Who said it's been five weeks?

Mean blogger.com...showing me I haven't posted in five weeks. I remember writing my last post like it was yesterday, or the last sane day I had before finals.
Then the cold came. It was so cold my cats were shivering in the house, my turtle went into hibernation...and so did I. I didn't move for at least two weeks except for from my bed to my computer, which is only five steps. Walking anywhere else in my house would have exposed my feet to the icy conditions of my hard-wood floors.
One day I was fortunate enough to be invited over to my friend's house for a LAN party (for those of you not an uber-dork, a LAN (Local Area Network) party is a bunch of dorks who unplug their huge desktop computers, haul it to their friends, plug them back in, and then begin to annihilate each other in a mass free-for-all of one game or another.)
Not only was my friend's house a comfortable 70 degrees, but he loaned me the game of the evening, Warhammer: Soulstorm.

This game would go on to steal my soul, consume my winter break, and save me from the cold.
So what else have I been up to, you ask? I had a lovely Christmas with my little sister, played in the snow (for 10 minutes, I hate the cold!), and then finished my break caring for my ill husband, who is suffering from a bad case of Pnuemonia and Bronchitis.
And now, my readers, I too, have this same illness. Lucky, lucky me. On the upside, laying around at home, too sick to even play games, I think I'll have some time to write.
Blessing sometimes come in small, germ-covered packages.

"It's just so....sad"

I think I may have managed to get my extra GPA point in photography this term. My metaphorical self-portrait managed to get quite a response from my instructor and classmates. Some said it was a broken childhood, others said it was merely a favorite worn object from the past, nothing more. What do you think?

I'm not sure, either. I threw it together in 30 seconds on my way out the door the morning the project was due. On a whim I decided I wasn't comfortable with the 200 other photos I had shot, and just had to try one more thing. Maybe that is what makes art an expression, seperate from logic and thoughts.

Neighbors, spiders, and feeding your cat cereal

First it was losing a diamond out of my ring, then it was caressing a spider (you don't want to know...), followed by a visit from my parents. Then finding myself outside at 7am in the freezing cold, with a migraine, helping the neighbor I barely know break into her own house after her son locked the house, and car, keys in the car. Whoops!
It's really an akward way to meet someone, standing in your pajamas in the cold: No bra, mascara under my eyes and my short hair sticking out in every direction, looking like some kind of lost Calvin Klein "heroin chic" ad from the 90's.
A tried to make some kind of conversation, but could only babble randomly, still lost in my dream, where I was...
1. Warm.
2. In my home.
3. In my bed.
Since this was obvious it was too akward and I ended up wandering back to the comfort of my own home.
To top it off, my cats were out of food. And it's safe to say I was out of money. So I fed them Rice Krispies. One cat likes Cheerio's, so I was hoping he would go for the Rice Krispies as well. Beggars can't be choosers. It wasn't like I was excited about my breakfast, either.

P.S. I DID go out and buy my two cats food later that day. I'm not THAT cruel. I, on the other hand, am still eating Rice Krispies.

Just another maggot Monday

When I wrote my blog on Globophobia, I mentioned that things rarely go right for me. It's more like I am constantly confronted with irony. Terrible, yet strangely funny irony. Well, today's horrible ironic moment came way too early, and was way too traumatizing to be funny. At least for a long time.
So the other day I hand-washed my boucle sweater and laid it out flat to dry. Just like any other laundry week. Now, as a disclaimer (and in my own defense...), my house is clean. I like a tidy home, and spend more time than I should cleaning it.
Soooo....when I saw something white against the deep blue of my sweater I figured it was an unnoticed tuft of cat hair, a feather, or some other random piece of fluff. But no!
Do you know what it was!? Do you know? It was a big, fat, disgusting MAGGOT. Oh, yes. I barely knew what it was because I hadn't seen one since accidentally digging up my dead rat when I was a child. But there it was, inching it's fat body out of the knitting of my pretty blue sweater. I had to withhold my gag reflex as I tried to remove my sweater without taking my eyes of that gooey white thing.
So, WTF? Really! As I sat on my bed, in shock, I started to believe in God again as I decided there was not any possible way for something like that to be in my home, let alone inside my sweater. He had to be having a good laugh at my expense.
I feel gross. Really, really gross. I had to take another shower, and I still have the creepy-crawlies. Plus, now I am out a pretty blue sweater. It'll be awhile before I can where it again. But can you blame me? Ewwww.....

