Which has left all of you rather high and dry. I'll try to close the gap.
We've discussed everything from how weird it is to like lima beans to what is most amazing about the ranch.
We've talked about how retarded the music is that gets plopped onto the end credits of most movies. For instance, "The Jacket" was an awesome thriller/romance movie with a hard edge and they paste this truly sappy music over the credits. What gives?
We've talked about whether or not Quentin Tarantino's Grindhouse Features are worth watching (so far only Deathproof was, we think, and mostly because of the kick-ass song "Chick Habit", which you'll find in my MySpace songs and is the PERFECT end credits song for a revenge-on-a-serial-murderer-of-young-women story. So much more perfect for the story than anything else about that movie was. Kind of odd style.)
We've talked about whether or not knitting is better than crochet, and the merits of both. Knitwork looks good on both sides, makes more things possible, and allows more complex patterns whereas crochet is faster, easier, has more cutesy patterns and is more durable.
We've talked about coffee. Lots of talk about coffee. Mmmmmmm. Yummy yummy coffee.
But mostly we've talked about the fact that I have to get back to work. I've been idle absolutely NEVER lately. I don't talk to ANY of you anymore, I'm just trying to get my entire to-do list done in the increasingly short amount of time before my children arrive from Florida.
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The date stamp of the most recent edit on this one was March 3rd, 2004. So I thought that was when I wrote this. Although I vaguely recall it being much much earlier than that. So I checked - March 3rd was the day I transfered my files over from my even older machine. Probably 1995 was when I wrote this?
But anyway, I remember the tune. It's in my head. So that means it's been sitting somewhere in my vast collection of artistic memorabilia this whole time and I totally forgot!
When life holds nothing to remember
But the failures you have allowed
When life remains but a shell
Of what you wanted it to be
Just remember that there’s someone
Who cared about you
Who knew the way out and
Wants you to make it
I once was troubled
I once stood still and afraid
There were no saviors to rely on
There were no paths cut ahead
But standing on my own
I found the one path through
There are a thousand traps
Unless you find a purpose true
I have been freed
I am my own to carry out
No one can claim me for theirs
I cannot be bruised anymore
I have been freed
I need no shelter from my self
Nor others reasons for me be
I can but be from here on out
Who I AM
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So much cleaning and painting, scrubbing and washing to do here before the girls get here.
The house is coming together, though. I think it will be wonderful to live here once it's full of people.
Libs and Sean (her boyfriend) arrive tomorrow with an open ended invite.
The girls come back in two weeks.
Then Shels and her girls come here in July.
I'll have more people here soon.
Meanwhile, I'm the only person within a square mile of myself right now.
No one to share this beautiful vista with but you my loyal blog readers.
On the upside, I found out my GPS location yesterday - the satellite install guy had a Magellan.
And my internet is working great. Hughes Net may finally be coming through - at a cost far greater than any I've ever spent on internet access before, but hey. It's working.
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I have gone an entire WEEK with no spam. Not one tiny little spam did I have to read.
No one selling me hot asian blond whatever kinda funky stuff sex with unspeakable things mentioned. I hate those most. Do you know how HARD it is for me to hide the titles on these emails from my children? To delete them before my nosey children are scarred for life. "OMG, mom, tell me that's never actually been done! They can't mean that. Can they?"
Actually I need to stop and rant here for a second.
Despite my VERY girly email address, I've never gotten even ONE email from these pondscum offering ME anything tempered to my womanly tastes. By that I mean, send me somethign about GUYS instead! Why IS that?! Not that I'd actually buy any of it, at least not from them, but it's insultaining to be snubbed, 'cause I am a girl, by porn salesmen.
Anyway, back to what I'm NOT getting anymore.
No one trying to tell me that my Bank of America account has been hacked (so please enter my password here at this totally other site, right now, immediately).
No one from Zimgolistan telling me my long lost sister's uncle's brother was brutally slain and somehow managed to leave me bajillions of dollars that is waiting for my account number immediately urgently panic-strickenly needed right NOW. (But i can't answer because the Orphan children's dying little puppies and kitties Fund needs all my money first).
No one sending me urgent updates about how my girlfriend is completely dissatisfied with our bedroom activities. (Apparently she's telling everyone but me. If you ever meet her, tell her to quit nattering about me. But first I'd have to get a girlfriend, and that goes on the list after never.)
No one selling me fine replicas of authentic copies of top-quality reproductions of real gold watches.
