We’re back home, getting back into the swing of things, and we have a new fridge. Yay! We have to go grocery shopping, though. It looks like a dorm fridge in there–condiments, beer, hot dogs, and pudding cups. I need to remember to get flour so I can start turning those fancy beers into breads.
We had a blast (Ian had to explain that phrase to Abby, and she loves to use it now) at my parents’ house for six days. We caught four parades and came home with this:
Okay, so we didn’t bring it all home. We left the regular beads. My youngest brother has tubs and tubs full of them to sell back to the krewes; it’s the Cajun version of recycling cans, I guess. And we packed up a couple of goodie bags for one of Ian’s coworker’s little girls to enjoy since they didn’t get to go to any parades. Even so, there’s a big bag of stuffies, a bag of toys, and a 15 gallon tote of more toys sitting in a corner of the living room. We’ll go through and take out some to keep before passing a lot out to friends.
Abby had the best time this year. Last year her big thrill was watching the marching bands from Ian’s shoulders, but this year she was jumping up and down, screaming, and hollering ‘throw me something please!’ Too cute!!
The original plan included the Krewe of Cleopatra in Houma on Monday night, but it was just too rainy, windy, and cold to make three or four hours standing out there worthwhile. Even Hephaestus on Tuesday afternoon was chilly, but at least only drizzling. we poncho’d up and took advantage of the clear sidewalks. Not many other fools braved the weather for that one after all the spots under the bridge were taken! I was glad to see there were no marching bands, only floats. It’s a short route, but it would have been miserable for those poor kids. We had our usual brush with local celebrity, catching some of Troy Landry‘s throws.
I do hope the weather cooperates next year, since I won’t be able to get the Friday or Saturday before Mardi Gras off work. Boo for Valentine’s Day coinciding with more fun holidays!
We’ve lived here nine years this November, and in that time we’ve gone through our share of appliances. Let’s see, two stoves, two washers, two dryers, one stand mixer, four or five-ish window units, even a thermostat and a blower motor for the 1978 heater. Does that count as an appliance? Don’t get me started on the plumbing and wiring. If it could be done half-assed, it was.
Last weekend, it was the fridge, our second. I don’t know when it died; I worked mostly evenings last week, so I don’t know the last time I was in the freezer before Sunday afternoon. Maybe Thursday?
I opened the door and thought, ‘hm, that’s funny, I could have sworn the freezer was packed.’ Then I touched the bag of ham stock. and it was not hard, or even very cold. Crap.
I quickly checked the refrigerator, which was still pretty cool. There’s that, at least.
I had to get Siri to text Ian because I was getting too frustrated with autocorrect. When he called, I was one-tracking away at him. The freezer is broken. We need a new fridge. The fridge is broken. I don’t know what I’m cooking, whatever’s most thawed.
Nothing gets to me like wasted food. Food is not cheap, and it’s stuff you have to have. Some weeks I live on leftovers because certain others in this household don’t want to eat it if it’s ‘old.’ ‘Old’ meaning more than an hour for some things, I’m not talking days or weeks here. Ahem.
Alas, goodbye yummy ham stock. Goodbye chicken stock. Goodbye chopped onions. Goodbye cream cheese ice cream (good stuff!). Goodbye zippy bags of soups and stews and beans. I cannot eat you in time to save you from the raccoons. Feast, raccoons, before the famine! For no trash shall be had next week.
Flour, yeast, and chocolate chips, thank you for being tolerant of this temperature shift.
After a trip to the trash can outside, the situation was not as dire as I’d feared. I asked Ian to bring home some ice and said we could go get the minifridge from storage in the morning. We hadn’t gone shopping for a while, and weren’t planning to this week, since we’re leaving Friday for a week at my parents’. Still, we had to get to eating.
Sunday night we had pork loin with a side of pork chops.
Monday night we had pork loin with a side of unfrozen frozen corn and unfrozen broccoli and cauliflower.
An aside of advice: buy the big pork loin and cut it up yourselves, guys, it’s cheaper that way. And you can make it the perfect size. Also, frozen corn tastes way better than canned.