Leave Sarah Palin alone, Republicans

I really don't like Sarah Palin. Everyone who knows me knows that. However, now that the election is over, and she will not be our next VP, it's time to let her go home to Alaska and slip back into relative anonymity.
She is not to blame for the loss of the election, entirely. That's why I feel bad for the poor woman. No, she's not that bright. No, she was not qualified for the job. But do staff members really have to call her a "hillbilly," and spread stories about Palin in a towel to the press?
No, of course not. Republican's, you chose her. You touted her to be the best person for the job. You sent her across the country with her scripted speeches and partisan tactics. Now take the blame for it, and stop blaming your pretty actress. Every one of her tactics were yours. In the nine weeks Palin was part of the ticket, she did not re-write the rules book for you. But now that you have lost, you want someone to blame so that you don't have to blame yourselves. Poor Sarah Palin, the party scapegoat. I wonder if now she will also realize how much she was used by you, and then thrown away.
I'm not the only one to say this:
See what CNN's Campbell Brown wrote in her commentary this morning,
Conservative columnists have this to say:

Pretty sad if you ask me.

Will you respect me in the morning?

Who knows? But I know I met a lot of sore losers last night that I can't respect this morning.
McCain, I respect you, and always have. I just don't agree with you. You ran a tough campaign against an admirable opponent. You have a career to be proud of and will be remembered as a good politician.
Sarah Palin, I never respected you, and never will. Go back to Alaska and take your $150,000 wardrobe with you.
But the people that took the big hit in esteem from me were the people I watched the election with. No pro-Obama excitement allowed. Plenty of anti-Obama rhetoric to go around. The few of us who cared begging to turn the much-anticipated projector on and the volume UP so we could actually hear what was going on. The mood was so pissy once it was obvious Obama was the winner. It was oppressive.

Oh, and Obama's victory speech? I didn't hear it. I had to wait until the men finished a round of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Nintendo games. And then they didn't turn up the volume. All to a chorus of making fun of me for being interested.
"It's only history." They sullenly said.

And so the few of us with any sense and the freedom to go home left to at least catch the clips that would be playing throughout the night. Bullshit. I got robbed of my election excitement.
I would have listened to McCain's acceptance speech had he been American's choice. I like history. I like seeing history made. I'm also not a sore-loser. Even the hard-core republican's I watched the 2004 election with watched it 'till the end.
Lesson learned: In 2012 I'll be throwing the party.

Look, Mom! I went to a journalism conference!

Last Saturday I was fortunate enough to go to the Society of Professional Journalists conference in Eugene, Ore. I was eager to go, knowing I would learn something essential to my career. Plus, I really wanted to check out the UofO campus.
Unfortunately, the early hours of the first meeting left me with my head nodding, and the only thing that could keep my focus was former Senatorial candidate Steve Novick's tiny, tiny feet swinging in the air.

He's short. Really, really short. I had to try not to marvel at him extreme tininess, and how people fawned all over his squat little frame. To be fair, I voted for Novick in the primaries, I like him. I just had no idea he was practically a midget. I think I like him more now. Especially because watching his feet swing a foot above the air as he sat across from me was hilariously amusing.

By noon I was fully functional and eagerly listening to a panel of freelance journalists. I was disappointed to learn that I would probably have to get a real job if I wanted to solely freelance. I can't work a real job. It will kill me. But hopefully I can be a reporter and freelance on the side.
All in all, every speaker loved their job, and loved writing. That is the kind of career I am looking for. I found Saturday to be reaffirming, and a good deal of fun.

