Refracted Neurons

Yes, I went to work in the "freak snow storm" that we had here.  If my little hybrid made it out alright, then you know there's something wrong with calling it a "freak snow storm."  It was really bad in some parts, but Seattle was not one of those parts.  People who are not from around here started asking me, "What's the big deal?" The Big Deal Is: 1.) Seattle has a lot of really steep hills.  In the snow/ice this means that you can't get up the hills and there are a lot of road closures. 2.) It snows, then it rains, then the sun goes down.  By the next day you're driving on ice.  This storm was unusual because some of the snow we got was powder instead of icy snow.  I was doing a little dance while shoveling it off the porch at work because I couldn't ever remember handling powder before.  All our snowmen here always look deformed because the snow here is always icy.  And snowballs . . . snowballs hurt! 3.) Then there are the

Yes, I know, "again," "constantly!" Really this is the first time I've been this sick in over a year.  Except for the weird lack of hunger and the ache in my hips, I'm almost 100% certain it's just allergies.  I couldn't sleep last night because my sinuses hurt so bad.  So I did what any reasonable woman in the same situation would do: I got up and took a bath . . . twice.  I know that sounds strange, but it relieves the sinus pain and any other aches as well as making me sleepy. I think I'm going to have to drop out of choir.  Not only will I probably not be able to sing, but I've been too busy to learn all the music.  I know some of it and it's fun to be one of two soprannos with a high C, but I get paid to work, not sing (thank God, too-I get terrible stage fright). Work has been very, very needy lately.  Last weekend I worked a grave shift, prior week, two grave shifts and there is still a remote chance I will get called in toni

Ever since cellphones have become mainstream, I have always heard stories about people dropping their cellphones in the toilet.  I always ask, "Why did you have your cellphone in the bathroom?  Do you talk on the phone while using the toilet?"  The answer I have always recieved has been, "No, don't be silly.  I only listen to my messages in the bathroom.  It's multi-tasking." This past weekend a friend of mine broke the code of silence and told me that she talks on the cellphone while peeing.  While she was telling me this, her phone was turning itself on and taking pictures of random things because (guess what) it had been dropped in the toilet. While this was on my mind yesterday, I went to a restaurant to celebrate a friend's birthday.  When I went to the bathroom, I could hear the lady in the next stall talking loudly.  Either she was talking on the phone, or she was the most boring schizophrenic I have ever met. At any rate, I could see under th

I had a dream last night where I was looking at either a sunset or a sunrise.  It was like a screensaver in my head.  A voice was talking to me while I looked at the sky.  It was telling me that I could choose to die now and have a painless death.  I would just go into the sunset/sunrise.  I said that I didn't want to go yet because I didn't like the way I had been living lately and didn't want to face God that way.  I think it's funny that I didn't say I didn't want to die because there are things I want to do and people who I don't want to leave.  Both those things are true, yet I didn't say that. 

A therapist named Roger Hillerstrom came to talk at a fellowship that I go to.  He said a lot of really interesting things, but one of the most interesting to me was his intimacy continuum.  He based it on things that you share with someone instead of vague concepts like, "mutual trust." So here's my summary of it: Level 1: You are willing to share factual information with the other person.  Example: "Oh, look it's raining!"  Violation: "Only an idiot would think it's raining."  Defense: No personal information was shared. Level 2: You are willing to share other people's opinions.  Example: "My boss thinks that he can predict the rain by his headaches."  Violation: "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." Defense: "I don't believe that either." Level 3: You are willing to share your opinions.  Example: "I think that the rain is beautiful."  Violation: "What?! The rain is

