Monday Memories: Closets are for Clothes

In honor of my friend Johnna's friend, the Mad Brown Samosa, who just came out and is having kind of a rough time of it...I'm going to share my coming out story. Those of you who are 'mos and are out are welcome and even encouraged to share your coming out stories in the comments. Those of you who are not are welcome and encouraged to comment as well, because comments make me happy.

I had been "questioning" (GLBTQ) for a few months, and I had started dating my first boyfriend. My parents knew none of this, since I was starting college. I decided I had to come out to them, for my boyfriend's sake.
I went home for Thanksgiving break, determined that I would do it in person. I went home with resolve. I knew I couldn't do it at Thanksgiving dinner -- how melodramatic! So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And stayed up the last night of that break to write a very nice letter about how appreciative I was of college. I threw in "And I've discovered that I'm attracted to men!" in there, and then continued going on and on about how much I love college. I left it on a table as I ran out the door to get the train station. Totally chickened out of that one.

I am on the train from Philly to school, when my cell phone rings. I look at the Caller ID.

"Home" it says ominously. I swallowed hard and answered.

"Hello?" I said in my best innocent voice.

"Hi Gray!" Mom said -- Gray is my family's nickname for me, no one else uses it nor is anyone else allowed to. I won't answer, I promise you. "I got your note!"

"Oh," I said.

"And I showed it to your dad."

"Oh."

"And your grandmother."

"Oh, what did she say?"

"Well, none of us were surprised."

Thanks, ma. Nobody coulda clued me in??? I am always the last to know these things, right?

So we started to discuss everyone's reactions. "I'm okay," she said, "But I'm sad because it's so much harder for people who aren't straight to lead happy lives."
Way to slap me in the face, Ma.

"Your dad said he was okay with it, but...."

It's at this point that I remember something: Dad may be an actor but he's also a Republican. We don't discuss politics in my family for this exact reason, and that lack of discussion is what made me forget!

"...but, he says he doesn't agree with it, politically."

I kind of exploded. On the one hand, Dad had correctly figured out that this hadn't changed anything -- I still didn't want to have kids and I still wanted to get married. On the other hand, Dad had also realized his political party didn't support me -- and he was choosing them. "But it's not a political issue when your son is--" I stopped. I was on a train and I seriously didn't want to get lynched.

Mom interrupted me though, so it was okay. "And I showed your letter your grandmother."

"And...?"

"Oh, she wasn't surprised."

I have this image of my grandmother reading it and going "Yeah, and...?" This is the woman who saw my "An awkward meaning beats a boring night" shirt and giggling and nodding. Nothing phases her, I'm not even kidding. So I reply, "Good. Okay."

"Your father and I started talking about the gay people that we know," Mom continues. She starts to describe how she and my dad were, basically, arguing over who knew more gay people and whether or not the gay people they knew were happy. My parents frequently disagree but I have never really seen them argue, so this really got me spooked.

All in all though, my coming out was a pretty decent experience. I'm one of the lucky ones.

Monday Memory: What Happens When You Ignore the Red Tape

Before I start Monday's Memory, I want to reassure you, I will post about this weekend (I'll be postdating it.)

Also, I want to send my prayers out to everyone at Virginia Tech. One of my friends is dating a guy there -- fortunately, he's okay. Heck, he was probably still on my campus at the time. :P

Today's memory was picked due to it's relevance regarding other current news: this frikkin' Imus scandal. I've expressed in comments on other blogs my opinion regarding this -- an opinion that is not about to change particularly due to the fact that Al Sharpton's attitude reminds me of this situation.

My high school? We were the Rebels. Not that we were always rebellious, (though we could stick it to the man if we wanted to) but that was the name of our team: The Rebels. Always had been, and as far as we were concerned it always would be.

So imagine our surprise when the rumble started. Someone, an alum (who had been known for thriving off of drama), had showed up at a school committee and expressed his opinion that "rebel" was racist, because the Confederacy were called "rebels".
Of course, one of those anti-racism organizations (I can't recall which one, but I know they have had something to do with Jesse Jackson) leapt at the chance to try to force us to change our mascot name. The name they suggested? The Southies. (I'd explain why, but that'd be giving out a little bit more personal information than I want to. :-P Course, this does kind of give away a lot anyways but I'm hoping none of you are psychopaths who will use this to piece together everything else about me :-P?)

