I haven't talked about my mom yet, and I'm not going to get into it quite yet. BUT, I had to share with you the page that she "liked" on facebook tonight.
Are you ready?
"How do I feel about gun control? Break into my house and find out."
Goodnight.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Widow's Peak
Every little girl looks forward to the day when she can shave her legs. Well, I did anyway. My mom always left razors in the bath tub so I would sneak and shave a teenincey patch of my leg when she wasn't looking. It was never more than a little 2" square that wasn't noticable unless you were looking for it. I did this about once a month, if I was feeling froggy.
One day, I was in class and my teacher (whom I found hideous even at the young age of 7) commented on her Widow's Peak hairline and how she thought it was so unfortunate. With that five second comment, I became obsessed. I was convinced that I had a Widow's Peak and began plotting ways to get rid of it.
I tried pulling it out, but that hurt too much. I tried pulling my hair straight back but that was a backfire. I tried parting my hair in strange ways, but it always just looked stupid.
Finally, one night at bath time, it dawned on me.
"Why don't I just shave it off?" Wow! Why hadn't I thought about this before?
So I did it. I shaved a tiny patch of hair off the front of my head. No one even noticed. I was so proud of myself that I even told my cousin about it. She thought I was smart, too.
I failed to realize that eventually this hair would grow out. And it did. In my third grade pictures, there's a little patch of hair that is growing straight down my forehead. To this day, that little section of hair grows in an opposite direction from the rest of my hair. I'm still feeling the effects from that one.
**I will take this opportunity to say that I do NOT have a Widow's Peak. I was delusional and razor happy.
One day, I was in class and my teacher (whom I found hideous even at the young age of 7) commented on her Widow's Peak hairline and how she thought it was so unfortunate. With that five second comment, I became obsessed. I was convinced that I had a Widow's Peak and began plotting ways to get rid of it.
I tried pulling it out, but that hurt too much. I tried pulling my hair straight back but that was a backfire. I tried parting my hair in strange ways, but it always just looked stupid.
Finally, one night at bath time, it dawned on me.
"Why don't I just shave it off?" Wow! Why hadn't I thought about this before?
So I did it. I shaved a tiny patch of hair off the front of my head. No one even noticed. I was so proud of myself that I even told my cousin about it. She thought I was smart, too.
I failed to realize that eventually this hair would grow out. And it did. In my third grade pictures, there's a little patch of hair that is growing straight down my forehead. To this day, that little section of hair grows in an opposite direction from the rest of my hair. I'm still feeling the effects from that one.
**I will take this opportunity to say that I do NOT have a Widow's Peak. I was delusional and razor happy.
Backwards
I have this problem with numbers. And words. And letters. I mix them up all the time. I'm notorious for flipping names, switching numbers, anything that I can mix up will get mixed up.
Before I moved to the big city and started working in a big building, I worked in a smaller town in a little women's clothing store. In the back of this store was a stock room with a bulletin board with all kinds of useful information. On this bulletin board was the weekly schedule that would be posted a week in advance so that everyone knew their shifts and whatnot. I dutifully wrote down my schedule every week in my planner and transferred it into ical once I got home. I was so organized that way. But...
My organization was plagued by my inability to keep numbers straight. I was forever reading someone else's time and writing it down as my own. I must have been late for 10+ shifts. My tactic of making up for this was selling the heck out of whatever we had to remind my manager that I didn't suck at my job and maybe my stellar saleswomanship would compensate for my perpetual knack for writing down my schedule wrong. It worked almost all of the time, but I always felt terrible about it.
Something happened when my bff became co-manager my schedule mishaps came much less frequently. Thank bob. As the end of my tenure at this store came to a close, I counted my lucky stars that I made it on time and didn't get the "Hey, Sunny... coming to work today?" phone calls as frequently.
Now, one thing you should know about me is this. I can take the heat. If I mess up, I will take the blame and heat. Nothing makes me feel worse than letting someone down who was depending on me. It stresses me out. Really it does.
See the little section below here? "Blocked?" Well, this is one story that I try my damnedest to block out. I really, seriously try. But I can't. My "friend," who we'll call Martha in this story, and from here on out (since her house looks like Martha Stewart vomited decorations into it) simply refuses to let me forget it.
One day before opening a co-worker called in to get her schedule. I wrote down her two shifts and happily relayed the message to her. Didn't think anything else about it. *dupid dupid dupid*
A week later I learn that she had come into work on a Saturday morning only to find out that I'd given her the WRONG SCHEDULE! Not only had I given her the wrong schedule, but it had inconvenienced her something seriously. She had out of town guests who had to leave early, and on and on and on. I cut Martha off and started singing and stuck my fingers in my ears to hear the trainwreck of misfortune that I'd caused.
Anyway, this story gives me anxiety and now you know about it.
**I really hope Martha hates this name as much as I hate her bringing up this story.
Before I moved to the big city and started working in a big building, I worked in a smaller town in a little women's clothing store. In the back of this store was a stock room with a bulletin board with all kinds of useful information. On this bulletin board was the weekly schedule that would be posted a week in advance so that everyone knew their shifts and whatnot. I dutifully wrote down my schedule every week in my planner and transferred it into ical once I got home. I was so organized that way. But...
My organization was plagued by my inability to keep numbers straight. I was forever reading someone else's time and writing it down as my own. I must have been late for 10+ shifts. My tactic of making up for this was selling the heck out of whatever we had to remind my manager that I didn't suck at my job and maybe my stellar saleswomanship would compensate for my perpetual knack for writing down my schedule wrong. It worked almost all of the time, but I always felt terrible about it.
Something happened when my bff became co-manager my schedule mishaps came much less frequently. Thank bob. As the end of my tenure at this store came to a close, I counted my lucky stars that I made it on time and didn't get the "Hey, Sunny... coming to work today?" phone calls as frequently.
Now, one thing you should know about me is this. I can take the heat. If I mess up, I will take the blame and heat. Nothing makes me feel worse than letting someone down who was depending on me. It stresses me out. Really it does.
See the little section below here? "Blocked?" Well, this is one story that I try my damnedest to block out. I really, seriously try. But I can't. My "friend," who we'll call Martha in this story, and from here on out (since her house looks like Martha Stewart vomited decorations into it) simply refuses to let me forget it.
One day before opening a co-worker called in to get her schedule. I wrote down her two shifts and happily relayed the message to her. Didn't think anything else about it. *dupid dupid dupid*
A week later I learn that she had come into work on a Saturday morning only to find out that I'd given her the WRONG SCHEDULE! Not only had I given her the wrong schedule, but it had inconvenienced her something seriously. She had out of town guests who had to leave early, and on and on and on. I cut Martha off and started singing and stuck my fingers in my ears to hear the trainwreck of misfortune that I'd caused.
Anyway, this story gives me anxiety and now you know about it.
**I really hope Martha hates this name as much as I hate her bringing up this story.
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