Tonight there’s a slab of ribs in the oven and corn fritters to be made, leaving three packs of hot dogs in the cooler. They’ll snuggle up nicely with the juice, cheese, carrots, and condiments in the minifridge. And the inevitable leftover ribs.
At least Abby’s not here to whine about the small selection. She’ll be happy enough with chips and hot dogs Thursday night. And I’m sure she’ll enjoy peeling the photos off the old fridge with me.
Fortunately, the guy we got the dryer from last month is giving us a deal on a fridge next week when we get home, since he’s happy that Ian helps him unload the new one and load the old one. Make friends with your local secondhand vendors. We get a good deal on tires too.
Still, I had to throw away food. Ugh, that chaps my ass.
We hear all the time about knowing the whole story, or not knowing it. I read a book once in which a couple of the characters made a game of making up background stories while they people-watched. It’s something I think about sometimes while I’m cooling my heels at my kiosk.
I find that I’m not willing to make up a backstory for the people I see walking by. It was one thing for me and my coworkers to diagnose the patients walking into the ER when I was a registration clerk; it’s easy to deduce ‘cut herself washing dishes when a glass broke’ from a woman in her mid-thirties walking through the doors with a towel wrapped around her hand at 830pm. It’s something else when it’s just people, no clues, just shopping or mall-walking.
But there is someone in particular who catches my attention. The manager (I assume, from his demeanor) of one of the shoe stores I’m surrounded by. Because I’ll never forget him. I know him, but I don’t know him at all.
When I was seventeen, I went to the mall a lot. Duh, right? One night stands out in my mind, especially when I look through the shop window and see this guy working in his store.
My boyfriend and I went to the mall, and as we were walking to the entrance, a friend of mine was walking out. He was close by the doors, and we were still out in the parking lot, when I saw three guys running toward my friend. I didn’t know them, and they didn’t look like the type of people this friend would have known, although they did look like people I’d know. They ran up and two of them grabbed him so the third could get a good punch in, right to the face. My friend dropped, and they ran off, leaving my friend bleeding on the ground. I started running, and by the time I got there, he was seizing. Someone called 911, and before I knew it there were cops and paramedics pushing the crowd away so they could take care of him. What luck the mall is next door to the fire and police stations, eh?
The cops took a few statements from some people, and my boyfriend led me back to the car. It was hours before I could talk and unclench my fists.
The next day I called the hospital and got my friend’s room. He was asleep, but his mom told me about his broken cheekbone and jaw. She thanked me for trying to help him. I hadn’t done anything but keep any misled Samaritans from trying to shove a stick in his mouth while he was seizing, but she thanked me for that.
It was a few more days before we could visit him. I went with another friend who’d dated him a few times, and he told us he knew who it was, because they’d been bothering him for a couple of days. They thought he was someone else. It turns out the guy had a roll of quarters in his fist. My friend said the guy had been arrested.
A broken face for a mistaken identity. I don’t understand how someone can justify that. It was only a few weeks later that I started seeing the attacker at the mall again. I might have seen him a million times before and never paid attention, but now he was somebody. He was one of the bad guys, and I couldn’t help but recognize him. From seeing him so soon, I could only gather that he didn’t do much, if any, jail time for what he’d done.
My friend didn’t want to talk about it, and I can’t blame him for that. He moved away, and I lost touch with him. I moved away. The blood is long gone from the pavement. The hospital room is even gone now.
But some days, I am again staring at a man who severely injured a friend of mine. When he’s behind his register, it’s almost the same distance that we were apart that night.
When I stand there at work and think about knowing people’s stories, I can’t help but wonder if anyone he works with knows that one. Or if anyone in his life knows that one. I wonder what happened to him. I wonder if he ever even admitted to himself that he hurt the wrong person.
No one can guess a story like this from a casual encounter while buying a new pair of Jordans. No one.
But in the same way, no one can guess our story, mine and Ian’s and Abby’s, by seeing our debate over strawberries versus tomatoes in the produce department.
I’m left with an unwelcome feeling of connection with a person I wish had never entered my life in such a way. I wish he’d made a different decision. I wish his was a familiar face only because I’m in front of his store a few hours a week. I wish the story I know was a story that someone had made up, knowing nothing of the person they’d just caught a glimpse of.