So an assembly was held to explain the name change. Obviously the administration was helpless to stop them, and we understood this. They couldn't be like "It's not racist!" because nobody ever agrees that they're racist. Our own beureaucracy was tied up in other people's red tape over this one.
Word flew through the student body. We knew what had to happen.

After about a ten minute conversation about changing the name, where the administration sat down and took the bullshit that was going on without saying anything (the coach was all "I don't want to hurt anyone through the name of my teams, that was never my intention" and that was about as "It's NOT RACIST!" as any of them got.)
Then they opened up for questions, putting a mic down front for people to line up to.
The seating nearly emptied out from everyone standing up. The representative from the anti-racism organization nearly had his eyes pop out of his head, but he was in for a bigger surprise.

"Do you know the definition of rebel?" one person asked.
"Yes, I believe I do," the representative answered.
The student pulled out a dictionary, opened it to a bookmarked page and read: "Rebel. Noun. 1. A person who refuses allegiance to, resists, or rises in arms against the government or ruler of his or her country, or, 2. a person who resists any authority, control, or tradition." He closed the book. "It didn't say they had to be white or have black slaves."
So there was a resounding cheer.

The next person came up. "You know, the rebels you're thinking of...they were in the South. You know this is Rhode Island, right? We've had rebels here. You know what we were rebelling against? Britain. You might know that little war, we call it 'The American Revolution'."
Resounding cheer.

The next person was one of our black students, actually. And not one who was ever particularly bright (although we had some geniuses that were black, don't get me wrong here!). "I've read a lot about rebels," he said, "In history books. And in newspapers." He pulled some newspaper clippings out of his pocket. "This article is about rebels in the Congo. This one talks about Zimbabwe." And he went on. He had seven articles about rebels in Africa. He finished by saying he was proud to be a rebel, because it meant he was more like the people still in the place his ancestors had come from.
HUUUUUUUUUGE cheer.

Not long after him, was a friend of mine -- obviously Irish in ancestry (if you know what I'm saying -- she totally looked it). She got to the meat of what disturbs me about the attitude of people like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson.
"You want us to change our name to Southie," she said, staring the representative straight in the eye, "You're not from around here, right?" From that instant we knew where she was going with this. She was making a point I'd been planning on making, and she was definitely better suited for it. It's pretty common knowledge, at least in the Boston area (including Rhode Island) what Southie means.
"Yes, I am," the representative said.
"Then you know what Southie means. You know that it's a derogatory term for Irish people, don't you?" The term is basically never used now, but it originates from the fact that Irish people used to (especially around the Industrial Revolution) live primarily in South Boston (an area called Southie). "So, I'm wondering," my friend continued, "Does that mean racism only counts if it's white people being racist against black people? Is it okay to be racist towards other groups? Is it okay for you to be prejudiced? It seems like it."
The representative knew he could not deny knowing that term, so he said, "I hadn't thought of that." Which, funnily enough, is the same excuse our administration used. "Southies was just a suggestion."
"And we're just suggesting you leave it as Rebels."
We gave the biggest cheer I've ever heard, and then started into our school's official cheer.

That was pretty much the end of THAT assembly. Needless to say, to this day, my high school is still the Rebels, and I had never been prouder to be one.

Monday Memories: Soccer Star Part 2

I almost forgot it was Monday. Whoops. :P

You can read Part 1 here.

So, I returned to school unable to bend my knee. I went to a Catholic school for junior high, so no one could see that my knee was wrapped in ace bandages under my uniform pants.
At first, there was a certain amount of concern that I couldn't bend my knee, especially since this was during my life's very first venture into the realm of "popularity". I had lots of friends -- or thought I did -- and everyone seemed very concerned with why I couldn't bend my knee.

Which, of course, was something I didn't know. I told them that I was seeing lots of doctors, but that I didn't know what the problem was.
"How can you not know what's wrong with your knee?" The idea was absurd to most of the people I went to school with, so most of the students began to believe that I was faking or exaggerating.

