You'll never guess what I'm doing today.

Bingo...

...Bango...

...Bongo.

BOOM!

That's right, I'm getting married, getting a tattoo and then sitting on the lap of a really old dude in tights and a powdered wig.

Woohoo!! Somebody stop me!

...

OK, OK, I kid, I kid.

On today's agenda: My friend B and I are hitting church and doing some craft-y things with her mama, then meeting my parents in Columbus for a performance of Handel's Messiah. (That's Handel up there in the pilgrim shoes.)

A very busy day filled with a huge, heaping helping of a LOT of my favorite things: Singing hymns (no, really), knitting, live choral music (no, seriously, really) and hanging out with friends and family.

Sigh. I love this time of year.

Chair graffiti

My office is enormous. Last time I heard the human capacity quantified, it was somewhere around 10,000 people.

And, unlike most giant buildings, it's long instead of tall.

It's roughly the size of the Empire State Building lying on its side. For real.

Because it's so spread out, it has a huge, mall-like atrium running through its center, lined with towering trees, burbling pools and squashy armchairs where employees hold impromptu meetings and take personal calls throughout the day.

And, sometimes they nap. Really.

Just outside my wing of the building, one such arrangement of squashy chairs is nearly always occupied by a woman in her early 20s, usually clad in a very work-inappropriate outfit (think belly shirts exposing both muffin top and tramp stamp), talking loudly on a crystal-encrusted cell phone.

She's there almost every time I walk by. In the morning. Lunchtime. Mid-afternoon. When I go home in the evening. I find myself not only wondering when this woman ever gets any work done, but also: What can she possibly be talking about?

I think I know now:

Scrawled on the arm of her favorite squashy chair

LOVE KILLS

That may be, Inappropriately-Dressed Loud-Talker. That may be. But something tells me that, if you worked a little bit harder and defaced your employers' property a little less, your life might improve.

This has been a public service announcement.

Schooled by The Universe

On the recommendation of my good friend Trophy Life, I signed up to receive daily notes from The Universe.

Little affirmations, warm fuzzies, deep thoughts, all addressed to me directly by the magic of technology. (Ooooweeeeooooooooo...)

They all begin as though we're in the middle of a conversation (The Universe and I, that is), or as though I've asked some very deep "meaning of life"-type question, and the Universe is now settling in to give me the answer.

Much like horoscopes, I believe the site sends out the same or similar sentiments to all of its subscribers. The idea is that this Universal wisdom can apply to anyone, and it's up to you how you apply it to your own life. So...it's kind of hard to feel special.

And I'll admit, sometimes they miss the mark. Sometimes it's a nice sentiment, but it really means nothing to me personally. And sometimes the messages just seem like a jumbled paragraph of nonsense, and I just click "Delete," shake my head and go about my day.

But every once in awhile, The Universe comes through with something that actually strikes a chord with me.

Well, actually, Shannon, you were different.

You didn't want a perfect life, a typical life, or even a normal life.

You wanted a one-of-a-kind.

How we doing?

The Universe

I've been having trouble lately with one thing in my life: Contentment.

Don't get me wrong: Love my husband. Love our dogs. Love our house. Love my job.

But I struggle sometimes with feeling OK with where my life is at exactly.this.moment. Not constantly thinking about what I think is missing, how my life is somehow lacking something or somethings that I see in the lives of everyone around me.

And when I read this, it kind of stopped me for a second.

My life is mine.

I don't want cookie-cutter. I don't want someone else's idea of the perfect life, where everything happens perfectly and everything is perfectly timed.

I want one-of-a-kind. I want unique. I want MINE.

It's the last place I expected to find any kind of insight into my whole contentment conundrum -- or any actual life crisis, for that matter.

Well played, Universe. Well played.

NBX Vol. 4: Corporal punishment, disturbing sculptures and my reluctance to dampen an earnest author's spirit

(If you're asking yourself, "What the heck is this?" click here. Otherwise, read on for snarky fun times.)

• Most awesomest blog name: ELECTRIC SPANKING ("Freaky sounds for freaky people. If you're upset and you don't want to be spanked, let me know..." This is a tagline of genius, folks. It's straightforward, it tells you exactly what to expect, and it gives you a way out if you're feeling uncomfortable. Don't want to be spanked? No problem! Just let him/her know. Besides its fabulous name, my favorite part of this blog was the post entitled "Disco Cop.")
• So-ugly-it's-fabulous-est blog layout: Reflections from a Teachers Heart (So...I feel sort of bad bagging on this blog. The author seems so earnest and positive. Example: Things that make her happy? Sunsets. And the sound of children laughing. And, you know, I like orange! I really do. And I like vine-y...things, which are also featured prominently in her layout. There's just...a LOT of orange. And a LOT of vine-y things. Sorry, Happy Teacher.)
• Most random blog post title (and/or title that lends itself the best to double-entendre or horrible puns): Decision Height, Oct. 12, "Lord, Don't Let Me Get Stapled" (It's just random enough to make you go "whuh?" Apparently, it's some kind of pilot's lingo. ...yeah, I don't know. But I give the author bonus points for his pleasing-to-the-eye blue-toned color scheme.)
• Most engaging overall blog (for better or for worse): Food Blogga (The first two entries I read described, respectively, rosemary-spiced roasted nuts and a combo pecan/pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. I want to marry the food she writes about. And, she writes about it engagingly; unlike some other food/recipe sites, it isn't just "Here's the recipe, it's really good, see ya!" Despite the iffy blog name and the odd-looking header, I'll definitely be returning to this one.)
• Wild card: Hands-down creepiest piece of art I’ve ever laid eyes on: Jengalog, Super Sculpey mini-mouth (I don’t know if it’s that, proportionately, this fake mouth is frighteningly enormous; or if it’s the ass-chin; or if it’s because the tongue looks MOIST. But I could not stop staring at this thing FOREVER and it kind of haunts my dreams at night. Having browsed this guy’s site for a bit, I can safely say that his other stuff is both decent and less creepy. But still.)