I do appreciate that it’s me that has to look at him, and not my friend. It is hard to have to face the person who unapologetically knows they’ve caused you so much pain, and on a regular schedule.
Oops, I forgot that I signed up! Thank goodness for reminders, eh?
It’s been a while, and I haven’t posted in a couple weeks, so let’s have a nice getting-to-know-you post.
Hi! I’m April.
That’s entirely to cheery for how I’ve been feeling lately. Let’s take the exclamation point out.
Hi, I’m April. Welcome to my blog. If you’re new here, this started out as an infertility blog. You can read a timeline here. We called it quits with infertility treatments a while back to focus on foster adoption. Right now we’re just waiting to hear back from the DA, and then we can get home studied and start being foster parents. There’s so much less paperwork in family building the old fashioned way.
Let’s see, about me. I like to read, I like to cook, I like to write, I like to sew. My favorite book is The Waste Lands by T. S. Eliot. My favorite thing to cook is my vegetarian chili, but I’m not a vegetarian. My favorite thing to write is short fiction. My favorite thing to sew is pillows.
I have a husband, Ian, a stepdaughter, Abby, three cats and two turtles. Well, only one of the cats claims me, but you know how that goes.
I have two part time jobs, but I’m really a writer. Granted, that did not make me too much money last year, but it’s cool. I can’t wait to announce it at my next class reunion. They don’t need to see my 1099s.
I think that’s all for now. Ask me a question. I’ll answer.
Tuesday night I resolved to sew some clothes for Abby’s Barbies. Her new ones all came with clothes, of course, but she’s gotten a few from Facebook yard sales that came without a stitch. I did sew one dress a little over a year ago, when machine sewing was still pretty new to me, but due to some novice choices in fabric and style, I determined one was plenty. Don’t start out making tiny clothes your first time with slippery knits, y’all!
The problem presented itself when they had a ballet a couple weeks ago, but not everyone could attend because there weren’t enough clothes to go around. Can’t be naked at the theater! Since I’ve sewn a few things since then and have become more ambitious, I figured it’d be easy enough to have another go at it.
I started with a slip dress, in a fashionable purple crushed velvet.
Easy enough, let’s move on to pants. They have one pair to share among their what, dozen? Fifteen? Buttloads, anyway. You’d be surprised how often Barbies are on clearance for a couple bucks.
So, pants. I used that one pair as a guide, leaving plenty of room for seam allowance and plastic thighs. Or so I thought. Would you believe I made pants that are too freaking small for Barbie? I did. They’re meant to be capris, so don’t scoff at the length.
They won’t even go past her knees. Sigh. I tried again, this time leaving even more room.
Now, a longer dress. Abby was started to get a little restless with picking fabrics and whatnot, so I wasn’t going to piece anything together with darts. One front, one velcro’d back, strapless.
We have a new model, one not so willing to stand–or lean, I guess. Lazy bum! Abby promptly dubbed this style the ‘wedding dress,’ and so we retired to the living room to get some Barbies hitched, to live happily ever after.
I never regaled you with the tale of the corn maze 2013, so now I present to you…the Face Plant!
I worked tonight, after being off the past four days. Mini vacation! Not really, since my parents were here from before I got home from work Monday until yesterday afternoon. House guests aren’t exceptionally conducive to relaxation, y’know? But Abby loved every minute, especially our traditional Olive Garden dinner. Three years old and already complaining about how her food is prepared–her broccoli was disturbingly squishy, I’ll give her that.
But what I’ve been waiting for was coming back to the mall. Did I tell you they’re filming an episode of Food Court Wars here? Yup. I hadn’t heard of the show before, but the lure of the possibility of being on television drew all kinds this week. When Ian and I pulled into the parking lot this afternoon, we laughed and laughed at the masses in their ‘finery.’ The fashions this season are not, in my opinion, a good look for, well, most of the people around here. Boots and tights and someone save us.
All I wanted was to find out who was cooking what, and it turned out to be some southern-style cookin’ versus a mini-bistro. It smelled pretty good on my way to my kiosk.