I woke up this morning wondering why my eyes were red and nastified.  Then I remembered that I had cried myself to sleep for no particularly good reason. My boss had a dream that she and I were at a family's house doing an FPS visit.  The family pulled out guns and so did my boss, but I didn't have a gun.  I got shot and taken to the hospital.  The doctor came out and told my boss that I was bleeding purple.  My boss said, "Oh, that's because she's a unicorn." I ran out of my Advair this weekend.  I felt okay on Saturday and started to wheeze late in the day.  Sunday I started wheezing and coughing as soon as I woke up.  By four, I felt like I was going to throw up. I went to see Departed at 2:30 with a friend.  I thought I would have plenty of time to drop him off at home and pick up my prescription at Target before they closed at six.  The movie was three hours long!  I mean it was okay as far as Irish Mafia movies go, but three hours? Anyway, I man

I had a scary dream last night that I was trying to kill myself by overdosing on Tylenol.  I wasn't really sure if I wanted to kill myself and I had taken six.  I was trying to figure out if that was going to kill me or if I could change my mind.  That would be a terrible, terrible way to go.  Talk about slow, painful, expensive death. When I came home tonight my neighbor walked up to me and started telling me that he had found a six foot blonde man in the bushes peering in someone's window.  He called the police, but they didn't catch the guy.  I'm assuming that this is the reason my neighbor was accused of peering in this girl's window and that he probably knows her and is stalking her.  I told my neighbor it was probably someone she knew.  He didn't seem to believe me, but then went on to tell me that he was peeking in her window five minutes before she got home.  "See," I said, "he knows her schedule."  He told me to be careful and tha

Most people who have been in or near my car know that I have a custom built box in the back.  Only a few people know that I ended up with it because someone took one of my jokes seriously and thought I really wanted my hybrid to go boom. Regardless, I love my sub and got really sad when it stopped working a couple weeks ago.  At first I thought it was a fuse.  I have had fuse problems with it before.  Once the fuse harness in the front melted because the guy who built it didn't know that you can't put a fuse marked 50 in a fuse harness marked 20.  So I checked my fuses and they looked fine. Then I thought maybe a wire had come loose somewhere.  This also used to happen all the time before my dad soldered all of them on and put on better quick-disconnects.  I am not an electrician and the wires run from the accessory battery under the hood, to the stereo, through different panels inside the car, to the trunk.  In other words, at best I might be able to find the loose wire.

I love hearing rumors about myself.  It's like hearing about your alter ego.  This rumor was three years old, but I still appreciated it: Rumor has it that I made out in the file room at work with some guy.  The person telling me this couldn't remember who.  I think what happened is that this was a joke that was misinterpreted.  The joke was based on this guy bragging that even though I was "hard to get," he had made out with me.  I think the bragging was based on reality, but I don't know because I don't know who was claiming to have made out with me.  Not that I've made out with a lot of my co-workers.  I've only made out with ex-coworkers, so that doesn't really count.  Right?  Right! Anyway, I've learned that I'm hard to get and the best make out date with me is at the library.  XOXOX

"You remember him.  He was that hot guy." "No." "Yes, you do, you invited him to a party." "Wait, are you talking about the balding guy with the weird nose?" "Yeah, the hot guy." ********************************************************** I won the contest, so now I don't have to wear a rubber band anymore.

What's Hot Heinz Ketchup with the Stay Clean cap.  This is the first "stay clean" cap that I've used that actually stays clean. Redefining "going out" to include bocce ball and chocolate cake. Getting violent over board games. Earrings that look like concentric circles. Energy work for your cat. What's Not A plastic container to freeze Pop Tarts in. Pretentious desserts. Getting bored over violent games. Vogue Magazine. Static cling.

I joined a choir!  The cool things about this choir is that they're Christian and they donate all proceeds from concerts to Northwest Harvest.  Nothing turns me on like music and Social Services at the same time.  Now if there were only some hot guys in the choir . . . Which leads me to my next point: The Northwest Chorale desperately needs basses and tenors.  So desperately, that it doesn't care what they look like.  Music may be a hard mistress, but she loves what's on the inside. So, if you or someone you know has man parts (or can sing man parts), doesn't mind Christians, and likes singing, send them to https://www.nwchorale.org/join.php