Have you come across an awesomely-awful blog? Share it!

Wordless Wednesday: Ve hoff no ears here

Perspectives

You see a mug full of hot chocolatey goodness...


...I see the only thing getting me through 7.5 hours of conference calls.

(I'm not exaggerating. That's what's on my schedule for today. Hold me.)

(Also, I love this mug. It was a gift from my mama. I love her, too. :))

Workplace etiquette: A poll about The Pigs and other disturbing behavior

Bare feets.

Loves 'em.

I'm not a foot person by any means, but what is cuter than a baby's bare foot? And there's something freeing about running around naked from the ankle down. If I lived in a warm enough climate, I'd go barefoot at home 365 days a year, no question. I love to let the pigs wiggle.



However.

Last week, I walked around the corner of my cube to the printer, which my team shares with an event-planning team in the next row of cubes. (I work for a giant corporation, so it isn't unusual to sit right next to people you never, ever interact with. Except when you're both at the printer.)

As I was waiting for my printed wares, around the corner came one of the event planners...in her bare feet.

Again: Big corporation. No one's wearing suits in our area, but neither are we preparing to attend a seaside campfire or lounge in a grassy meadow. Business casual is what we all subscribe to.

And this woman fit the bill, with her sweater set and gray trousers. Perhaps she was going for the fashion equivalent of the mullet: Business up top, party below the pant cuffs.

My reaction? "Ew." And then: "Ew! Ew ew EW!"

Because, first of all? While I absolutely kick off my shoes underneath my desk from time to time, it's just not right to expect my coworkers to bear the sight of them while taking an innocent stroll to the water fountain.

Second? There's no way there isn't some gross, funky stuff happening in corporate-office carpeting, and this woman is just asking for some kind of nasty fungal infection.

And third? Because she's flaunting her bare piggies all over our biz-nass, said fungal infection will eventually make its way into our (fabric-covered) cube walls, and I'll end up with pinkeye or staph or flesh-eating bacteria. Why is this woman messing with our cube farm homeostasis? Wasn't the fruit-fly infestation of 2008 enough? HOW FAR WILL IT GO, PEOPLE?!

As if that wasn't enough, the very same afternoon, this happened: I walked down the hall to the bathroom. Thankfully, we have separate bathrooms for men and women (as all public buildings -- and homes -- should), but we do have to walk right past the men's on the way to the women's. Right as I walked by, the men's door flung open, and a dude walked out...still tucking in his shirt and buckling his belt.

Wait, let me rephrase that.

A man walked out of the bathroom WITH HIS PANTS STILL UNDONE, shoving his shirt DOWN HIS PANTS with his hands while WALKING DOWN THE HALLWAY in full view of me and God and everyone.

I... Yeah. I couldn't believe my eyes, and I still can't.

So, friends, two questions for you today:

1. Is it ever acceptable to go barefoot at work? If so, please cite examples.
2. Why would a grown man who, presumably, has been IN THE WORLD, think it's OK to finish shuffling things around down there while walking down a well-traveled hallway?

Thank you. And a happy Monday to you and yours.

Fall: A one-photo photo gallery

Yesterday was the most beautiful, balmy, blue-skied fall day.

It was the kind of day that made me want to stand on our deck, look out at the countryside and just take long, deep, cleansing, celebratory breaths.

Today? It looks overcast and kind of yucky.

Luckily, I'm having a two-person dinner party with my BFF today, after which we will watch a horrible chick flick, do crafts and gossip.

So the weather can bite me.

Random Saturday-ness

1. The Fringe apple with the baby seeds makes my insides feel squirmy:

2. Some weird, horrible things are going on with my nose and sinuses; I haven't been able to properly breathe for weeks. The inside of my nose feels like a dry, barren wasteland, and in a desperate effort to see what was going on in there, I just used a hand mirror and the LED light on my Droid to look up my own nose. It wasn't my proudest moment.

3. Two weeks ago, I had never heard of Demi Lovato. How is she already famous enough to be in rehab?

4. Still cold in my house. (I think it might be warmer outside than it is in my house.) Still wearing my Snuggie. Still totally creeped out by Baby Tumor Snuggie.

5. I've always wanted red hair. Like, natural copper-red hair. I ended up with orange hair once, when the stylist at Fiesta Hair interpreted "Can you warm up my dark brown hair color?" as "Can you please bleach the crap out of my hair, leaving it with the consistency of straw, and then throw some orange dye on it in a misguided attempt to make up for your incompetence?"

6. Red hair DOES run in one side of my family and in T's family, so it's conceivable we could end up with a red-haired baby one of these days. Which should be fun to explain to people, since we both have dark brown hair, and people are judge-y.