What amazes me the most is the length of time they took for renovations: less than two weeks. The former occupant of the bistro’s location had been frying up meat for gyros for years and years. The other spot was a Chick-Fil-A, so I imagine it was much cleaner to start with.
Tonight was the last night of filming and the average Joe taste testing. Half of the food court was roped off for the tasters, and I watched them scamper by excitedly in their assigned groups for over three hours. I didn’t know any of them. I guess my crowd doesn’t care about Food Network.
The noise level crept up and up until it erupted into cheers and applause, only to die off shortly thereafter. Three more rounds of that, and the real hooting and hollering started. My fellow kiosk-minders and I looked at each other and sighed relief. There’s nothing worse than a mall full of people who aren’t spending a penny.
The fifteen minutes of fame were up, and the final bell was ringing. I hope the bistro wins. I’m not a fan of the purple.
This Daily Prompt has been sitting in my inbox for days, waiting for my parents to leave and Ian to go to work so I could tackle it. I chose to go with fiction. And then it got a little longer than I’d planned.
You’ve been kidnapped and given a choice: would you rather be stranded on an island, dropped into an unknown forest, or locked in a strange building?
The last thing I remember of normalcy is reaching the sidewalk in front of my building. I was going to the grocery store to pick up some bread for grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the homemade tomato soup I had simmering on the stovetop. I hope Michael made it home in time to turn the soup off before it evaporated away to nothing and burned into the pot. It’s my favorite Dutch oven. That would be such a pain in the behind to clean up.
If I make it home to clean anything up.
A brown van with no windows screeched to a stop in front of me as I turned left at the bottom of the steps. I shouldn’t have paused, but it had swerved a little at the last second, and I didn’t want to get hit. Crazy drivers, you know? But the sliding door opened, and this person in a hoodie leaned out just far enough to grab my arm and jerk me inside. Then I guess he chloroformed me. If it was a he. I didn’t see. He was wearing a mask, one of those cheap, generic Halloween rubber ones. But he was strong enough to yank me off my feet and into a vehicle.
I don’t know why they picked me; I’m not worth a ransom. No one in my family or circle of friends is fabulously wealthy, so they wouldn’t get a ransom if they tried. But since I’m getting dropped off in the middle of nowhere, I don’t think this is about ransom anyway.
Yes, I know what they’re doing with me. You see, they gave me the choice: stranded on an island, dropped into an unknown forest, or locked in a strange building. It sounds pretty expensive for some kidnapping done for a lark, but who knows? Maybe it’s some new reality show, and I’ll only have to sign a waiver when it’s all over. I’ll keep holding on to that hope.
I woke up in a hotel room. Just a regular old room, two beds, ugly bedspreads, landscape painting over each. They weren’t prints, though, I’ll give them that much. But no signature, so I don’t know who painted them. Maybe my kidnappers. Maybe an elephant with a brush in a zoo.
I guess they were watching me from some hidden camera, because when I started to move around, an electronic voice was piped in through a speaker set on top of the dresser. My first thought was that someone must have seen Saw one too many times, and I was probably in more trouble than I realized. But maybe not. It told me to choose, or the choice would be made for me. I didn’t know what I was choosing, and it didn’t elucidate, so I asked. And I got those three choices. As far as I’m concerned, there was really only one choice–locked in a building. It didn’t say deserted island, so they might have left some food and shelter, and same goes for the forest, but I couldn’t get anything else out of them except a distinctly ominous ‘choose’ no matter what I asked.
I had to pick the building. Buildings aren’t put in the middle of a desert all by their lonesome. They have to be somewhere. Hopefully surrounded by other buildings. Hopefully surrounded by other people who aren’t in on this. Hopefully leading to freedom, and home.
So I wait. I’m still in the room. Nothing has changed, yet. As soon as I said ‘I’ll take the building, please,’ I went to the bathroom, just in case I’d be whisked off immediately. I hate being somewhere and not knowing where I can pee. But that must have been hours ago, and I’m still here. I don’t know how long because the standard-issue hotel room clock/radio is missing. And, of course, my phone.
Oh…someone’s here. The doorknob is rattling, like someone’s unlocking it with a real key. This must be an old place.
But no, no one’s there. The door just swung open, to darkness.
This is my strange building. And I’m trapped in it. I have to find my way out.