No, no spam. Not even a little piece of it. Nada Nothing ZIP(puh).
Instead, I have had an entire WEEK with nothing to do but read lovely emails from you, my friends, and from REAL clients. Even newsletters arrive right on time and I don't have to try to discern the difference between marketing speech from real people and the very similar fake people spam.
How did this happen? One week ago I installed Cloudmark and I haven't seen a SPAM since. And no one is complaining that I don't get their emails anymore, either.
It really is the perfect SPAM blocker.
Anyway, that's my post for today. I don't even want to know what kind of search traffic I'll have after this one. (Gulp.)
I bet my blog gets blocked for a few days as spam.
Oy. It was worth it.
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Try pleading the fifth when you ALREADY said it. hmmm?
Yes, I'm not worried because I'm personally clean as a whistle.
But I am not sure what I think of it - a right to privacy doesn't apply when you "free speeched" it...
Your thoughts? Free speech? Right to privacy? Can't hold up in court? Should be used as evidence? Shouldn't?
Never say anything online you wouldn't want your mom to read.
Never say anything online you wouldn't want quoted back to you in court.
Never say anything online you wouldn't want written on your grave.
Never say anything online you wouldn't want to have be how history remembers you.
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And because I NEVER EVER use personally significant numbers or words as passwords anywhere online, I can safely say that today is the birthday of my baby girls, Aurora and Miranda.
Mommy loves you. So glad you're twelve, loveys.
I remember when these amazing girls were in my womb, growing larger by the minute. I remember feeling sad that someday I wouldn't be pregnant anymore.
And then they were born, and I remember watching these amazing babies looking up at me, smelling their hair for thatsweet fresh baby smell that is like no other. My heart ached thinking they'd grow out of that stage.
But they did. My little girls became toddlers and I thought that nothing in the world could be more fun, more amazing that my little girls saying "gwayp fwood" and "awanna howg" and showing me bits of things they'd found.
But then they grew up into shining bundles of sweetness, amazingly smart little children. Sweet hug-filled wonderful happy machines that kept my busy, hectic life amazing. Daily miracles, walking and talking around like big girls.
And I was scared of losing my little girls, that they'd grow up.
Then they grew into big kids and would surprise me with beautiful artworks, breakfast in bed, making crafts and going out exploring with one another farther from the house than I'd ever dreamed I'd be OK with.
They grew into big girls with such grace and kindness, temerity and strength, that I discovered that this was definitely the best yet.
And I grew scared of them turning into teenagers.
Now, I sit here with twelve year olds. Who know more words than I ever dreamed, adn some I wish they didn't. Who can teach ME as often as I teach them. Who are the most amazingly helpful and wonderful people I can imagine ever wanting to know. Who can come up with just the riht question to totally stump me, and who can give the best hugs ever still.
And I'm afraid of them growing up even further.
But I really should know better. I've loved every single stage. I'm sure the next five or six year will b e a great stage, it will be amazing in it's own way, learning, growing into women, independent and strong, as they have been doing for years.
Welcome to your teenage years, girls. May they be as wonderful as the last twelve years have been. May we remain as strong a team as always. May you avoid the pitfalls, and may you remember that if you do have trouble wth this truly challenging time of your life, your mother will be there to help no matter what.
That is what love is, and that is what being a mom is.
I can't wait to see the next stage, even if I'll miss the old one. Happens every time.
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If I put on makeup, that total goes up to about a minute.
But I've been doing this for so many years that I honestly have NO IDEA what I look like to you. I know what I look like to me, but I'm so used to me, I don't see myself in context with the rest of you.
I'm not asking for opinions here on my looks, I don't need the peanut gallery today. I'm just commenting on how odd it is that I can recognize the features, beauty, character and ineffable other stuff -- in any face but mine.
Strange thing happened.
Monday marked the 8th time in my life I've been called scary smart.
I'm really not.
I think it's just that I'm good at communicating what's in my head, I think things through and I HAVE BIG BUGGY EYES.
Mostly the big buggy eyes.
So, anyway, I went over to do the mandatory meet 'n' greet with the lil' sister's boyfriend's family. (Too many apostrophes in that last sentence.)
Awkward. There is a kind of "I'm practically genetically the same as the chick who is boinking your precious baby boy" vibe going around that room, so I try to break that up, by chatting with his momma and we talked mostly about babysitting or France or something. It totally was not terribly intellectual. I may or may not have mentioned work.