I smell like maple syrup. I hate maple syrup. Anyway, my TMJ has started to act up again and today I can't close my mouth all the way.  I took some tylenol, which helped with the pain, but I still can't close my mouth completely.  It feels like my teeth are in the wrong place.  I would just hot pack it, but I'm at work waiting for a pizza to arrive so I can leave.  I am buying pizza for everyone that participated in our deep cleaning "party."  It was a "party" because I dressed up like a mermaid and all the chores were attached to candy bars. I didn't think the rubber band thing would work at all, but it has drawn my attention to what triggers my obsessing over "Johnny Depp."  Ready for this: 1.  Boredom.  When I'm brushing my teeth, driving down the road, taking a shower, etc. my mind starts rustling through its locker of things to think about.  If it can't come up with something really good to worry about or something phi

Let the games begin!  A friend and I have decided to test some behavior mod theories and see which one works best. She will do cognitive restructuring . . . I will snap myself with a rubber band.  Our goal?  To fall out of love.  The start date? Today.  The prize? A pizza trophy and a clean heart. Shit, I just had to snap myself.  Honestly, I'm really doubtful that snapping myself with a rubber band every time I think about a particular guy is going to work.  However, it's for the sake of science and the general advancement of humankind! My friend said, "Oh, it's kind of sad." I said, "Why?" She said, "Well besides the fact that I don't think he's the right guy for you, you've had this crush for so long . . . it would be like ______ no longer having a crush on Johnny Depp."

"Music is none of my business." -Marge Simpson 

Imagine: eight strangers analysing your relationship patterns and theorizing on the average guy.  Now stop imagining, because someone actually did: http://annan-dum.livejournal.com/125143.html

So, I can't sleep and I found a list that I wrote earlier this year. I haven't looked at it in a while because I was too busy being chased around by a snarling bat-winged honey-bucket (as Annan would say). I guess in light of my last entry I should be asking: does this list represent the average guy? My Ideal *Is a Christian. I can share my values and beliefs with him. He understands why faith is important to me and doesn't mind that I want to raise our children to know God. *Openly expresses love in all forms. He makes me feel safe to gush. We create our story together. *Respects my decisions. He respects my hair, the type of work I choose to do, and that I choose not to drink. *Has good mental health. *Respects the fact that I am concrete and solution oriented. *Wants to set goals with me. He has his own goals and shares them with me. *Wants children. *Recognizes the value of a stay-at-home parent and wants that for his children. *Can plan for the future. *Be

   A few days ago I saw a High School aged girl with "I heart Stevie" written on her hand.  I started wondering when I outgrew that particular phase . . . and then realized that hadn't (at least that I could remember) ever written anything like that on my hand.  I was always too shy to do something like that and would covertly doodle boys' names in my note books and sometimes sketch their faces, eyes, and hands.  Or I would write love poetry.  I still sometimes do these things, depending on how hard I am crushing.  The funny thing is that the older I get, the more I have the tendency to randomly admit to my deepest crushes and distrubute my poetry to them and anyone else who will read it.  So who really is more audacious?

 A few weeks ago, we had a company picnic.  One of the activities was Kickball.  I did not want to play, but I let my boss talk me into it.   So we start playing and my mouth goes dry and my palms start sweating.  As ridiculous as it may seem, I suddenly feel like I'm in Junior High School again.  In Junior High School I was chubby, I wore thick glasses, and had no sense of style.  I sucked at team sports (I still do), I didn't fit in anywhere (also still the case), and no boy would even glance in my direction. Junior High   In moments like these, I start to wish that I were one of those girls that looks like she's been cloned from a Style magazine.  Then I remember that that chubby girl I used to be was smart, funny, creative, and determined to above all else be herself, no matter what the cost.  I can't let her down. High School   My High school reunion was last weekend.  I took a friend of mine who wanted to hear stories from when I was in High School.