I quickly searched the drawers in my room, looking for matches, a lighter, anything. I couldn’t hold out hope for a flashlight, but there it was, in the bottom right dresser drawer. I closed my eyes and prayed for batteries as I hit the switch–success! It’s amazing the things that can cheer you up after the day I’ve had. It’s amazing how quickly unusual becomes the new normal. I laughed to myself, and took my flashlight into the hallway.
As I swept it first right, then left, I noticed that no one was within range of my beam, but that didn’t mean there was no one just a few feet beyond, or hidden behind some secret panel. If someone has enough money to throw around to create this fantasy in real life, surely a few bucks more for a secret panel isn’t too much to believe.
I’ll choose left. I’m right-handed, so left is the illogical choice, right? So maybe that’s the way out.
I feel pretty confident as I walk. It’s definitely an old hotel. There are rooms on both sides of the corridor, numbered in the 400s, so I feel secure in assuming that I’m on the fourth floor. But the carpet’s clean. There isn’t dust or dirt built up on the baseboards. I knelt to check. There’s no peeling paint or missing numbers. Most of all, it doesn’t feel empty.
How many people are in here with me?
Still, silence reigns. The last sound I heard that wasn’t my own was the rattle of the key in my door. It’s almost like the walls are insulated against sound, because surely I’d hear something from one of these rooms. Unless we each got our own floor. Unless I’m the only one to choose building.
Did I make the wrong choice? Are there dozens of strangers partying on a beach somewhere, roasting marshmallows over a campfire somewhere, everyone the best of friends already? Even though I don’t feel alone, am I?
I’ll keep going. I’m down from my starting point of 437 to 404, so there must be an elevator or stairwell right up ahead. Aren’t hotels required to have stairwells at each end of a floor for safety reasons?
Nothing. Not even an elephant-painted landscape. At least I knew there were no obstacles between this end of the hallway and my room. I took a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, calming myself, making ready for disappointment when I reached the same thing at the other end of the corridor.
I’m calm. I’m reasonable. I haven’t heard a thing or felt a breath of air, so I run back to my room, where the light spills out onto the hall carpet from where I’ve left my door open, like any calm, reasonable person would when locked in a strange building.
It isn’t the same room. The ugly Aztec bedspreads are now ugly floral bedspreads, in a completely different color scheme. The landscapes have been replaced by still lifes of fruit and cheese. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what’s going on.
I forgot to breathe for a second. This is crazy. I close my eyes and try another deep breath. I open them. Flowers. Fruit. Cheese. Crap.
Wait. I look at the door–and this isn’t my room. 439. How did they open and close the doors so silently, and without my noticing the light changing behind me? I must have been to focused on my flashlight beam, that’s all. No big deal. This is my hint. This is my sign. This is pointing me in the direction I should have gone.
I step back from the open doorway to room 439 and continue following the increasing room numbers. How long can this hall be? It can’t go any higher than 499, so it can’t be any more than twice as long as the hallway behind me.
451. I turn to see how far I’ve come, and 449 is open behind me. That’s too close. There’s no way I could have missed something like that. The puddle of light from the room is only inches from my feet. I swivel, and lean against the even side of the hallway. I don’t know if I dare to take that one step that would show me what’s inside this room. My confidence is gone, and with it my body heat. I’m suddenly freezing, and my teeth start to chatter as I shiver, so close to the warm, inviting light of 449.
I can’t do it. Someone is messing with me, and I’m getting out. I point my feet back toward my destination, and sweep the flashlight back and forth across the floor as I pick up the pace, not only to warm myself, but to put some distance between my body and that open door of mystery.
But this time I try something else. I raise my fist and beat against the wall once, in frustration. From the sound, I learn something I hadn’t known before. It’s hollow, and metal. I haven’t touched any other walls. I don’t know if it’s just this one, or all of them. Am I trapped in a closed metal box, created only for me? Are the doors controlled from elsewhere?
But still, it feels like there are other people here. I can almost hear them, if I strain hard enough. Breathing behind closed doors. Is someone traveling through hidden passageways to open and close the doors to the other rooms for the sole purpose of causing me unease?