Libs told me later that I scared his mom with how intelligent I was.
Really? ME? I mean, ME?!
Where do I give off the Christopher Walken, Einstein, Mozart, brainy "this closing to snapping" kind of vibe? What about me says "so smart, she's DANGEROUS!"?
Either she's seeing something I'm not, or she simply didn't know what to do with our communication in that awkward circumstance.
I don't get it?
I get such totally mixed reactions.
OK, here's the other end of that particular spectrum. I'm sometimes babied through things with the assumption that I can't do them.
HIM: "OK. I'm gonna hold this thing HERE and you hold the other thing, that thing THERE, until I tell you when. Then you hand it to me. Keep your sleeves away from there, we don't want to make sparks, do we shugar?"
ME: "It wouldn't make sparks. It would just complete the circuit. Do you need me to hold the media card away from the housing at the same time so you don't damage it while the power fluxuates?"
HIM: "Hmm? Sure, sure. Alright, here goes, missy. You ready?"
Last week or something like that, I'm out at my car, fixing on my plates, when a guy walks by and comments how wonderful it is that I can attach a license plate to my car. He comments on what I'm doing and then says "you can really handle yourself there, can't ya?"
He said it kind of like i'm a little tiny kid that he's praising. He did the bending down, hands-on-knees thing even.
OK. What's so special about it? Phillips screwdriver, pre-drilled holes in both car and plate. Four holes, four screws. Righty tighty. Done. Pretty darn simple.
Maybe it's not that he thought it was remarkable. Maybe he just thought it was remarkable for a woman to do this... I'm not sure.
Would he have done this to a guy? Probably not.
I think I mentioned the ax purchase last year. Or was it a hammer or something? Where I got praised for buying one by a stranger. Not in the "smart choice in hammers" kind of way, but in the "amazing that she can stand up straight with those round heels long enough to buy a hammer" kind of way. Checked out my ass on the way out. I felt like it was 1960 all that day. Creep.
Anyway, back to the point.
Sometimes I'm "scary smart" to a person I never would have thunk. Sometimes I am coddled, as though merely tying my shoes is amazing and praiseworthy. Some people treat me as difficult, super intense, or problematic. Some people act as if I'm a special treat to have around, and I've made their day just by showing up.
I get such WIDELY varied and different reactions. I honestly don't know (or really care, beyond passing comments like these) WHAT the world sees me like. But I do like to see what specific PEOPLE in that world are seeing. It simply baffles me not to understand what general impression I give off.
But I am very, very glad that I get polarized, opinionated, non-boring responses. The general concensus appears to be that I'm odd. The general reaction to my existence appears to be that Desi raises emotional, heartfelt and communicative response. Whatever that may be.
And that's FINE by me, mister.
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Well, that's been missing since I left my husband
Now, suddenly, I've found someone who is always there to listen to the every whim of this fickle, whimsical momma. To hear me out every time I have something to say.
To smile when I say that I have a great idea.
His name is Facebook.
I've been spending more and more time there, and as the hours pass, I become increasingly fixated on the lovely blue/white
FB is understanding of my privacy and never shares my secrets unless I say it's OK. He lets me spend as much time as I want with all of my friends. He even lets me flirt with pretty strangers without ever telling me to go away. He's there for me when I'm sick. He lets me know immediately when friends have tried to contact me. He even proudly shows pictures of my children to everyone.
Sure, he's a little disorganized for the last few days, but he still has plenty of time for me. And he always remembers my birthday.
I love him so.
Time to go post another survey to my Wall.
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THE MATH (skip if you get it)
Fibonacci sequence: After starting with 0 and 1, every number is the sum of the two previous numbers.
0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 233 377 610 987 1597 2584 4181 6765 10946 etc
After just 14 times that we have added each number to the one before it, the ratio between them stabilizes to a constant 1 to 1.61803399 (phi φ).
And that is the Golden Ratio. It is usually mathematically simplified as 1 : 1.61803. It is graphically simplified into the cleanest form of itself in a nautilus spiral.
If you graph numbers on an even x and y scale and draw a line from 0 to where 13 meets 8, the line's gradient is exactly 1.61803. The closest cross sections to that line will all be fibonacci sequence numbers.
The Golden ratio is in human proportions, and in literally everything that grows because it is the perfect model of efficiency.