So I finally went to see a specialist in Asthma and Allergies.  I used to be really bad about this and at one point I got my dermatologist to write a prescription for my inhalor. Oh the days of that word being singular!  Because my asthma has been getting worse I have graduated from the "rescue" Albuterol inahlor to that plus the the twice daily steroid inhalor.  This inhalor tastes like crap and I have to wash my mouth out after using it or I could get a yeast infection in my mouth because steroids depress the immune system. And horray for my immune system!  The reason people have allergic reactions is because their immune system thinks that the allergen is an invading germ.  It gets all revved up and tries to get rid of it; runny nose, sneezing, etc. And then there's the inhalor for my allergies.  At least now I know for sure what I'm allergic to and why I feel sick all the time.  It's because I'm allergic to cats (I have one), dust (I have that too),

I was at Saint V de P today doing something that I really shouldn't do.  It's not a sin, but it really should be; I was buying books.  I have a bookshelf in my little tiny apartment that is exploding with books and the last thing I need is more books.  Anyway, I'm sitting on the floor trying to decide if I really need my own personal copy of My Utmost for His Highest, when someone turns on a radio playing oldies.  At first I was irritated because it sounded awful with the elevator music that was playing over the intercom, but then the clerk in the back started singing.  "Ooooh girl, come back to me . . ." he was good, he was LOUD, and he was even doing the falsetto parts. I don't know about you, but I'm one of those people who sings in their car.  I have seen other people doing this, so I know that I look stupid.  I usually stop singing at intersections so I can pretend that I'm not being an idiot.  Anyway, the situation in St. V de P reminded me of

The mailman who delivers mail to work is really strange.  Not a strange person, but strange for a mailman.  Our past mailmen have all been older and all of them wore a uniform.  This guy is young and never wears a uniform.  The first five times he came to deliver the mail I kept asking him who he was coming to visit.  He looks like someone I went to highschool with.  Not anyone in particular really, just that one type of guy that all the girls had crushes on.  Our old mailman used to say hi and ask how my day was going.  This guy always says, "Hay!" and then smirks at me.  Today after he smirked he said, "Habadoyon," which is mailmanese for "Have a good one."  I carried the mail into my office and started sneezing.  Then I noticed a strange stain on the mail.  Then, I started to smell it.  Yes, our mail was drenched in Polo.  Which begs the question: does he carry cologne in his mailbag?  If so, why?  And if not, what on earth happened to my mail?  

Our pastor did a sermon on burn out today.  It was the best sermon I've ever heard him give.  He gave 12 reasons for burn out: 1. Constant opposition 2. Little results 3. Overextended 4. Working outside of our gifts 5. Thinking we are the only ones 6. Going it alone 7. Not enough rest, exercise, food 8. Lack of discernment 9. Associating with negative people 10. Forgetting the basics of prayer, Bible reading, fellowship 11. Doing it for others, not ourselves 12. Setting unattainable goals

but sometimes we have to get sick to remember what it's like to be well. Sometimes we have to break ourselves almost in two just to remember what being whole feels like. Sometimes we have to surround ourselves with hate to realize who loves us and what love is. Sometimes we have to fall into sin to remember how close God is and how He will run to our rescue if we only say the word. This past month I have felt evil in the air so thick that everyone who came into my home got the chills. I have fasted and prayed, fasted and wept. Although I prayed again and again for the binding and the casting out of whatever that was, I found myself running like someone escaping a burning building. I have heard lies told about who I am and what I've done. I will never, ever again let anyone tell me how I feel or who I am. I am a child of God, worthy of being treated with love. I am not exempt from treating others with love. I am not crazy. I am not a temptress. I will not have respect d

The day after I moved, I told one of my co-workers that I had woke up and thought, "Where am I?"  My co-worker said, "I woke up this morning and thought, Who's she?  And who's her friend?"           While doing a Vebal De-escalation and Containment training I was demonstrating how to get away from someone who is biting you.  Almost all the releases require a volunteer to help demonstrate, except this one.  I said, "The next part is releases from bites, but I don't need someone to bite me."  One of the staff said, "Someone might like that too much!" "I like fast cars and fast men." "I thought it was psycho men." One of my co-workers was talking about being tired because he was old.  I think he may have meant to say that it was hard to be excited about listening to a trainer when youre geriatric, but what he actually said was, "It's hard when you're androgynous."  Another co-worker and I sta