Now, we had split lockers and my locker was on the lower half. Of course, this meant I couldn't go to my locker at all, let alone between classes. My teachers allowed me to carry more with me than the other students were. I was also permitted to leave classes early and arrive late. Most of my teachers were very accomodating.
My science teacher was not so kind. She would not let me leave class early, and would not let me bring my bag into the classroom as it was "too large and presented a fire hazard". I can see how she was worried about fire, with all that documentary watching we did, and all those times she read out of the book to answer all our questions. It's alright though, I accidentally got her back.

In order to use my locker I had to sit on the ground with my leg lying out across the hall. The other students had gotten used to this: when I had science, I needed to empty my bag into my locker. After science, I had to get my stuff out of my locker again. Twice a day, you had to use only half of that section of the hall. No one really had a problem with it (although most students would say things like "Would you stop faking that and take up less space?" as they walked past.)
One day, as the halls were clearing up, my science teacher was coming back from the bathroom. She, not noticing my leg, kept walking down the center of the hall. I told her to watch where she was going, but what did I know? I was only a student. She kept going.
She tripped on my knee. I shrieked in pain, she fell, and she yelled at me for tripping her. This was probably the first time I ever gave attitude to a teacher, but I snapped, "If you would watch where you were going instead of walking on the crippled kids, you'd be in class by now." Then, she had the nerve to tell me I was late for class and that I should get inside. I told her I was going to the nurse for painkillers and if she was so concerned she could take my notes for me until I got back. That didn't go over well, but the fact that I was nearly crying from pain and that much was obvious, kept her from giving me a detention.

Of course, that got her to shut up. It was still the students I had to worry about. At the time, and probably to this day, there was no elevator in this school, but the junior high was in the basement. I had the extremely difficult task of going up and down those stairs several times each day. And every time, there were people stuck behind me, because people would be going in the opposite direction and blocking the other side of the stairs. Obviously, this increased the number of pointedly mean comments made towards me.
The worst ones, of course, were from the time my knee buckled on the stairs. I had stupidly not worn my ace bandages that day and, on
the way downstairs from lunch, someone shoved my shoulder. Not too harshly, in fact it might have been entirely accidental (doubtful, but still). My knee crumbled under me and I fell down the remaining steps. Somehow, I wasn't hurt anymore than I already had been, although I was absolutely in a hysterical fit because it hurt so much.
"That's the fastest you've gone down the stairs in such a long time," one person sneered.
"Why can't you do that every time?" another kid shot at me.
Everyone walked past except one of my few remaining friends, who helped me to stand up.

Once a month our school had what we called a "tag day", you could pay them a dollar and they would let you wear your own clothes that day instead of the uniform. (There was a reason we called them Our Lady of Perpetual Fundraising.) During the time I was injured, we had one tag day. It was a warm day so I wore a t-shirt and shorts -- shorts which nicely showed off the ace bandages I was smart enough to wear forever after that.
Popular opinion, it seemed, was that I was wearing the ace bandages as a "costume" of sorts to keep up my "charade" of an injury. There was some difference of opinion though.
Even the teachers, apparently, had begun to doubt my injury, as I heard one teacher saying to another as I passed her classroom, "Well, he's wearing ace bandages today so maybe he really is hurt."
As I'd been developing somewhat of a backbone from this experience, I stopped and told her "You'd be able to see them every day if it wasn't against the uniform policy." I kept walking.

One of the more dramatic experiences happened in French class. Yes, I know I speak Italian, not French. In fact, this is part of the reason for that. They made us try each of the three languages. We took French, Spanish, and Italian while we were in junior high. I nearly failed in Spanish every time there was a grade, I rocked at Italian without even really trying, and I had a pretty good handle on French.
In this particular French class, I don't recall what exactly happened to start the fight, but a friend of mine who I was sitting next to said something about someone else, I jumped to the someone else's defense...the next thing I (or the rest of the class knows) we're in a full blown argument. (Probably my fault, I was very much on edge and ready to fight the entire two months of my injury.) She made some comment about me, I said something to her that really pushed her buttons, and she kicked me in my bad knee.
At this point our teacher shouted at us to take our seats.
We did -- and in my rage I forgot to keep my knee still and I bent it. This, on top of the pain from being kicked, reduced me to shrieks and sobs. In a panic, my teacher rushed over -- partially filled out detention slips in hand -- and I gasped "my knee".
She immediately handed my friend and I our detention slips and sent us both to the principal's office, which was also were the nurse was located.
My friend and I made amends on the way up to the office. She confessed she'd completely forgotten about my knee injury, and if she'd remembered she would have punched me in the face instead (which was, oddly enough, very comforting.)
We also noticed that the detention slips weren't completed. She hadn't signed them, or written our names on them. She also had forgotten to tear off a copy for her and had given us all of the pages of carbon copy paper, plus the original. Needless to say, we did not attend any detentions for the incident.
My friend and I actually used our ridiculously over-the-top fight as a bonding experience. She began to defend me when other people talked about my "fake" knee injury -- as she now knew first hand that I wasn't faking. I also had told her about how I had gotten it. After that, school with the injury became much easier.