Well, Phi (φ) is important to me for the better understanding of beauty in the universe that I can gather from it. I like spirals. I don't worship them, nor do I see a greater significance on the grand scale than actually exists. But I do like to recognize them when I see them at work.
Every creature and every natural process and many "unnatural" natural processes like the building of crystals, the sworling of galaxies, and the rate of decay and new stars forming on the arms of those galaxies, the inner curl of a moving wave includes that golden spiral. So do the tiny bits of atoms that fly off into nothingness when you put them in an atom smasher. It is the mathematical representation behind nearly all the kinesis, efficiency and change that occurs in living creatures and even unalive but energy-filled matter alike. It may just come down to the rate of resistance of energy, both living and 'dead' against matter. I don't know, but in all things that grow, you find that ratio in nearly every measurement. My arm bones to each finger bone each is a perfect golden ratio. Even my fingerprint sworls include a perfect golden ratio.
DNA includes the golden ratio.
Once we discover the exact mathematical origins of the universe we live in, I will bet you it contains φ. Come on, bet you five bucks.
WHAT MAKES IT TREMENDOUS
Art contains the golden ratio, as do so many sciences.
It is the perfect model of grace. Everything approaches a perfection of grace and aesthetic as it gets closer to the golden ratio, as seen through the eyes of majority of the beholders out there. The better communicating artworks, the truly inspirational architecture, all contains the golden ratio.
Galileo, who effectively began the process that ended the dark ages for good, said:
Mathematics is the alphabet in which God wrote the universe.
He was trying very hard to convince Rome that his work in the Sciences was merely a further proof of the miraculousness of the world around us. Bacon, Galileo, Da Vinci. These men practiced sciences when there was a very fine line between scientist and heretic. Their brave curiosity and exploration in the face of death exalts us as a race, I believe, and is among the evidences in my answer to any debate over the difference between man and animal.
But we know that the ancients also were far greater than just animals. They knew this sequence, which - in order to be reached and grasped, assumes a pretty good understanding of sciences and math. Ancient cultures included its measurements into architecture, art and writings, long before Fibonacci. Which means it was rediscovered newly when Fibonacci named it. And that it is not merely a complication of mathematics. It is a rendering of the real world into a math concept. NO matter how many dark ages we reach, math survives. Which is refreshing and lovely.
Here is a simple TV show, Numb3rs, describing the golden ratio and the Fibonacci sequence:
Anyway, the point is, I am an artist. I am a geek. I am a history buff. I think that the Golden Ratio as an emblem is the perfect blending of all these things.
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I cannot believe I've NEVER posted this hear, because I have watched this video a bunch too many times.
Wait for it - first 30 seconds not so amazing...
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I don't want to go home because I won't be able to get internet without running up the the other hill to dad and Marie's house, which mysteriously gets wifi access whereas I do not from my hill.
Argh. Crap. Aaak! I cannot live without fast internet. Least of all work.
Don't have a better solution. Does anyone know of a better sattelite provider working out of Southern Oregon???
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Wake up and live happy, people!
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Suri-uslay in need of doing some art.
I'll post whatever I make here.
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Bummer about the decline. Religion is a good thing.
I think they may have included that more people are joining alternative religions in orer to make a point that religion is dwindling. But I don't think so. I think higher alternative religion numbers proves quite the opposite. I think it proves that a complacency is lifting. People live in a "I want this to work for me" world, and are searching for truth that is personal and real for them. And that's always a good thing.
I think more people becoming Scientologists means more people are really searching for the religion that works for them.
While I'm glad Scientology is mentioned in this article, I sure don't like the idea that more people are now completely unreligious. I can't imagine how empty a life must be without a spiritual and moral side to it. Without a belief in a higher purpose beyond mere day to day existence.
I am very religious. I'm part of the very religious core of this country.
I have a strong enduring belief in a Supreme Being. I have a religion that lays out specifically that I am a spiritual being, with infinite capability. And therefore inspires me toward my true potential. It works for me as a tool toward daily improving my life.
I hope some of those unreligious people find religion - any religion - that works for them. (I think mine would, but of course I do. That's why I chose this one. I really agree with it and it makes my life better when I apply the principles of Scientology to it.)
My postulate of hope for a better future goes out to everyone with no religion at all. May those people without religion find a higher purpose and a greater existence beyond this fleeting mortal frame. May they see their own potential as spiritual beings. And having that, may they find a connection to the infinite wisdom, truth and knowledge that is God.