So here was my day in a nutshell: *My boss and I stopped for coffee this morning at a place called "Pretzel Logic."  It was literally a shack with bars on the window.  We went in and I immediately looked to see what types of pretzels they had.  The answer to that question?  None.  No pretzels.  It had hamburgers, breakfast sandwiches, bagels, you name it. But zero pretzels.  Really, not even the hard mini kind.   *Got CPR/First Aid certified.  Yay!  Good for two more years. *Went back to work and our CEO shows up.  Guess what?  I am the company wide Employee of the Month.  He gave me a really nice letter and a $250 bonus. *Then the sink exploded.  Well, it didn't really explode, but that's how the staff described it.  I'm not a plumber, so I can't really describe what was wrong without using the word "thingy" a lot, but it was the first time that I ever got to turn off the main water valve.  We couldn't turn it off under the sink because

1. Duct tape 2. At least 40 oz of Pepsi 3. A punching bag with a scary clown face on it that laughs when you hit it 4. A pizza 5. A really catchy and terrible song that I can put on repeat on my MP3 player 6. A new hat 7. One of those giant rolls of tickets 8. A good book 9. A massage 10. Someone to hold hostage until these demands are met 

I was coming out of the Dollar Store today and heard someone yell, "I don't like people getting in my stuff!"  I looked up and discovered a dishelved looking man staggering towards me.  As he passed by me, he continued rambling incoherently. Which begs the question: Blue Tooth or Nut Ball? I've wondered this many times, and unless the person is rhyming and word salading up a storm, I usually err on the side of sane.  As I got in my car, I started thinking about what defines insanity.  Our definition of insanity is fairly dependant on deviating from the norm.  So if the norm changes to look more like insanity, is the person still insane?  For example: someone who is wearing a headset is hearing and talking to voices that no one else hears.  If you asked this person if s/he believed the voices were real, s/he would say yes, that they were coming out of a device s/he was wearing.  Doesn't that sound just a little like schizophrenia?

Someone told me that they saw an intern therapist dressed in a Pagliacci's uniform, "I wouldn't go to a therapist who was a pizza delivery guy." The reason for this is that interns don't get paid, and since there's nothing ethically compromising about pizza . . . Why not have a pizzaria that is run entirely by intern therapists?  It could be open 24/7, and the therapists could get their hours in while earning some money.  If you have a session, you get a discount on your pizza. And yes, I would call it Therapizza and it would be the ultimate crazy magnet.  All the wackos would be there at four o'clock in the morning instead of hanging around hospitals and Jack-in-the-box drive throughs.  But nobody's stabbing anybody at Therapizza because the staff are trained in verbal de-escalation, physical intervention, and good old fashioned Italian bribery.  I would tout it as a holistic approach that addresses not only the needs of the mind, but also of t

1. Disease 2. Llamas 3. Being part of a post-apocalyptic commune 4. A boob job 5. A little red Honda motorcycle 6. Underwear that's so sexy it hurts (literally) 7. Psychic powers 8. Earthquakes 9. Mental illness 10. Missing Fingers 

I can't put into words what's bothering me, so time to laugh: Our topic of the month for our Health and Safety Committee at work was Rabies.  The guy who was presenting the topic had this to say: Guy (G): If I ever get Rabies I'm gonna bite someone and give them Rabies. Me (M): How? G: Just walk up to someone and bite them. M: Anyone? G: Anyone. M: Co-workers? G: Yup. M: (scooting back chair) Enemies? G: If I bit my enemy, I wouldn't tell them I had Rabies.