As school went on, doctors were still perplexed. One doctor suggested that the injury was solely in my head. As I told my mother, "I would have kicked him in the balls if I could use my leg." She agreed. Not only did we not ever go back to see this doctor, to this day we still tell everyone we know never to see him, and I occassionally still hope he loses his license or gets sued for malpractice.
The final doctor that we saw was the one to discover something unusual about me: I seem to have an immunity to novacaine. Let me tell you, of all the drugs to not get results from this is the worst. She developed this theory that I had fluid in my knee. First, she gave me a shot of novacaine in my right knee (the bad one). Not a little, dental shot either. Like, a big shot.
Three minutes later I could still feel my knee. So, she put in another shot, the same size.
Six (or so) shots later, I could still feel my knee. She gave up.
"We'll just try to take the fluid out anyways," she decided.
I don't know how many of you have ever had this fluid-removal thing done to you, but let me just tell you...the needle is massive. And it's not thin either, because it needs to suck fluid into it. This is pretty painful without novacaine.
Especially if there's no fluid in your knee, which was the case with me. I don't know if I've ever screamed so loud in my life.
Utterly perplexed at the lack of fluid, she suggested that I begin physical therapy.
"We can still do tests and things, but in the meantime this will help you to actually get better."

Physical therapy cleared everything up with an amazing rapidity, which led those who still thought I was faking at school to "confirm" their beliefs. I was fine with that though -- I could finally go up and down stairs at a normal pace!

It would ultimately be Sports Illustrated that solved the mystery. My dad was reading an article in there that discussed a female athletes injury. She'd, very slightly, torn a ligament in her knee. Too slightly for it to be repaired surgically (or whatever they do). She immobilized her knee for two months and then began physical therapy, exactly what I had done. Her physical therapy had lasted as long as mine had. We were dumbfounded by the fact that we'd actually done exactly what we were supposed to.

Monday Memories: Soccer Star Part 1

I used to be an athlete. I've actually played in several sports. Primarily though, I used to play soccer. Defense mostly. I played the stupid/extra brave kind of defense though -- instead of just keeping the ball from the goal I got in the way. It was my style. I got injured a fair amount, much more than I ever let on, but it proved helpful (when it worked...).

This also proved to be my unmaking in that sport though.


My last two years I was on, basically, the same team. We were a machine. Not unstoppable, not by any means, but pretty damn good. We made it to the championships the first year, almost won them. We were playing a game that would determine whether or not we made the championships when this story happened.

We were also playing a team with a spectacular player on the team. He wasn't especially skilled except in one area: if he kicked the ball it went roughly 30 million miles per hour. Like, people were scared to get in his way.
At first I was. But I got over it. So he shoots for the goal, and I charge.
The ball slammed into the side of my right knee, and I won't lie, it hurt a lot. I limped for a minute. When I was over by the sideline, the coach was all "Graham, Graham, are you okay?" I shrugged it off. Course I was fine, I could still stand, right?

So I finished the game. Shook hands with the opposing team. I don't remember if we won or lost. I think we won, because I was feeling pretty proud. Then I met up with my parents and we headed for the car.
Around this time I noticed that my knee was kinda hurting when I bent it. I thought I was just tired and I'd walk it off. So I got in the car, and it killed when I sat with it bent, so I sprawled out across the back seat. No biggie. I had played hard I deserved a little relaxation.