That’s it! It’s a distraction. They’re trying to keep me thinking in a million different directions at once, so that I can’t think my way out. They’re trying to scare me into staying in the corridor. The exit is in one of the rooms!
I turn around again, trying not to show my elation on my face. As I turn, I see the changing patterns of light on the carpet as the door closer to me opens while the farther door closes. I run like I’ve never run before.
Then I stop. Doors are only opening on the odd-numbered side of the hallway. Why aren’t any of the even rooms being opened? I trail my fingers down the wall on that side, and there doesn’t seem to be a space between the door and the frame when I pass the next room. I can’t afford to let them know I’ve had an idea, so how am I going to shine the flashlight on any of those doors without revealing that I’m looking at something specific?
I start swinging the flashlight in a wider arc, sliding up the walls a bit more with each swing. I risk a quick glance at the right moment, and yes! the even wall is solid. The doors aren’t opening because there aren’t any doors, only frames mounted to the wall without an opening inside them.
I hide my elation because the open room is only two doors down now.
When I come to the room, I check the number–463. What if there was a pattern in the room numbers? What if I’d ruined my only chance by exploring up and down this stupid hallway? What if I’m an idiot?
It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. I’ll just investigate 463.
When I enter, the door slams shut, and the lights go out. At least I hadn’t turned my flashlight off, but there goes my theory of a secret passage linking the rooms. There wasn’t anyone in here to close the door or flip the light switch. I reach behind myself to turn them back on, but the switch is now useless. Crap.
I go sit on the nearest bed. Blue bedspread this time, and I tip the flashlight up to show an abstract something-or-other on the wall above. Don’t hotels usually decorate all the rooms the same? At least the linens? Maybe that’s a clue. I lie back, my feet still touching the floor.
As I rest, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, and my stomach rumbles. As quickly as if I’d spoken aloud, the light comes back on, and there’s a knock at the door, followed by a cheerful female voice chirping ‘room service!’ As I bolt upright, the door swings open again, and there’s a shiny metal serving cart in the hallway I’d so recently deserted, holding a plate with a domed lid and a vase containing a single white rosebud. On the bottom shelf of the cart is a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne. This is getting curiouser and curiouser.
What the hell. I shrug and stand up to bring the cart into the room. Should I eat? Should I drink? I muse to myself as I retrieve a plastic cup from the vanity. Again, what the hell. I put the ice bucket on the table and work the cork from the champagne bottle. It pops pleasantly enough, bringing back memories of New Year’s Eves past. I pour, and I’m tickled to find that it’s pink champagne, my favorite. At least whoever is responsible for this stunt did their homework. I take a sip, and it seems alright. I sit and eyeball the lid covering the food and wonder what it conceals. I can almost recognize the smell.
What. The. Hell. It’s my tomato soup. And a grilled cheese sandwich. On my plate. In my bowl. With my spoon. Laid gently on my napkin. Did they raid my kitchen after abducting me? My stomach doesn’t care and makes itself known again. Okay, I’ll eat. Whatever.
It really is my soup. I comfort myself with it, closing my eyes and imagining myself in my own dining room, sitting across from Michael, enjoying dinner together. But I have to open my eyes again eventually, and the dream shatters. I’m still in this stupid ‘hotel room,’ the butt of someone’s stupid joke. I’m not worried about being kidnapped anymore because it’s gone too far. There’s no way all of this is a coincidence.
So I pick up the bowl of hot, delicious tomato soup–and I throw it at the mirror. Thank goodness I love heavy ceramic bowls, huh? I smashed that mirror to a million pieces, and the bowl kept going. There’s empty space behind the mirror, and it’s just become my way out. I switch my flashlight back on as I grab it from the bed and pick up the champagne bottle to use as a club.
The champagne bubbles on the carpet behind me as I leave a trail to the mirror. I shine my flashlight around, and it looks like a stereotypical single-chairred, cement-walled interrogation room from a spy movie. With a normal, open door leading out. I set the champagne bottle on the vanity and grab a towel to cover the bottom of the mirror-hole so I don’t get sliced to ribbons on my way through, then pick the bottle back up when I sit and swing my legs through.