On bras and breast cancer

Last week was so exciting I nearly peed my pants. Daily.
By the time Wednesday morning arrived, I woke up early, and took off to school. I had to see how my first cover design printed.
There it was, glowing like a beacon of pink and red, the paper was on full display.
I was still a little shy about a bra, my bra, on the cover, and worried about why people would think.
"What if the distributor is a prude and places them upside down?" I had worried all week.
But there it was, and the rack below was already empty. I focused my eyes on what I was seeing, my pink bra was everywhere! My bra passed me in the hall, the bathroom, on the stairs, in the elevator. My bra graced the back table of my journalism class as I walked in. "Glorious," I thought, "Truly glorious."
I knew the cover had done it's job. People were reading our newspaper, and most importantly, they were reading the valuable information on breast cancer inside. I hope this issue informs even one more person.
And, for every day this week, I get to see unknown men man-handle my bra.

It's called globophobia, thank you very much

So recently my up-beat female co-worker decided to redecorate our office. Streamers criss-crossed throughout the room, and moody dark Halloween balloons were taped to each computer moniter. A standard decorating job to celebrate the holiday.
But not to me. As soon as I walked through the door my eyes saw one thing: BALLOONS. They were everywhere. They were taped to my desk. What this some kind of sick joke? I looked around for my sisters, sure that they had told everyone my secret, traveled hundreds of miles, and set this up.
But no, everything was as usual to everyone else.
"Perhaps they won't notice my ghostly palor and deer-in-headlights look the next few days..."
I told myself, having decided to just keep it a secret and hope for the best.
Things rarely work out for the best for me, and so within minutes my editor had grabbed a balloon, began rubbing it, and then threatened to pop it.
It was over. I assumed the fetal position and covered my head, waiting for the inevitable burst of the balloon popping.
It didn't come. What did come was the hilarious laughter as everyone figured out my little secret: I'm terrified of balloons. Yep, it's called globophobia, thank you very much, and I can't help it. Balloons make me squirm, they are like nails on chalkboard, only worse because with balloons you get the anxiety of them popping. But after years of my older sister terrorizing me with balloons, I have a full-blown neurotic fear of those latex bastards.
Thanks to the World Wide Web, I found numerous message boards full of people with the same horrible fear as mine. Apparently, as funny as it is, it's also somewhat common. Globophobics unite!
Can't think of anyone you know whose afraid of balloons? How about Oprah Winfrey? I remember watching her show years ago, feeling sane for the first time because she too, is terrified of balloons. Her entire staff knows not to decorate with balloons if she will be there. And, like the staff in my office, they found out after generously decorating with them.
Fortunately for me, the balloons came down in the office and my co-workers were kinder than I expected. In other words, I wasn't chased around with a balloon and needle like my sister used to do. I think humans might be nicer than I expect...

I want to see Religulous, too!

I was so excited to find out Bill Maher had made a movie, and one about my favorite subject (besides hating Sarah Palin), at that.

Off I went to www.regmovies.com, the home page for the only major movie provider in my region, Regal Cinemas. I happily clicked on the link to the movie, watched the trailer with some friends, and entered my zip code to get the movie times in my area...

......And Regal thinks everyone wants to see Beverly Hills Chihuahua.

Regal Cinemas has a bad habit of not playing anything but the the most inane, simple-minded crap produced. I remember when Larry the Cable Guy played for almost two months here, but in the meantime quality films and documentaries fell by the way-side.

And here we go again with Religulous. I have heard a lot of people talking about this film, wanting to see it, and having no alternative but to drive an hour or more to the nearest theater with an open mind.

To be fair, I called Regal and asked about the film. Of course, the little Albanians with their feeble minds couldn't even figure out what film I was talking about. And then, when they did finally get their only two brain cells to connect, they said, "I don't know."

Maybe this back-water conservative town just can't handle a different view-point, or at least one they probably don't agree with. The people made fun of in Religulous are probably the type of people that live in this town and manage the local theater.

I think it's time to move.