I spent pretty much the rest of the day sprawled out somewhere, relaxing, not moving my leg. I didn't even think about it but in retrospect this behavior (which was typically unusual of me at the time) was probably my subconscious telling me that I'd effed something up.
When I went upstairs to go to bed, was when I started to get worried. I couldn't walk up the stairs, it hurt too much to bend it that way. I called mom over, we discussed, and we decided to see how I was in the morning. She helped me get up the stairs without bending my knee, and it took me about a half hour to figure out how to take off my clothes and put on my PJs without bending the knee, and another half hour to actually do it.

The next morning, I woke up all energetic, bounced out of bed and promptly collapsed on the floor and cried in incredible agony while I thrust my leg out and made an incredible effort to not bend it while I was writhing on the floor. (As this was prior to my first Crohn's flare up, both being in that much pain, writhing on the floor, and all of the numerous doctors appointment that I'm about to tell you about combined to make this a very traumatic experience.)

Mom wisely decided I probably shouldn't do school, and we made a pretty hasty call to my doctor, made an emergency appointment, and got there as fast as we could without me having to walk. As I recall, my dad carried me to the car and I stuck my right leg out at the weirdest angle just to keep it from bending. It's pretty good I had strong legs from soccer, or I'd have been screwed.
My doctor examined the knee and determined that, golly gosh gee, it hurt when I bent it and that probably meant something was wrong. She sent us in to the emergency room for a bone scan.

Interesting fact: for bone scans they inject you with this radioactive substance, and according to the woman who injected me, if you try to visit the White House or any other important federal government buildings while this stuff is in you, you show up as a bomb on their security equipment and they will not let you in.

The bone scan determined that the problem was not actually in my bones, and made me have to pee a lot. (That's how they get the radioactive stuff out of your system.) It didn't tell us what the problem was.
We also did an X-Ray which also determined that the problem was not in my bones. Then they sent me for an MRI the next day, which is a damn scary procedure. They put you on a tray, like a giant cafeteria tray, and then you get put inside a tube that plays bad elevator music unless you bring your own music (which I didn't cause no one told me to). Claustrophobic people usually panic, which is totally understandable. I was okay in the tube, but I was not happy.

Unable to determine what was going on, but unable to miss more school, I returned to the 8th grade at the Catholic school I was going to at the time. I figured I'd get some sympathy, but Junior High students are like wolves and antelopes combined...they cruelly pick apart the injured animal.

But we'll talk about that next week. ;)

An Old-Fashioned Leprechaun Hunt

Before I forget another day, there's been a new scene up in Glamorous for a few days now and I keep forgetting to mention it. And I will be writing another one tonight after I finish my Comm. homework.

Moving on...today is Monday, so it's time for a memory. In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I'll tell my leprechaun story.

It was first grade, St. Patty's Day. For some reason I think it was a Tuesday, although I'm sure I don't remember it that well. We were sitting in a half circle around our teacher and she was reading us some kind of story when suddenly the classroom's computer -- which was not actually near any of us and since I was sitting in the back I can tell you for sure, nobody touched it -- turned on.

She stopped reading. "Who turned on the computer?"

"Nobody," we all said in that second grade unison kind of voice. You know the one I mean. You know you did it too.

The teacher looked around skeptically. "Well, how else would the computer turn on?"

One girl, she was blonde but I couldn't tell you her name, and she was in an obnoxiously green shirt, responded, "Maybe it was a leprechaun!"

Our teacher pursed her lips in what I now recognize as a "I can't believe someone actually said that and meant it" facial expression. "I bet you're right," she said, in the same tone of voice you use with kittens and three year olds when you tell them how cute they are. She went back to reading.

One of my friends whispered to me that he thought she'd put it on a timer so that it would start up and she could get us to think it was a leprechaun.

It was not too long later when the classroom door opened itself. This time it was obvious, even to the teacher, that none of the kids had opened it, because we were all cutting (or in my case trying to cut)* out shamrocks. "It's the wind," she told us.

My friend whispered to me that he thought she'd told someone to come by and open the door and scare us into thinking it was leprechauns.
"She said it was the wind," I whispered back, "How did you make yours?"