7. T and I have been watching every season of Bones on Instant Netflix for the past month or so, and we're locked in a no-holds-barred, fight-to-the-death argument about who is the more beautiful Deschanel sister. (I say Zooey, he says Emily.)

Both of us can agree, though, that David Boreanaz is not nearly as hot as he thinks he is.

Let's talk about comments

Call me needy. Insecure. Whatever.

I'm a gal who needs feedback.

At work, I wanna know: Am I getting it right? Easy to work with? Producing quality material? Pushing back when I need to push back? Being flexible when I need to be flexible? Good or bad, I want the scoop.

I'm not doing the work for the feedback. But the feedback gives me fuel. It's what makes me want to keep going, keep doing my best.

And while this blog is hardly a job, it is the same in one big way.

Comments are fuel. They give me insight, help me learn about all of you, make me laugh.

They remind me that I'm not just writing these words and sending them out there into Internet-land to float around, unread and unloved.

I read a lot of blogs, and I'm completely guilty of dropping in, reading and going back to work without chiming in on the conversation, saying what I think or just telling the author I appreciate what they've written. And with so many of us doing NaBloPoMo this month...there's just so much to read!

So I've decided that part of my personal NaBloPoMo challenge is going to be about comments.

I can't promise I'll comment on every single thing you post. But I am going to be making a real effort to get in there more often.

I hope you'll do the same. :)

Happy Veterans Day

All you guys and gals out there? You know who you are.

~Thank you.~

(Special personal thanks to my Grandpa Ted, who served in Korea and Vietnam; my father-in-law, who served in Vietnam; and my Grandpa Ray and my dad, who were conscientious objectors in their respective days. Love you guys.)

Wordless Wednesday: Daylight Savings Time Blows

5:55 p.m.

SIGH.

NBX Vol 3: Creepy babies, bucketheads, bastards and whatever a "windover" is

So, when I decided to dive into this NaBloPoMo thing, one thing became quickly evident: I needed some ideas. And where better to turn than some of the old featurey-type things I abandoned this summer?

For any of you who may be new or who may have tried to block NBX out of your memory, please see What the heck is this?

Now that that's out of the way, let's dive right in, shall we?

• Most awesomest blog name: Carnival of the Elitist Bastards (...I don't even know where to start. I love everything about this name. The blog and its self-same carnival is a celebration of the cerebral, which I can always get behind. And OK, yes, the stilted pirate-speak in the blog post updates gets waaaay old. But I'm down with any blog that begins its description with this: "You can help raise the level of our public discourse from the subgutter of stupidity in which it currently resides. All you have to do is celebrate your own intelligence.")
• So-ugly-it's-fabulous-est blog layout: Baby Hiroshi (The colors...they assault my eyes. And the header. Well. It's just really creeping me out. It's a really cute baby, but there's just something...weird...about it.)
• Most random blog post title (and/or title that lends itself the best to double-entendre or horrible puns): The Prettiest Girl in School
  (June 12, “Love Will Follow You to Your House and Hide There Until You Find It and Kill It (But It Will Never Die)”; I mean, really. That kind of blog title takes some commitment. As does the actual post, which is a poem about the author's love for...someone or something...that he apparently turned into a song. I have not heard this song, but apparently you can, if you so choose, by visiting his MySpace page. Just…fabulous.)
• Most engaging overall blog (for better or for worse): Fluffy Windover's Diary (First, don’t ask me why, the word “fluffy” is inherently funny, every time. It just is. Second, I have no idea what a Windover is, but I like it. And third, the first sentence of the first entry I read was “I wish I could tell you that Edwin was done with talking about boobs.” That, my friends, is how to NOT bury the lead. Excellent work, Fluffy. My former editors would be very proud. And, the more I scanned her previous entries, the more convinced I became that it was not a fluke. Worth checking out. Surprisingly.)
• Wild card: Best use of a toddler in a blog post: Travis, Ana and Aidan in the OC! (July 15, “Aidan can’t read without his bucket on his head” Because WHY would anyone want to? Love this kid.)

(Let me know if you come across an awesomely-awful blog that must be shared!)

This is super awkward, Nature.

Somehow, we have become "the dog people" in our neighborhood.

We live in the middle of nowhere, and not only do some of our (ahem) lovely neighbors let their dogs roam around freely with zero supervision, somehow our house and the surrounding 1/4-mile area has become the numero-uno dumping ground for unwanted dogs as well. And since we have dogs and I volunteer at the local dog shelter (or, at least, I did before Bubba got sick), all the neighbors call me.

"Uh, Shannon? There's this white dog in our yard? And he's chasing our cats. Can you come over?"

And...do what? They never really say. Chase the dog off? Assume it's friendly and try to coax it into my car and drive it to the shelter (which is perpetually over-booked)? Let it live in my basement? They don't care. All they want is the dog OFF their property, and they've elected me to deal with it.

This weekend, I got the call. "Um, Shannon? Could you -- and maybe T -- come up here? There's these two dogs here and...well, could you just come over?"

Sigh.

We trudged up the hill that separates our two houses. Our neighbor, her husband and their five-year-old son were standing in their driveway, looking across the road at two dogs in our other neighbor's yard.

The dogs were standing close together, not really moving. Something seemed...odd.

"Shannon, those dogs are hurting each other!" five-year-old C called to me as we walked up the hill. "Mom said they were playing, but they got stuck."

Oh. Oh, no.