This morning I was reading the Evil Plan book that my best friend and I created.  I realized that I haven't written in there since about 2004 sometime.  Anyway, here's what the me of two years ago was plotting: "Complain about feeling ill.  Run unexpectedly towards cute guy.  Projectile vomit on cute guy's pants.  Yell, 'Quick, take off your pants!  I'll get some water on them!'  Be very urgent about this.  Leave . . . with pants.  Do not ever ever return." Cute guys of the world, BEWARE!

You will never be the reason I push the air out of my lungs, You will always be the reason I dance. Did ya know?  It's not breathing in that's the hard or important part.  Breathing out, expelling the oxygen-depleated air is what requires the muscular movement of the diaphragm.  Exhaling creates a vacuum and air rushes in to fill it. 

Today I was kidnapped by three old (one old enough to be my dad, two old enough to be my grandfathers) Baptist men.  Well, I wasn't really kidnapped. One of them had this giant Cadillac that would probably float if you put it in water.  We all went to the Country Buffet.  It was funny because I don't spend a lot of time with people outside of my peer group.  It also was the first time in five years that I got to eat fried okra.  The last time I ate fried okra I was in Tennessee on my way to visit my (at the time) fiance.  But that, is an entirely different story.

I've been in a terrible mood this whole past week, and stupidly deleted the only copy of one of my poems.  I had already lost another poem when my computer died an untimely death due to cat.  So after freaking out a little, I realized that I had read the poem to one of my friends and that she had asked for a copy.  She still had it and has loaned it back to me with the request that I read it at the next slam. Speaking of the slam, yes, I read during the open mike this week for the first time!  I read a poem I wrote about my best friend.  She read too, so did my other friend's boyfriend.  You can read the poem I wrote about her (It's called "If In Fact") and many, many others at mellla.tripod.com/poetryarchives

A while ago I saw a middle-aged man, wearing jeans and a Mariners jacket and carrying a leopard-print umbrella.  The umbrella was so out of place, that I immediately made up a story about him: He had to borrow his daughter's umbrella because he had left his navy blue umbrella at the office and had broken his black one by throwing it at his wife's car.  She was supposed to pick him up, but didn't see him even though he was waving his umbrella and shouting at her.  So he tried throwing it at her car to get her attention.  She didn't even seem to notice the umbrella bouncing off her trunk and landing on the opposite side of the road, where it was immediately run over by about five cars and a suicidal bicyclist.  So today, he had taken the only umbrella in the coat rack, his daughter's.  Although people gave him weird looks, and his co-workers made snide remarks, his only comment upon arriving home was, "We need to get Mina a new umbrella; this one has a broken t

"Librarians know sh*t you wouldn't even believe."-Overheard from my roommate about two months ago. I thought it was really funny and wrote it down. 

"Smoking during pregnancy boosts the odds that your baby will have the wrong number of fingers. Smoking 10 or fewer cigarettes a day increases the risk of too many, too few, or webbed fingers by 29 percent. Smoking a pack a day almost doubles the risk." I know someone with a webbed toe.  I paid him a dollar to take off his shoe so I could see his webbed toe.  I'll have to ask if his mother smoked while she was pregnant with him.  Or maybe toes don't count? Unfortunately, statistics are deceitful above all things.  I bet the chances of having a a baby with the wrong number of fingers is probably under one percent.  So increasing one percent by a third is not really that big of a deal.  Even if you double it, you only get up to two percent. 

This poem is in Pantoum form. I wrote it last week and I think it pretty accurately illustrates how blind I can be to other people's faults. Anyway, Pantoum form looks like this: ABCD BEDF ECFA You Try To Fool Me You pull apart your ribs to show me your black soul all I can see is your beating heart of gold. You show me your black soul its shadows falling on my face your beating heart of gold like halogen, like the sun's rays. Your shadow is falling on my face and all I can see is you, like halogen, like the sun's rays, when you pull apart your ribs. 

"You should move in with me. I'll give you lots of space . . . although I might kill you in your sleep . . ." "No, that's okay." "I made it in your colors." "What are my colors?" "Dirt." "Are you still carrying a torch for him?" "No, just a little tiny candle."