is a little weird see ya</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Aaahhhh....seventh grade boys. Love 'em, hate 'em, glad I never was one.</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9169279446930998031.post-2537709545356338672009-03-22T13:46:00.003-05:002010-09-22T19:45:56.320-05:00Surely you can't be serious?! And don't call me Shirley!<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">I've toyed with the idea of blogging for quite some time. After the story that I'm about to write happened, I decided I needed a forum to share stories just like this one.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">It seems in my family that men don't last long. The women, however, live forever. The good news is, there's not a history of cancer in my family. But crazy? Good Lord, there's enough crazy in my family to keep an institution in business for decades. Obviously, I'm a little worried about what this means for my future. This also does not bode well for any potential suitors. Be forewarned: you will die before me, and at some point, I will inevitably lose my mind, go crazy, and start accusing you of the most absurd offenses. This is just one example of my family's crazy:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">Background: My great-Aunt E (as she shall be called here) is 90. She has lived an amazing and hard life and has always been an inspiration to me. Sadly, she has succumbed to severe dementia. It usually just breaks my heart, but sometimes, all you can do is laugh to keep from crying. She has always spoken her mind with no filter for as long as I can remember. Now add dementia to the mix, and you've got a recipe for success.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">About a month ago, we went to visit her in the nursing home. This happens to be a very lucid day. How can we tell? She's not yelling at us and accusing us of stealing her pictures, clothes, pens, etc. So far, so good. As we're chatting, she looks over at me, points an arthritic finger, just smiles, and mumbles something. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">Looks like Shirley's put on some weight." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">Now I have, unfortunately, not been working out or eating like I should, and have put on some weight. But do I really need someone (a 90-year-old woman at that) to point that out to me? No. My tight jeans and chunky waistline tell me so every day. Also, my name is not Shirley. Who's Shirley you might ask? She's only my mom's cousin who is incredibly overweight, you can count the number of teeth in her mouth on two hands, and - oh yeah - she's what we refer to as "special." (Editor's note: Shirley is incredibly sweet, so I mean no offense to her. I just don't want to be compared to her!)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">As we were leaving, Aunt E begins telling us about how she's going to ride her bicycle (aka wheelchair) back home (aka nursing home room). Just smile and nod along with it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">So, all-in-all it was a great day. I was reminded that craziness is my destiny, I was called out for gaining weight, and I was compared to someone who is "special." Who could ask for more?</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div></div></div>Misc. Redheadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12527018721931775086noreply@blogger.com3