The sex offender next door

I always knew there was something strange about the man next door. Rarely seen outside, he was the kind of recluse the neighborhood kids whispered stories about, daring each other to run into his barren yard. On the occasion he would emerge, they would run away, eyes huge and frightened, into the safety of their homes.
I admit I was equally frightened by this man. Like the children, my fear was based on gut instinct, a deep and lingering fear with no cause or explanation. My husband felt the same, warning me first of his feelings and asking me not to go inside the man’s house if invited.
His was an easy request to agree to, and I took it a step further by never walking past his house to my mail box when he was home. I didn’t want the creep to talk to me, or even, in my worst fears, kidnap me and drag me into his home. I tried to tell myself that my fears were irrational, mean, and even unfair. This man could be really nice, and completely innocent, and yet I was worried about him harming someone.
Fueled by my suspicions, and a $100,000 reward offered by Oprah for information leading to the capture of sex offenders, I began to search for records on my neighbor. Heck, I figured this might be my chance, even calling, to take a criminal off the streets and pay for college at the same time.
I searched through the Oregon Sex Offender Registry, local criminal records, police reports, all to no avail. The man had no record. But still, the feeling would not go away. What if the man was a criminal who had never been caught? What if he just wasn’t on the registry?
I continued my search for information, asking the neighbor kids about their experiences with him.
“I hate him, he’s horrible,” one child told me.
At that moment, the man appeared from his house, watching us from his front porch. The children turned quiet, even cold. In the hot summer sun these children were shivering.
The same child then looked up at me with frightened eyes and what looked like glistening tears, and told me that he “bothered them,” and that he “asked the girls on the street to hold up their shirts.”
Finally I had the information I was looking for. I knew children did not show fear like that unless they had a reason.
Down the street I went, talking to parents to see if they had heard the same stories from their children, and warning them of the potential danger. Every parent agreed that they had the same feelings I had, but without a cause, they had no reason to be too suspicious.
It wasn’t long after that the man next door was gone and his house for sale. Then the police knocked at my door. Someone had reported the man for a sexual offense, and he was a long-wanted sex offender who had managed to avoid being on the registry. Now he was missing.
I immediately thought of the ominous feelings I had, and of the children down the street. I hoped it was not one of them who had fallen prey to such evil.
Later that night I sat down and thought about all that had happened.
My husband, the neighborhood children, and I had been right about my neighbor. In our society we are taught to be nice to everyone, to not assume the worst, and to not pre-judge. Paired with my suspicions had always been guilt for thinking something so bad about someone I barely knew. Now I am glad I had those suspicions, thankful for the thousands of years of built-in instincts that protected not only myself, but the handful of children that live on my street. I was glad that they had listened to their fears, not worried about judging someone else, and had been forthright in the information they gave. Being polite is one thing, but learning to trust what our mind and body tells us is one of the most important lessons a anyone can have. I am glad the children learned it well, and mostly that that man is out of my neighborhood, and hopefully soon to be behind bars.

Don't pander to women, woman!

Alright, Sarah Palin, stop with the chick talk. Last night I heard her say in a speech, "The heels are on and the gloves are off!"
I had to run to the bathroom for fear of being sick.
Being a woman doesn't mean talking about your high heels, lipstick, or posing for Vogue.
Being a woman is about self-respect, strength, virtue, and breaking glass-ceilings.
The Republican campaign seems to think women are impressed by the former. Well, maybe some are. But I would like to hope the Republicans can go for more than just the stupid vote.
Intelligent women in American are looking for a strong leader, not one who references quotes off her Starbucks cups during her speeches. Not a beauty queen who can't string a single intelligent sentence together during an interview, and certainly not one who can't take a bit of the blame for it.
Republican's seem to think the second woman with a chance at the presidency (because we all know Hillary was first this election) can only talk about being a hockey mom, babies, and what it says on her coffee cup... "I'm reading on my Starbucks mocha cup, okay?..."
Instead Sarah Palin is pandering to weak-minded women, and insulting the rest of us with more than two brain cells rubbing together.
So stop pandering to these women, and talk about some real issues, woman!

My second post!

I like tacos.
I can't dance or sing.
I can play the flute, piano, sax, and many more.

www.lbcommuter.com