Those were the only two leprechaun events that happened that day, although people kept talking about it and waiting for the next one to happen. At recess a number of the kids spent the whole time looking for the leprechaun. Nobody found it. I'll admit, I was a little disappointed. :-P

*As it turned out, this was my introduction to left-handed scissors, which I to this day cannot use even though I am ambidextrous. That is a story for another Monday though.

Memories...

I'm posting this one because I drove past the place where it happened, and because those days...well, they were really good for all of those involved. Not that we're necessarily in a bad place now, we're just...in a different place. A place where Cody and I are almost constantly fighting, so no, I take that back...it's not good.

This is from the spring of 2006
Anyways...Cody and I and our friends, well his friends that I befriended, Misty and David went driving around one time. There was a video camera and it was awesome. We all faked giving each other blowjobs. (Except Misty, she didn't get one, she just gave out. To everybody, the slutface. :-P) We blasted music. We were Cody's convertible so we would stand up and let the wind blow in our faces. It was great.

Then, we got to WalMart. There was no real reason for it. We just went. Bought some snacks, came out to the car. Cody turned the car on and started the music...
...and we began to dance. In the parking lot. We danced on the seats of his convertible, we got out and danced up against the car, in the parking lot. We just danced, danced, danced!! It was incredible amounts of fun!
About fifteen minutes in, we noticed some old ladies watching us, clearly entertained and loving it. I was fine with this, but the others got nervous so we moved the car to a remote part of the parking lot....and resumed dancing!!
I don't know how long we were there, but definitely not long enough. :)

Memory Monday: Reshaping the Land

This is kind of a mean memory, but Brendan and Cody stirred it up this past weekend. I told them this story and decided I HAD to share it with all of you.

I'm changing names to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent.

This one is from high school, because I don't believe in chronological order. :-P (Kidding, I believe in it, I just don't practice it!)

The backstory here is this: there was a kid in my high school. Enormous. To date, the largest person I have ever seen. He must have been over six feet tall, and as wide as he was tall. We will call him "Leo Lyins". Leo's a hot name, so he's redeeming himself ever so slightly by being called that. :-P
Anyways, he was a giant. A big, round, giant whale. Like, now that I'm more mature, I feel bad for him because of his incredible obesity and his blot-out-the-sun quality. He had to go sideways (and ducking) through doors. I don't know how he sat in desks, and I suspect he didn't. And, immature and mean as we were, we frequently joked that if he fell he would dent the ground. I feel comfortable telling this story because I am positive that no one, no one, who reads this could possibly be that large. And, "Leo", if you read this (which first of all, you're totally straight and we never spoke so why?), I'm sorry that I'm so amused at your expense. I freely admit to being a bad bad person.

So, one day, I am sitting in class minding my own business. Suddenly, and from nowhere, there's this seismic SHAKE. Now, there had recently been some kind of earthquake in the Atlantic that we had been able to feel in some parts of good ol' Rhode Island. We assumed it was some kind of tectonic shock or whatever, left over from that.

So, about fifteen minutes later, class lets out. I go out in the hallway and a friend of mine calls me over in the hallway. He'd been in the classroom just across the hall. "You will never believe what just happened," he tells me, trying to hold in his laughter.
"Okay, tell me," I reply.
"Leo fell in class...and there's a dent in the floor!"
Like the somewhat reasonable person I can sometimes be, I assumed he was kidding. No way would that really happen. But I had to get to class, so I didn't investigate. Yet.

At the end of the day I headed into that classroom and sure as the sun rises, there was a large dent in the floor.

I have no way to know if that truly came from Leo, but I will always remember that. Even though my illness will forever keep me from getting fat -- and I won't even be "average" til age slows my metabolism -- it is because of this that I consider diet and excercise to be vital. I don't always (i.e. rarely) eat healthy, and my excercise tends to be my work and walking everywhere but the idea is there: I can never be that. I do not want to dent the floor.

Monday Memory!

So, I decided to eff the whole inspiration thing. I'll post inspirational images when I feel like it -- which is very rarely on a Monday. :-P

Instead, we're going to take a trip down memory lane every Monday.

Today I have a funny memory that I was thinking about yesterday. It's a story that will never die in my family. It's the story of my father the cheese filled sausages.