Yep. The dogs were "playing" in that very special adult-dog way, and had gotten stuck together. Have you ever seen this happen? I'd only seen it once before, when our golden retrievers Heidi and Nugget got amorous one summer, and my brother and I got a firsthand lesson in "Why Saying 'No' Can Really Be Way Less Painful in the Long Run."

T took one look, turned around and headed back down the hill, tossing "Not it" over his shoulder.

Neighbor and her husband looked at me expectantly.

C continued staring across the road at the poor, humiliated dogs.

The dogs tried desperately not to make eye contact with any of us.

And I just stood there, torn between covering C's eyes and guiding him back up the driveway (WHY was he out there again?) and just making a break for it like cowardly (aka: smart) T.

Wait, are they expecting ME to do something about this?

Pull them apart? Push them...back together? Perform some sort of doggie relationship counseling so they can let go of their built-up resentment and get back to the lovin'?

Here's what ended up happening: I walked tentatively across the street toward the dogs (with absolutely ZERO plan in mind), saying "It's OK, it's OK" in the dogs' general direction for lack of anything better to say or do. Neighbor and husband got bored and went back inside, leaving C standing in the yard staring at us like a real-life National Geographic special.

After about five minutes, the male dog did some kind of special move, and with a heart-wrenching yelp from the female (seriously: OW OW OW), they broke apart and immediately ran off in opposite directions. (I mean, wouldn't you?)



Relieved, I headed back to my house.

Oh, dammit.

"Shannon?" C was jogging behind me, on my heels. "Why were those dogs stuck together? How do they play? What makes them do that? Huh?"

Thanks, Nature. Thanks a crapload.

On a cold morning like this...

...I'm incredibly happy that I have one of these:


Between the Snuggie and snuggly lap-dog heat, I'm totally set. Bring it, Winter.

*********

Also: Pretty sure this is one of the creepiest things I've ever seen:

I'm good, thanks.

I'm a huge fan of Glee.

I will proudly admit that I get a little bit high-school-girly-SQUEE when I see the finger-L come on the screen, and I really enjoyed the Rocky Horror Glee Show last week.

And I may or may not have purchased one of the soundtracks for Season 1.

But? I'm kind of tired of their semi-preachy commercials for recycling and the proper disposal of batteries and whether or not I'm going to hell if I don't have a low-flow toilet.

Listen, I get it. Kids watch the show. They look up to the cast. We want kids to recycle and care about the environment and do great things for the planet. I'm totally down with that. It's fine.

I just have a problem with taking life advice from someone who plays a fictional character, takes private jets to premieres and does a weekly juice cleanse to stay at a size 0.

It makes me super glad I DVR the show so I can fast-forward through it because: Enough.

How 'bout a recent blog find on a Friday?

It doesn't look as though this blogger needs any additional promotion from me (he has more than 25,000 fans on Facebook).

But I just found Jim's Pancakes, in which a father simply makes cool-shaped pancakes for his daughter, and I adore it, and I wanted to spotlight it on my blog. So hopefully he won't mind.

And by "cool-shaped" I don't mean the traditional triangle- and Mickey-Mouse-shaped pancakes. We're talking Homer Simpson, iPhones and this recent bee/beehive combo that made me wish fervently I had a chance of replicating it myself in the kitchen. (I don't.)

If you haven't seen it, check out his gallery -- preferably while you're eating lunch, since it's bound to make you hungry.

(I was about to say "Have a great weekend, everyone!" And then I realized: NaBloPoMo! I'll be back tomorrow! And hopefully so will you. Isn't this fun?)

Stuff on My Desk: Poster of Snow Tracks

OK. So. If you've been reading my blog for some time, you'll remember (or maybe you won't, who knows?) a little series I liked to call "Stuff on My Desk." It was fun, it was fabulous, it was loved by...few.

I stopped it awhile back because, frankly, there's only so much stuff on my desk.

This NaBloPoMo thing, however, has me running scared looking for topics. And I realized that, somehow, I'd left out bar-none the most popular item on my desk (or, technically, on my cube wall; now is not the time for semantics, a'ight?):

THE SNOW TRACKS POSTER

Dun dun dun!

(Did you just get a little shiver of excitement? Uh, me either. Let's just go with it.)

So, the poster. I got it from a designer I used to work with, who'd received it as a freebie from a stock photo company. I said to her, "Hey, designer" (which wasn't her actual name, but I can't REMEMBER her name just now, all right? Let's not dwell on it) "are you going to do anything with that poster? My cube's looking a little bare."

OK, take a good look at this poster. We're apparently looking at a parking lot. It's snowy. There are tire tracks. There are telephone poles. There are a few parked cars. And there are, inexplicably, boats. There are corners of buildings. There's possible evidence of either a road or railroad tracks in one corner.

Not exactly super art fabulosity personified.

But when I say this is the most popular item in my cube? It's because no fewer than 30-40 people (many of whom I'd never met before) have stopped by my desk with the EXPRESS PURPOSE of discussing the apparent profundity of this poster.

A sample conversation:

Me: (working, working, working)

Guy I've Never Seen Before: Hey, are you Shannon?

Me: (glancing pointedly at the nameplate adorning my cube) Um. Yes. Can I help you?

GINSB: I was walking past your cube last night and I saw this poster, and I just had to stop by and ask you: What does it mean?

Me: Excuse me?

GINSB: I mean, I stood here for probably 20 minutes last night just staring at it. Like, the tire tracks. And then the boats? I mean, what is this supposed to BE?

