Yesterday I enjoyed my first snow day in the working world. Growing up in the South means that these days come few and far between. I miss "Rain Days," when all of the schools in the county would close down because school buses couldn't make it down rural dirt roads. Ahh, the joy of country life. I'm currently living in the City so these icy conditions mean lots of skidding tractor trailers and Range Rovers, which means Sunny won't be taking her little rice burner out onto the roadways. Snow also brings back many memories from my childhood and collegehood (Yes, it is a word. I just made it up.):
1-Snow taught me not to trust the Weather Channel. I got my hopes up more times than I can count by trusting the meteorologists. I'd sit and watch rain fall out the window waiting for it to turn to flakes so that I could build a snowman and pelt my cousins with snowballs... The snow never came and I was disappointed time and time again. What do they know anyway?
2-Snow taught me not to run on slick surfaces. When I was in elementary school, we were treated to a blizzard(ish) snow storm. My uncle had launched a snowball and hit my aunt square in the face- I found this hilarious. So hilarious that I had to race to the bathroom to keep from peeing my pants. Well, several other snow-players had visited the potty before me so the floor was slick. I slipped in the water and fell straight on my behind, breaking my tailbone. And peeing my pants. It was wretched. Embarrassed, I kept it a secret and hobbled around all day pretending nothing was wrong.
(I did change pants and underwear, for the record.)
3-Snow taught me that Uggs, while warm, aren't practical snow shoes. My first year at the University of Georgia, there was a blizzard. It was so beautiful. Everything was blanketed in a fresh blanket of powder. Everything including my stairs. You see, when you step on five inches of snow, it compresses and forms a layer of ice. I was going to run down stairs to grab something from my car and didn't take all of these things into account. On the first step, I went airborn and-you guessed it-landed square on my can. Once again, I injured my tailbone. This resulted in a few weeks of absolute agony. Lesson learned. I've never walked in the snow without calculating each and every step again.
This snow day, I'm keeping myself inside. I'm not running, I'm not trusting the Weather Channel when they say the worst is over, and I'm looking at my UGGS sitting on their little shelf in my closet. They aren't to be trusted, those UGGS. I'll stick to my camo rain boots.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Day 1: Prayer Requests
This morning I went to church in my home town for the first time in a long time. I've been living in the big city going to my big city church and had forgotten the "church culture." My favorite interaction of the day was with my Bible teacher from grade school. She askd me how my house was.
My house? It's... a house?
She then went on to say how I'd lamented over it while I was in school and then... it dawned on me.
I was "The Prayer Request Girl." Every day, we would take prayer requests in Bible class. The teacher would never cut us off, as Prayer Requests were very important because someone is always needing to be prayed for. On days when we would have a test, my classmates would turn to me and give me the look. I knew that it was my responsibility to drag out Prayer request time for as long as humanly possible. I'd pray for my house, my preacher, my mom, my dog... You name it and I'd pray for it. Now, the things I put on the list did need to be prayed about. I actually did a good thing-prayed for people in need and usually got the test pushed back a day.
That was eight years ago, and hearing my teacher ask about the house that I'd prayed so hard for brought back mixed emotions. It was so sweet of her to remember it. It also reminded me of those days that I would (not literally) pray for everyone in the phonebook. Amen.
My house? It's... a house?
She then went on to say how I'd lamented over it while I was in school and then... it dawned on me.
I was "The Prayer Request Girl." Every day, we would take prayer requests in Bible class. The teacher would never cut us off, as Prayer Requests were very important because someone is always needing to be prayed for. On days when we would have a test, my classmates would turn to me and give me the look. I knew that it was my responsibility to drag out Prayer request time for as long as humanly possible. I'd pray for my house, my preacher, my mom, my dog... You name it and I'd pray for it. Now, the things I put on the list did need to be prayed about. I actually did a good thing-prayed for people in need and usually got the test pushed back a day.
That was eight years ago, and hearing my teacher ask about the house that I'd prayed so hard for brought back mixed emotions. It was so sweet of her to remember it. It also reminded me of those days that I would (not literally) pray for everyone in the phonebook. Amen.
365 Days of Blogging
Today I'm committing to blogging every day for an entire year. A WHOLE YEAR! Hold me accountable and yell at me if I don't do it. If I miss a day, I will blog about it as soon as I can. I'll include photos when I can, but now... I must write!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Mom
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.
Are you ready?
"How do I feel about gun control? Break into my house and find out."
Goodnight.
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.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Blocked
Over the years, I have developed a unique ability to cope with embarrassing moments in my life. Rather than deal with the embarrassment and move on, I block them out. Everyday, I actively block events and people from my memory. This is a useful tool, as I have embarrassed myself more times than I can count, particulary when I was younger. A new section on this blog will be devoted to the stories that linger. I just can't block them out, no matter how hard I try. And, oh, I've tried.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)