My mother is, basically, handicapped. She is allergic to bottom-feeding shellfish (like clams, so why she lives in Rhode Island is beyond me), wheat, and corn. That means she can eat basically...well, nothing. Nothing normal anyways.
Occassionally her work as an author takes her abroad. This was much more common when I was younger (which, if you think about it, is kind of backwards, but whatever). Every time she left for a business trip it meant the boys could eat anything and everything we wanted (something else that is no longer true). We bought it all. Hamburger Helper, pies, junk food, total crap.

One time during one of our "Mom's away so the boys will play", my father stumbled upon cheese-filled sausages. Now, logically, we thought, those should be good. You have sausages at breakfast, and cheese can also be a breakfast food. So, neither my brother or I opposed dad's decision to buy these sausages. Of course, I was like six and Matt is only five years older than me so it's not like he'd have listened anyways.
The next morning, dad excitedly cooked our breakfast of cheese-filled sausages. Matt and I sat at the table and waited. We were eager, although we won't admit it if you ask us face-to-face now. Dad brought over a steaming platter of delicious looking sausages and we all got our first serving. Then we took our first bites....

...and lined up at the kitchen sink to spit them out. To this day, the cheese-filled sausages are the most revolting items I have ever placed in my mouth. I promise you, the time I ate wax (another story, not worth telling :-P) was more enjoyable.
But, McDonald's breakfast sandwich never tasted so good as they did that morning.

Thirsting for Knowledge

This inspirational image of the week is inspired by the refusal of anyone to put any more soda in our vending machines. No, I don't know why, but I do know knowledge ain't the only thing I'm thirsting for right now. :P

Monday Monday Monday....

I love this picture not only because of the strength it represents in that tree, but because it reminds me of when I was a kid and things were so much simpler.

There was no car to deal with, no homework, no Westboro Baptist Church protest near my school...but there was one complicated thing: I could not understand how this tree survived. It was in the Roger Williams Park Zoo in Providence, Rhode Island. This tree, an ancient tree it was massive, was fallen over. Many of its roots (probably a little less than half) weren't even in the ground anymore -- but it still sprouted leaves in the spring, was a beautiful green all summer, and then dropped it's leaves into the pond it hung over in the fall. It was fascinating.

And, for those of you who were interested in my writing, I had an idea...and now I have created a blog for said idea. Go check it out...right now I am just creating characters for the stories, but you can go check out their Glamorous life.

Monday's Inspiration

I have had such a shitty day, so as a little pick-me-up....

It has, particularly, been a day lacking in the theme of today's inspiration.

Inspiration for the Week!

I can't explain it either.

"Flying too high with my head in the sky..."

I kind of totally missed Monday so..........this week's random picture is going to be uplifting!It's a sunset in Greece! I don't know which island, but one of them.

I was playing "Anywhere But Here" today, and "vacationing on Aegean" totally won. And it was mine. I was surprised, usually somebody tops that somehow but since the semester just started and we are all hearing this marvelous stories from our friends who were abroad last semester, Greece really is super appealing right now. :P

Mondays Inspirational Picture

This is really pretty, and I'm sort of looking at it as representing the end of an era and the beginning of a new -- my first holiday season without Johnna! :( But I am sure we will both have great holidays anyways!
So, I hope you all are making the best of any and all of the changes in your lives.

In other exciting news...Shaney is back to blogging! How happy does that make you? Cause it's making me pretty ecstatic! :)

Inspirtational Picture of the Week

Okay, it's more of a message than a picture, but you know what I mean...

It's Monday so.....

Monday's Inspiration...

Since this is the week of Thanksgiving and all...Google said the title of this was "To Be Thankful" and believe me, I am, I am!

I'm not feeling very inspired but...

It's supposed to have something to do with the circle of life...yeah.

Weeky Inspirational Picture: Priorities

A little picture about being greater than you are for your weekly inspiration.

This weekend was buuuuusy. It was Homecoming.
Of course, Homecoming is always a little bittersweet -- on the one hand, the alumni come back which is exciting. And I'm *swamped* with all of the fun things I need to do. But...everyone's with their families who come visit on Homecoming too. Except, my family doesn't come because they live too far away and because they get swamped with all of that October stuff they do. Haunted whatever-it-is-for-whatever-group-we're-in-this-time.