Me: (feverishly willing my phone to ring) Uh...a parking lot with some tire tracks and boats?

GINSB: But if you REALLY look at it, like, the tire tracks? Some of them don't seem to do anything but just drive in circles. Like, they never parked; they just drove around. And then those footprints -- I mean, they don't even LEAD anywhere. (leaning forward, really getting into this now) I've been thinking about this all night. I just HAD to come over and ask you about it. I mean, I'm thinking, "Where did she get this poster? What does it MEAN?"

Me: Uhhh...I got it for free? From an old co-worker? And...I just needed something on that wall there. So...I have no idea what it "means." It's just kind of taking up space.

GINSB: (visibly disappointed) Oh. Oh, OK. I just thought...OK, never mind. (dejectedly walks away)

Me: Sigh.

*****

I've had nearly identical conversations with at least two dozen colleagues and a handful of cleaning staff. And I know that the above seems sort of farcical in its earnestness, but I'm here to tell you: It ain't.

Everyone wants to know: WHAT DOES IT MEAN??

They cannot fathom that I just hung up this CLEARLY PROFOUND AND FULL OF THE MEANING OF LIFE poster because I wanted something to take up space.

And, I suppose, if you look at it long enough to see all the little pieces and parts of it, it IS kind of a cool photograph.

But I'm here today to say, now and forever, THAT'S ALL IT IS.

Unless you also see something totally deep and profound, and you really want to study and worship it, in which case there are apparently some like-minded individuals at my office ready to join your Church of the Snowy Tracks.

May peace be with you.

PS: Am I crazy for kind of liking the name Ginsbey?

Wordless Wednesday: Bros. Just hangin'.

(An extra-special shot because they don't do this so much these days.)

You can look nuts while doing it; just DO it.

Early this morning, I dragged myself out of bed.

It was still dark, and it was freezing -- FREEZING -- in my house.

I didn't even take off my pajamas.

I threw on some cargo pants over my super-sexy flannel PJ pants, and a long-sleeved T-shirt over my thrift-store nightshirt.

I stuck my feet into some hideous, blue-and-green-striped socks and then the clunky brown clogs I wear to weed my flowerbeds.

I pulled a University of Virginia knit hat over my sleep-disheveled hair, and topped it all off with a big, puffy coat with the hood pulled up.

I basically looked homeless. Or crazy. Or like I live in the movie 8 Mile.

But when I got to the county building, they didn't even blink. They just let me vote.

Did you vote? No? Go! Do it! I have now proven that no one even cares if you look like a crazy, homeless white rapper while doing it.

(But you should at least brush your teeth. I mean, that's just common courtesy.)

It's totally easy. No excuses. Now, shoo!

NaBloPoMo: I am awesome at jumping on bandwagons

Lately, I've been having a problem.

I come to my little bloggy-blog, and I look it in the face, and I think, "Oh, Lord. There's so much blank whiteness! What am I going to write about? Nooooooooo..." And then I curl up into the fetal position and cry a little.

This is not to say I don't have ideas. In fact, I had about 12 ideas for posts while I was walking to my car after work on Friday. But when I got to my car and whipped out the Post-It function on my phone to record them? Wsshhhht -- gone.

Apparently, for me, blog post ideas are like dreams. Or the pain of childbirth (according to men). One moment they're there, crystalized, humming with perfection. The next, ooh shiny! I'm distracted by a squirrel and then poof! Into the ether. Sad face.

And, like everyone, I'm a busy gal. At the end of the day, I'm poopered. Unsurprisingly, vegging out after work (aka: staring blanking at mediocre television) often wins out over blogging (aka: staring blankly at the words "New Post" as I try in vain to remember the idea I had earlier that day).

So. Something clearly needs to change. And that something is this: NaBloPoMo.

It sort of sounds like something you'd find growing on your kidney, but no! It's National Blog Posting Month.

What this means: Every day in November (yes, even Saturdays and Sundays; they don't take kindly to cheaters over in NaBloVille), I will post something here. EVERY DAY. That's so many days! And, just given the laws of physics or relativity or gravity (I'm bad at science), some of those posts are BOUND to not suck.

And, to help me capture those fleeting, ephemeral ideas that hit me in the parking lot and right before I go to bed, I'm going to be carrying around this little gem, too:

(I've decided to name her Gertrude. Just don't tell T. She's actually his, and he frowns on the naming of inanimate objects. But the spirit of Gert cannot be contained.)

Anyway.

Gert is a voice recorder! Which means I'll either look completely crazy talking into this little handheld device, or people will think I'm a spy. I'm kind of OK with either.

What this means for you: Not only will I have more ideas to share with you, I also promise to share at least one of my sure-to-be-nonsensical-and-rambling messages to myself, word for word.

And so it begins. This is entry number one! This is totally easy!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's entry, in which I panic because really? Posting EVERY day? What was I thinking?!

Poor, little, sad, homemade clown

My mother has a lot of amazing qualities.

She has the endless compassion and gentle touch that make her an amazing nurse; she gives the most FABulous hugs; and she can make me laugh until I cry like no one else on earth.

What she is most decidedly not, however, is a crafter and a seamstress. And, coupled with the fact that she and my father weren't super-fans of Halloween in the first place...

...when it came time to dress up for Halloween, I was pretty much on my own.

