Note to Self:
I understand that you love Jelly Bellies, but it’s probably not a good idea to get excited and eat the lone/stray Jelly Belly that you find randomly in the back of the counter, in the pocket of your jacket or under the seat of your car. Even if it is in your favorite flavor.
Technically, I suppose it's graphite.
When I was in third grade, a trip to the pencil sharpener ended with five millimeters of lead lodged in the palm of my hand. My teacher, Mrs. Minton, had very strict rules about interrupting her when she was working with a reading group. Even so – I approached her timidly, with my pencil sticking out of my hand.
“Mrs. Minton?” I tested the water.
“Alison, you know the rule.”
I returned to my seat, and sat, holding my hand, trying not to cry. When reading group ended, Mrs. Minton came over to find out what was “so urgent” and I showed her my hand, the pencil and its missing lead. Of course, there was some blood as well, and when she saw all of this, I could tell she felt horrible and sent me immediately to the office so a nurse could look at it.
It’s now 17 years later and I still have that lead wedged in my hand. I’ve become attached to it, almost like it’s a beauty mark. But here’s the weird thing: it’s starting to surface. I’ve never been able to feel it in my hand – until the last month. Like a splinter, it seems to be working its way out.
Part of me is sad – I don’t want to lose it. Part of me is fixated on it, wanting to know why – after 17 years – my body has finally realized it has a foreign substance in it and is try to drive it out. And part of me is creeped out realizing that one day I’ll look down and see my skin split open and some random length of lead protruding from my hand. Ack!
Or maybe I won’t notice at all. I mean, I started this life with an “outie” belly button, but sometime around fourth grade it just magically inverted. I wasn’t aware of it until my friend Shannon pointed it out. “Hey? What happened to your belly button? It’s not sticking out any more?”
I looked and – to my amazement – she was correct.
Sometimes it takes something crazy – like a belly button righting itself or (less impressively) a piece of lead resurfacing after more than a decade to remind us that these bodies of ours are nothing short of miraculous.
I find that people who travel a lot tend to lean on Facebook more than the general population. I know I do, and it’s probably some combination of interesting things happening when I travel and a need to feel connected to friends back home. My friend Brian travels for work as much as I do, and I enjoy keeping one eye trained to his posts when he’s on the road.
This week, he did not disappoint:
When I read this, I was rolling. In the follow-up to this thread, Brian went on to explain that the girl’s father asked the gate attendant to repeat what she’d just said. The woman obliged, but substituted the word “balls” in place of “testicles” – presumably because she understood she had a more mature audience.
I appreciated her use of the proper anatomical terms with the little girl. Growing up, my parents did the same. (Maybe because my dad was biology teacher?) I don’t think my sister or I even knew what “Going #1 or #2” meant until we went to school and heard our classmates saying it.
In fact, one of often retold family stories is about my sister, who – as a four year old child – contracted a bladder infection while my family was on vacation visiting relatives in Alabama. My parents took her to the doctor, a sweet old southern man, who asked her, “Honey, does your tee-hee hurt when you tinkle?”
My sister looked him in the eye and said, “No, but my vagina burns when I urinate.”
Shall we agree that it's ironic (or appropriate) that it's called a blow dryer?
String: Ikea's way of saying, "We don't want you to leave that crap you just bought here."
Saturday, for some inexplicable reason, I got a bug up my ass to go to IKEA. Mind you, I’ve only ever been to IKEA twice before, and I don’t think I bought anything either time. I tend to hate IKEA… it’s like an amusement park of cheaply constructed furniture that’s over-run by recent college grads and families with a bunch of kids.
So why did I suddenly heed the calling? Well, I’m in the throes of prepping my place to go on the market, and as such, there are a few finishing touches that are needed to make it show better – a new rug, better lighting, a few throw pillows to match my newly painted accent wall, a picture to hide my fuse box. IKEA seemed to be the perfect place to pick up these random nuggets, if only I could bring myself to deal with all the people.
pithypants 