Friday afternoon I discovered that the Internet had kicked the bucket. I was not pleased -- but at the time I thought it was just my computer. When my worries that my computer was biting the big one were relieved, I still wasn't pleased but I was happier about the whole situation.

Friday night there was the Mad Cow Homecoming show. Mad Cow is our campus' comedy improv group (award winning, if I'm not mistaken), which I would love to be involved with but currently am not. (Next year I'll have time, I swear, I swear!) It was hysterical, but there were sooo many people there. I sat on a stair in an aisle in the auditorium...and let me tell you, my butt hurt.

(The picture of the group last year. Some of the people in it have graduated and others have been added to the group this year.)

Then I went to our GSA's baking party. We have one every Homecoming so we can sell baked goods at the Midway on Saturday. Traditionally, I am not allowed in the kitchen. We maintained this rule again this year, so our rainbowy yumyums weren't destroyed.

So, then I went back to the dorm to check my e-mail and make sure I had everything scheduled right for Saturday. Whoops, no Internet means no e-mail.

So Saturday morning came, I woke up early so I could be in plenty of time to prepare for the parade. I had been given a place on the theater clubs float. The theme for the parade was college life, and given that the parade is family oriented we chose for our float the only family appropriate aspect universal to every college student everywhere: Procrastination.
So our float was basically a flatbed truck with an entertainment center on it. We watched Aladdin as we paraded down the streets of town. When we got to the judges, we were supposed to have 30 seconds to do a skit, but our driver never stopped so we just shouted "We'll finish the float tomorrow!" and that was that.

Then there was parking, because I had been one of the driver's to the fairgrounds where the parade began. It was a disaster. I won't even go into it. See that picture? It's from Texas, 1947. It's only slightly better than what parking was like on campus. I had to park in the most remote place on campus -- I'd never even been there before. The point is, those parents that were visiting screwed up my parking. :-P

So, then I had to run to the Midway to get to the theater club's table in time to work there. I sold a lot of shirts, and then someone else showed up and we had four people there so I headed out so I could get out of the PJs I had worn for our float. Me, PJs, public places? Not happening. :-P Anyways, then I had some free time, so I went and bought some stuff from the various tables (I ended up getting five t-shirts, three books, one bracelet, and some food. Oi!)

AGH! The Internet just disconnected, I panicked, but it came back. I am not going another day without connectivity! Rah!

Moving on, then I showed up at GSA table and was there for a while. I had brought a Bible verse with me (1 Timothy 4:1-3, if you want to look it up) just in case a heckler showed up. We're in Central PA, it could happen. And I'd heard it already had happened earlier, so I was being prepared. Some old woman who probably wasn't supposed to be on campus to begin with....

Anyways, then I went to the theater and worked on building the set. You see, they scheduled a tech weekend this weekend -- on Homecoming! I know, right?

And then I had to go to the club cause the GSA was taking the alumni (well, alumnus) out for the night. I was tired, didn't really want to go, but I still went because I was supposed to hang out with my one of my best friends, Cody afterwards.
Except Cody left the club with some guys he barely knows for a club he's never been to. Did he bother to call and let me know? No. Did he even bother to call after I called him and he didn't answer and I left a voice mail to see if he was coming back? No. Did he come back? No. Did he even realize he'd ditched me? Not until about 3:30, which is after a half an hour of me trying to explain how royally pissed off I was with him and him not understanding what he'd done wrong. If I were dating him, he'd be so incredibly done after that -- especially because he ditched me, without calling, on Thursday night. That was valid, he was helping a friend, but still. He's got a cell phone.
Anyways...

Sunday was nice. I slept in. I had a meeting with my cast for the one act I'm directing this semester, and then I went and worked in the theater some more, and then I went and saw the concert the two a capella groups on campus had. Which was roughly amazing.

The thing about my campus, and I'm sure it's true everywhere, is you get these sort of "celebrities". The a capella singers, the Mad Cow performers, and some of us theater kids all fit there. (Not to be egotistical, but I'm totally speaking from experience here ;-)) But, I mean, obviously we all know of each other too. And I have to say all of the singers and improvers are the most chill people ever. Well, I don't know all of the new ones yet, I'll be honest, but I'm sure they're totally awesome.

So then I came back to my dorm and didn't have Internet until midnight.