Which is how I ended up looking like this:

Believe it or not, this actually took some coordination. In Sunday School the week before, my best friend, P, and I discovered we were wearing the same purple dress. One of us said something like, "Hey, what if we both wore them on Halloween and went as...two...girls...wearing the same dress?"

Throw in some horrendous blue eyeshadow circa 1984 and some purple spray-on hair coloring we found at the grocery store, and we were in business.

(Believe it or not -- and I certainly can't -- we actually won second prize in our elementary school's costume contest that year. I think the official name of this costume was "Twin Dolls." Looking at it now, I'm calling it "From Sunday School to Trollopdom in Three Easy Steps.")

And then, there was the year of the saddest homemade clown ever in and of the world, ever ever ever:

As you're squinting at this awful picture (sorry), take a good look at the hair. NOT A WIG. That's my own hair, once again with the spray-on hair coloring, teased out to hay-sus and Aqua-Netted to within an inch of its life. Also please note the lack of a traditional clown nose. My parents apparently did spring for some face paint this year, but the squishy red nose was just too much, it seems.

And my costume? A clown-themed nightgown (that I already owned) and, not pictured, my father's boots. I was also carrying a balloon on a stick, apparently. I have no idea what's happening with that.

OK. So. Am I scarred forever because my mother didn't make me a Pretty, Pretty Princess dress or let me be a witch (I wasn't allowed to be anything evil-y) or help me come up with something really creative like this one brother-sister duo at my school, who once came as toothpaste and a toothbrush?

I won't pretend I didn't kind of long for some of those things. At the time.

But now, I'm kind of glad my parents left me to my own devices. It's made me into a person who always thinks, "Hm...could I make that myself? Let me see what I have lying around the house" instead of just running out and buying something new.

See, Mom? You weren't slacking in the Halloween department; you were teaching me to be resourceful!

OK, one last picture, before I leave you all to trick-or-treat with your little ones and/or gussy it up for your adult-themed Halloween bashes. I was really hoping to find the awful picture of my brother and me dressed up as a Hawaiian (me) and a tourist (him) -- once again wearing our own clothes -- but alas, it has failed to surface.

So you're just going to have to be contented with this picture of me from the time I worked in a haunted house as "The Electric Chair Victim." Once again, my powers of resourcefulness at work, I correctly deduced that electric chair victims aren't dress-up kind of folk. It's much more likely that they'd be wearing a black turtleneck and jeans.

And from the look on my face, it's apparently tiring, soul-sucking work, too:

(Double-kudos to my mom for cutting off the top of my head. At least those all-important knees made the cut. I love you, Mom!)

Happy Halloween! :)

Mostly Wordless Thursday: PUMPKINS

('Cause I just couldn't get it together for Wednesday. Don't you judge me!)

This weekend, my bestie B and I busted out the steak knives (we'd have nothing of those much safer pumpkin carving kits that don't even have pointy ends -- bah!) and carved us up some bad boys, fresh from our neighbors' garden.

And yes, it's true that I A) broke one of said steak knives, and B) nearly decapitated my best friend in the process. But all that matters is that we ended up with some wicked-cool Jack-o'lanterns (or however you punctuate that word).

Yay!

Fever dreams

So, since Sunday afternoon, I've been sick.

Not so sick that I'm unable to eat or writhing on the floor in agony or anything like that. Just a bad cold, a serious sore throat and a low-grade fever.

But the latter was enough to make sleep the last few nights an extremely interesting adventure.

Sunday night, they were mostly funny. Some former co-workers showed up in a beat-up minivan to take me to lunch. I realized as I climbed in that I was only wearing my bathrobe.

In most dreams like this, where I find myself in my underwear or otherwise under-dressed, I usually try to hide or cover myself with something. In this one, when one of my former colleagues questioned my attire, I said something like, "Listen, some of us interpret Casual Fridays differently than others. Deal with it, {Former Co-worker}." At which point she burst into tears.

Apparently, fevers make me sassy and kind of mean-spirited.

Then, last night, my subconscious decided I'd had enough of the funny.

Bubba and I were playing in a huge, green meadow, surrounded by lush, forested hills. Despite his lack of opposable thumbs, he was picking up chalk and drawing things on a piece of paper, and I congratulated him for being the world's most brilliant dog (naturally).

The weather was much like it's been the past week in Ohio: Sunny, warm, windy, with just a touch of something extra in the air to remind you that it IS fall, even if it's 80 degrees outside.

It was beautiful. We were playing. We were happy.

Then, from the edges of the woods, we saw them creeping slowly. First one, then a whole pack of them, in all shapes and sizes.

Wolves.

Some gray, some black, some pure white. Some small, some towering over my head.

All creeping toward us, all focused hungrily on my little dog, who hadn't seen them yet, who was still happily playing in front of me.

I grabbed him up in my arms like a baby (proving that this was, indeed a dream; in real life he weighs more than 90 pounds) and held my arm out in front of him. Somehow I knew the wolves wouldn't bite me; they couldn't get near him if I was blocking the way.

But they kept advancing. And their eyes were hungry.

And I looked down at the shivering dog in my arms. And his fur had gone completely white with fear.

A woman appeared at the edge of the woods, carrying a shepherd's crook. I called to her, asking her to call off the wolves. She did, and they left reluctantly.

But as she approached us, I saw that she was crying.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It isn't forever." And then she walked back into the woods.

Some dreams don't need professional analysis.

I really wish I could forget this one.