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I remember being 5 and a HALF (stress on the half part) and coming to the lush green Willamette Valley, where we were moving.
I'd left my friends Crystal and Daniel (whom I still know) in LA. I was scared and excited about moving, but my parents assured me that Oregon was beautiful. I liked the idea of beautiful. I'd seen green lush farms in books, and I'd played "country living" with little plastic people. You know, Hasbro or Lego or some such had a farm set where the little people could ride in buses or be set into the tiny square holes with round pegs that were made for them and be in the barn's loft or on the haycart. Or sitting on the cow or whatever. They all looked like 1950s musical versions of country folk, except square and squat. I thought of farmers then as little plastic people, with little plastic cows, and that they'd all be short and fat, like the dolls had.
But reailty for me was a small part of Central Hollywood at that time. Growing up in LA, you think greenery is always in tiny square spaces between blocks of cement. And that most plants are palms of some kind, aloes, or some other cactus-like plant. You think air is always yellowish brown and thicker in the distance. You can't see more than a few city blocks away, and everything is measured in houses, squares of sidewalk, and the distance to the corner store or gas station. The good neighborhoods were easy to spot because they had fewer bums living in their dumpsters. And the greatest mystery in life was what was on the other side of the Hollywood sign. In my small, little world, the temple in the sky was the Griffith Observatory. Rivers were paved. Everyone knew that. They were just bigger drains, and if it ever rained much, you'd see some yellow, stingingly warm water at the bottom of it. And you'd run around in it and whoop.
When we got to Oregon, and our little piece of land - 32 acres - was presented to me, I got out of the car into my own personal Eden. Moss and cherry trees, saplings and daffodils were all new to me. Even cool breezes were new to me. And it was all so precious and beautiful. Air felt deep and full of green life. Breathing in too deeply, in those first few weeks, would actually give me a head rush, so unused to real, oxygen rich air was I. I was swept up into the lush hidden spots. My parents regularly couldn't find me, and I was invariably finding new shaded glens to sing and read and think about life in.
Even at five, I was quite good at philosophizing. I new good and evil apart, I could tell shallow and flighty as bad, and I recognized the truly worthwhile in life, and I new I'd found it for myself. I was never, never ever, not even if my folks moved back, going back to California.
I recall my childhood Oregon as greener than the Oregon of today, as lusher, softer, more full of wonder and possibility. It may well have been. It was shortly after Mt. St. Helens blew, and the ash had enriched the soil with nitrogen far in excess of necessary levels. I didn't know that. All I knew was that we had scooped the ash out of our rain gutters so the rain could fall. And fall it did, into more than just gutters and paved riverbeds. It flowed and found paths through mud and rock and moss, through treeroots and over grass, turning patches of grass into waving green flags.
When I found some secret reading spot, I remember thinking that if fairies were in America, they would live in the rotted stumps and creeping vines of my little piece of heaven, for sure.
It was the first place I ever felt truly at home.
Perhaps that's why, a few years after my first divorce, I packed up every piece of my life to move back here.
And I don't regret it. Every childhood should have some magic and wonder in it. And you sure don't get that from living in a city, staying indoors and playing Super Mario Cart meets Lethargo Man or Lethal Chocolate Car Theft Massacre III. You get that from digging in mud to find salamanders, from cracking the ice open on puddles to find frozen fall leaves, from scavenging for blackberries for your afternoon snack, from rolling down wheat fields in the summer sun, and from biking on gravel.
I am glad I can provide this for my daughters.
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I'm not nearly as fat as that sounds like.
So where am I keeping it?
I figure I've got about 20 pounds of butt, but seriously.... I have surveyed and found that I appear to others as only a few pounds heavy, somewhere around 140...
So where the heck is that extra 30 pounds hiding? Have I got ridiculous amounts of back fat or something?
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I'm thinking of calling it, "The Best Friend's Guide for Surviving Her Abusive Boyfriend".
How to Find Out if This is Really Happening
Or Evasiveness and Make-Up... Is He Smacking Her Around?
How Important is This Friend
Or Are You Really Willing to Risk Yourself To Help Her?
She's Temporarily Insane, So Deal
Or Stop Trying to Make This Make Sense
The Perfect and Saintly Man Who Happens to Punch and Scream
Or Dr Jeckyl and Mr Hyde are Both Psychopaths Underneath
What Happens After the Fight
Or How To Handle It When She Comes Crying to You Then Makes Excuses
Don't Play Along
Or How to Make Police Reports and Save Evidence from Being Burned (by Her!!)