The door is still open, and that’s real daylight shining in. Only five steps to go, and I’m free.
But as I reach the doorway, exit, and take a look around, I realize something.
Sometimes buildings are put in the middle of the desert, all by their lonesome.
- Shout out to the blogger who gave you the award.
- Nominate 5 others bloggers with fewer than 200 followers.
- Answer 10 questions that are given to you by who nominated you.
- Give 10 questions to the bloggers who you are nominating.
And here are my answers to Cheryl’s questions!
- Earrings, bracelets or necklaces? Well, the one piece of jewelry that I always wear is my nose stud, which I rarely change from my standard white CZ. But out of those choices, right now I’ll go with earrings. I do favor bracelets over necklaces now, though.
- What is your favourite song currently? My all-time favorite is Van Halen’s Panama, but I’ve really been feeling Soundgarden’s Burden in My Hand lately.
- How many languages can you speak? Just English. I can ask you what time it is in Vietnamese, but unless it’s 9 o’clock, I won’t understand the answer. I took two years of high school French and a semester of college Spanish, but that’s long gone from my brain.
- Who is your role model? People you never hear about. People who listen to everyone else telling them ‘oh, you’re so smart, you could do so much, blah, blah, blah’ and don’t care, because they’re doing what makes them happy. Or Julia Child. I like her.
- Where do go or what do you do when you are feeling down? I stay in bed. I read. Or I migrate to the couch if no one’s home and watch stupid movies on Netflix. Lots of gory indie movies.
- Movies or dramas? Movies. It’s hard to keep up the good work over a long period of time.
- Which era would you want to live in if you had a choice? Oh, I’m a hippie, through and through. No bras and peace and love and raw food and stuff. And awesome music. Give me the 70s. Although now’s pretty good, too. Interwebs and stuff.
- Did you ever imagine yourself in a wacky hairstyle? Do share :) Yes! I think the only wacky hairstyle that I’ve wanted and haven’t been brave enough to try is a mohawk. I shaved my head with I was 20, and I dyed my hair pink when I was 22 (awesome decision!). And then, of course, I chopped it all off a few months ago for spiky goodness.
- Would you be adventurous enough to be a solo traveller? Definitely! I used to drive cross country by myself to visit mIRC buddies. And to Canada. Granted, once I got where I was going, I wasn’t solo, but half the fun is the trip there, like 3500 miles to Yellowknife.
- Are you a left or right brainer? I’m a lefty, so right-brained, right? I’d say 70/30 right/left. My arty/moody side definitely beats out the fact that I can plus and times real good, and I have a badass sense of direction. I’ve never been lost. Which side is that? I’ll stick with 70/30. Although, isn’t my use of ratio an indicator of left-braininess? Or is my use of the word ‘braininess’ an indication of rightness? I could go on for days. No, wait, I’ve got it. I sew, but I don’t measure. I eyeball it. That’s right-brained, for sure.And it drives my mom and my sister crazy.
Now the part I always hate. Singling other people out. That must be a remnant of the dread I used to feel in school. Please don’t call on me. I know that answer is wrong and my answer is right, but please don’t make me stand up in front of all these people and point it out. Oh, why do we have to read aloud? Eek!! That dread. Okay, I pick:
- Tigger from Lifes Little Reflections.
- SRB from veggie sausages.
- ozifrog from maybe baby, J-man, & the adventures of hub-in-boots.
- SM from Unexplained Rantings.
- Rice Cakes & Redemption.
And their questions:
- What is the best meal ever, and does it have to be a specific person preparing it?
- Why do you blog?
- What was your favorite toy or game as a child?
- Do you use the snooze button or hit the ground running?
- Is a gift card (not requested) an acceptable gift? Defend your answer.
- If you could change your name with no hassle, would you? To what?
- Do you lock your door only at night or when home alone as well? If you have to lock your door at all.
- Would you like to live on a farm for a year? What kind of farm?
- What’s your favorite word?
- Do you think work uniforms are necessary, or are people capable of doing their job just as well in any presentable outfit of clothing? ‘Presentable’ in this case meaning no rips or tears, reasonably well fitted, and clean.
Any and all others are of course welcome to answer! I’d love to read even more answers to these questions.