P.S.: The image at the top of this post came up when I Google-imaged "fever dreams." It's pretty close to what the woods looked like in mine. Freaky.

World-weary...and three feet tall

The scene: Thursday evening, Family Dollar, standing in line, waiting to purchase shower curtain liner.

In front of me, a grandmother is waiting to purchase a few miscellaneous items while wrangling two grandchildren: a bespectacled boy around 8 years old and a girl around 6.

The girl is bouncing up and down, touching everything within reach, prompting Grandma to grasp wildly for and then hold the little one's hands at her sides.

At this point the girl, although restrained, continues to bounce up and down, up and down, up and down and chant loudly -- while her brother faces bravely forward.

Bouncy: We're going to Grandma's! We're going to Grandma's! Grandma's! Grandma's! GrandmaGrandmaGrandmaGrandma! GrammagrammagrammagrAAAAAAAAAMMMMAAAAA--"

Grandma: (trying and failing to clap one hand over Bouncy's perpetually moving mouth, but still kind of laughing, because, obnoxious or not, the girl is adorable) Oh, my God, you are LOUD.

Older Brother: (over his shoulder, with a world-weary roll of his eyes) Welcome to my world, Grandma. Welcome. To my world.

**********

As a fellow older sibling, I wanted to hug the little guy. Hug him, pat him on the back, and reassure him that...it's just going to be like this for the rest of his life, so he might as well get used to it.

:)

Sidenote: As Grandma was paying for their purchases, Older Brother was trying in vain to justify adding a bag of chips to the pile. "Sometimes I wake up really early in the morning, like 5:00, and I just NEED Doritos."

I sort of wanted to adopt him on the spot.

For shame, Starbucks marketing department

This morning, I noticed this fine little slogan on my Starbucks napkin:


Disclaimer: I'm certain I'm not the only one who's noticed this (I've had this particular napkin in my desk drawer for at least two months, for starters), but I just noticed it now, so I'm commenting on it now, so there.

Anyway.

"Less napkins"? Erm, no.

"Less waste," sure. "Less water," absolutely. "Less apples"? No.

FEWER. Fewer apples, fewer napkins, fewer grammarians bleeding from the eyeballs.

I realize the phrase is "less is more," which may make it seem like "less" is always the opposite of "more," and I also realize this is an extremely common mistake for English-speakers.

But if your job involves putting words on things for public consumption, be it articles or marketing copy or the warning on the side of a bottle of Drano, you should know the rules. And if you don't, you should make damn sure you run your copy by someone who does.

I write for a living, so I have to make it a point to try to learn and KNOW these rules. Do I know them all? Uh, absolutely not. But I use the resources at my disposal (fellow writers and editors, stylebooks, the ENTIRE INTERNET) to check myself lest I wreck myself (I physically could not stop myself from writing that).

And if something of mine is published with a mistake like this, particularly as it relates to my job (as opposed to, say, this blog; heh), I consider that a big, fat fail on my part as a writer/marketer/communicator.

All this to say: HAND-SLAP, Starbucks marketing department! Shame, shame, I know your name.*

*Please tell me you also said this as a child. Along with "Liar, liar, pants on fire, sitting on a telephone wire." Holy crap, kids' rhymes make absolutely no sense.

Wordless Wednesday: True Love

Photo Flashback Tuesday

I was digging around in old photo albums (OK, boxes with random photos -- I'm not organized enough for albums) this weekend, and I found this:

A few observations about this picture:

1. Who was in charge of my hair on this day? Apparently "Rat's Nesty Braids, Plus Barrettes" was a viable 'do back in 1980. And I rocked it.
2. Please note my expression of "Um, yes, may I help you? Genius at work here. Very busy. Shoo." According to my mother, this expression surfaced often. (And probably still does.)
3. I was apparently a very trust-worthy three-year-old, since I was left to my own devices with not just the cookie cutters but the 50-pound, solid-wood rolling pin. Clearly a future executive at work.
4. Check out that *awesome* '70s wallpaper! Go, Grandma!

To continue the photo flashback goodness, I promise to share a picture of a costume from my youth sometime during the week before Halloween. Be assured, it'll be incredibly embarrassing -- my costumes were always awful. :)

(Bonus points to anyone who shares their own photo flashbacks this week. Don't make me stand alone in Humiliation Corner.)

Ideas, ideas for the writer...

I haven't talked about it for awhile, but for the past year, I've been writing some children's books.

Five of the ones I've written so far are based on some characters my dad invented when I was a little girl: Three animal friends who learn about friendship and lying and all kinds of other things while gallivanting around a barnyard somewhere in the countryside. And while I'm figuring out what to do with those, I've decided to keep writing.

This time, I'm tackling sleep. Or the lack thereof.

The little boy in my story refuses to sleep because he doesn't want to miss all the cool things he imagines the grown-ups are doing. He does practically anything to avoid bedtime so he can make sure no one's having too much fun without him.

Here's where I need your help...

All you parents, aunts/uncles, big brothers/sisters out there: What do the kids in your lives do to avoid going to bed? Drinks of water, trips to the bathroom, checking for monsters...

I'd love any and all ideas, even if you just make them up. :)

I miss you already, vacation.

And now, a brief lament...

My vacation is drawing to a close. And I find myself actually grieving the loss of this time.

It has been so wonderful, so relaxing, so freeing to simply take each day as it comes without worrying about all the responsibility of work.