What To Do When She Says to Butt Out
Or When She Realizes You're Trying to Steal Him (Because there's no other reason you'd try to break them up, right?)
Don't Endanger Yourself
Or Trying to Play Hero Ends in Scary Wars
When The Fat Lady Sings
Or So She Won't Leave Him. What Now?
How to Help Her Relocate
Or What to Do When and If She Finally Actually Really Decides to Leave Him and How to Tell The Difference
I had ten years of being the very best of friends with someone I thought was levelheaded and sane. Then, for several years, she kept trying to hide from me what he did, how bad it was. She was constantly needing rescue from her abusive boyfriend. Then she'd go back to him or tell him how to find her, and they'd go back to it. And I'd become the bad guy who tried to split them up.
Finally I realized that she had to want help in order to get it. She has to want out. And I left it there. I'd gotten her safely where he had no idea how to find her several times, and she undid it each time. That's certifiable. Loving someone who hits you instead of helps you is plum crazy.
Someday maybe she'll leave him for good. Meanwhile two of her kiddos are safe with their dad and she's on my sheeet list for wasting so much of my help, time, money, effort, care, etc.
I think maybe a book of survivor stories from the best friend's viewpoint would me a good idea. Maybe it'll help some people get from being listed as "friend of abused" on police reports to leading normal sane lives again.
A little humor, good advice, information of resources, thrown in with real stories from the best friend's perspective.
And maybe someone who's taking his crap and doesn't need to, well she might read it and leave for good. Not necessarily the ex-friend of mine in particular, but someone.
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My friend Carri invited me to a blog and beer get together at the Green Dragon in SE Portland. It's tres chic and trendy and lots of fun so far.
Anyway, I'm still not totally sold that we have to come out of our respective woodworks to gather and gab, but maybe I will have fun.
I'll let you know later tonight with an update on this post.
It was unnecessary to bring my laptop. I had a fun time, ate some wings, sat with some people and met a whole bunch of young people who use blogging for marketing purposes and such. I talked WordPress -- a very specialized branch of English -- with a guy trying to run a mob of musicians with WordPress (poor bloke). And I found out that if I wanted to be truly social about all the social media venues, I'd never get any work done. Plus I'd get very fat on chicken wings.
Thanks, Jake, for the fries. And to the lady who took my picture for her media thingee, I say "where'd you post it?"
Nice to meet you Justin and good to see Stephanie again, I hope her chest cold improves.
And then I got my nails done this morning and get back to work.
I was trying to close things that were popping up, including the webcam utility. I took a photo instead. You can see this face on me pretty much any time I'm working at my computer.
Why my eyebrows have to be in that position for me to get any work done, I don't know. I'm just surprised I haven't got Jack Nickolson's forehead ridges from doing that by now.
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I'll be flying down south to pick 'em up, and then coming home. Ahhhk! So excited.
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There was a song that I sang with my momma during the Portland Crusade that I sang with Libs yesterday. "A tree grows in Israel" which I phonetically sing as "aht zhe zhayt eem ohm deem" and I have no idea whether that's right because I was 8 when I learned this song.
My mother donated a tree to Israel when she was a little girl (which I like to think is tail and strong now, rather than the more likely possibility that it has been blasted to smithereens). Anyway, when she did that, the people who planted that tree sang her a song in exchange for the money for the tree. It was the one mentioned above.
So we sing this song sometimes, Libs and I, Momma and I. Sometimes Kendra can be coerced to sing (she has a beautiferous voice, too, but doesn't think so).
Anyway, I enjoy it. I wish I could sing it here for you guys. Maybe I can coerce Libs back out of the boyfriend's house long enough to sing it here for you on the web cam - like the other videos I've been posting here.
You know that question: "If you had all the money you could possibly need, what would you spend your time doing?" (And then that's what you really should be doing with your life, so get off your ass.)
Well, I would sing and dance and play songs all day. Plus paint and draw. And blog.
The trouble is, I still do need money, so I work. Like the rest of us do. And I truly do love my job. Even if I'm not singing for a living. I sing while I work. Right now I'm humming the song I mentioned before.
Plus, I blog good and plenty. Not so much lately, I'm UBER-busy. Busier than usual.
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