Hanging out with my girlfriends (the relaxing effect of hours of talking cannot be overstated).

Playing cards with our neighbors:

(Kim is hiding from our dogs' noxious farts; it's a constant problem in this house. But the girls MOPPED the FLOOR with the boys, which made all the stinkiness well worth it.)

But best of all, spending time with the boys (one of whom is behind the camera here):

I'm really going to miss this vacation come Monday morning, when I return to my cubicle and hear the loud talkers in the next aisle and jump on that first conference call and (ugh) wade through two weeks' worth of missed e-mail.

But the truth is...I need to work. Not just because we need money to live: I need to have that in my life, that connection to work I am passionate about -- outside my home.

I like my job. I like the people I work with. It's a wonderful, flexible, mostly-stimulating (and sometimes frustrating) job that, ultimately, I am extremely fortunate to have.

So although I am grieving the end of these LOVELY two weeks...I wouldn't make this a permanent vacation, even if I could.

Have a great weekend. I intend to make the most of what's left of my "freedom." :)

Celebrity Smackdown: Brett Favre Edition

Dear Brett Favre,

As recently as last week, the image above would've evoked a hearty "Well, hello there, howdyado?" from me, followed by some awkward winking and possibly throat-growling.

Whenever your Wrangler ad came on the ol' telly, I made everyone stop talking so I could gawk at your grizzly hotness in perfect silence.

When T tried repeatedly to dissuade my adoration by reminding me that you are a grandfather, I told him to shut it. I would totally have brought you tea and wrapped you in an afghan and rubbed your bunions.

The fact that you were married and, by all appearances, a devoted family man, made you even more attractive. You stood by your wife through her battle with cancer. You're actually involved with your kids (and, OK, grandkids). And something-football-quarterback-records-blah blah blah.

All awesome.

And then, I found out you're being accused of parading your weiner around like a show dog at the Westminster.

By a myriad of women, some of them married, and all of them NOT YOUR WIFE.

And there's always the possibility that those women are lying. But if we've learned anything at all from President Clinton and Tiger Woods, it's that where there's a Paula Zahn, there's usually also a Monica Lewinsky waiting to throw a stained dress at you, and where there's a reality show contestant with incriminating voicemails, there's also a Perkin's waitress waiting to "take your order," if you get what I'm saying.

So today, Brett, I'm officially breaking up with you.

You're no longer my Sunday afternoon boyfriend.

While I'll never deny that you rock the crap out of a pair of jeans...you really need to learn how to keep them on. I'm saying.

Now quit all your boo-hooing and go get some help, instead of buying your wife a giant diamond like everyone else in this situation seems to.

All the best (you stinky, stinky cheater),

Shannon

Stop trying to pretend you know me

At some point during in Advertising 101, they must preach it from the pulpit loud and long: If you want to get someone's attention, hit 'em where they live. Go local.

It makes sense. As Big Brother-y as it can feel at times, I sort of like that sites I visit on a regular basis know my preferences well enough to recommend things I'd like. And while it doesn't always follow that ALL people from a certain region will be interested in the same things, it makes more sense to show me, an Ohioan, an ad for a leaf-blower than, say, alligator repellent.

(Disclaimer: I have no idea if there is such a thing as alligator repellent. It sounds sort of fake, like snipe hunting.)

But when did companies start simply inserting the name of your town or state in every ad, regardless of whether or not it makes sense?




Really? Did she? Is that mom even from Ohio? Or does her face also appear next to the Nebraska and Vermont ads? Because she and her cute little baby are just part of a stock photo suite, and that probably isn't even her kid, because she looks about 12?

(And why the ridiculously-specific (and yet devoid of a comma) dollar amount?)

And I hate the ones that mention the specific town even more:

"A woman from {Your Hometown} discovered the secret to better abs -- with NO WORKING OUT!"

"A {Your Hometown} father discovered the cure for chlamydia -- right in his backyard!"

Hm. Really? Our town is a teeny village surrounded by almost nothing but farmland and trees. You're telling me I could be shopping at Kroger next to the woman who figured out how to get a six-pack without exercise? Someone figured out how to use dandelions to cure venereal disease? Because that's all that's growing in backyards around here.

Advertisers: Stop trying to bond with me. I see through your little charade, and I remain unimpressed.

(Oh, and I don't have chlamydia. Just in case you were worried.)

All I have back there are some stray Cheerios and a flyswatter

A family in Buffalo had the above painting hanging out behind their couch for 30 years, then pulled it out and did some research on it. Turns out it could be a Michelangelo original worth $300 mil.

Story here.

It had been hanging on the wall, until one of the kids knocked it down with a tennis ball in the '70s.

Why don't I ever find anything cool when I clean behind the couch? I don't even find any pennies; I'm pretty sure Murray eats them.

(Relax, he doesn't eat pennies. He only eats dimes. He's a high-roller.)

(I'm wondering what it says about me that, when T was telling me about this story and said, "Guess what this family found behind their couch after 30 years?", my first thought was "A dead missing relative?" I'm thinking it's time I stop watching Hoarders.)

As Week One draws to a close...

...just thought I'd clue you in to what the majority of my activity this week, the first week of my vacation, has amounted to:

Mmmmm...recliner...

(And give it up for supporting breast cancer research, even while napping. Multi-tasking -- woot! Also: That shirt is more than 10 years old. I'm thrifty.)

Have a great weekend, y'all.