Bmore Bookworm: Yoga & Mental Illness

One of my all-time favorite books ever is Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Even though I buy all my books (or used to until my husband threatened that we'd have to move in with my mom if I continued to spend obscene amounts of money at Barnes and Noble and Borders), it's one of the precious few that I've actually read more than once.

If you were to drop my well-worn copy (which was, of course, new when I got it) onto the floor, it would automatically open up to my favorite scene/chapter. It's the one that begins "There's a Monopoly game going on in the day room. They've been at it for three days..." The reason I love that chapter so much is because it just shows the characters being themselves, and I always get a good laugh out of it-
"Not that one, you crazy bastard; that's not my piece, that's my house."
"It's the same color."
"What's this little house doing on the Electric Company?"
"That's a power station."
"Martini, those ain't the dice you're shaking--"
"Let him be; what's the difference?"
"Those are a couple of houses!"
"Faw. And Martini rolls a big, let me see, a big nineteen. Good goin', Mart; that puts you- Where's your piece, buddy?"
"He had it in his mouth, McMurphy. Excellent. That's two moves over the second and third bicuspid, four moves to the board...."

And so on. Part of the reason I hated the movie so much, despite the rave reviews about it along with Jack Nicholson, was because that little piece of awesomeness was left out.

Anyway.

I'll admit that I have a sick fascination with what goes on inside a mental institution. And when I saw a book in the (barf) library that boasted being about not only a mental institution, but one for the criminally insane, I was sold. So I checked out The Treatment & The Cure by Peter Kocan. The book was very similar to Cuckoo's Nest, except the character development wasn't quite as in-depth and there wasn't much of an actual story line/plot. It was basically a work of fiction, told in second person (how weird is that?) that chronicled an inmate's journey through different wards of an Australian mental hospital. He/You started in MAX, then gets transferred to Ward 6, Ward 24, and finally REHAB.

You watch fellow patients undergo shock treatments, suffer at the hands of bullying "screws" (nurses) and see the effects of overmedication.

His/Your crime is never really described. During his/your stay at the hospital he/you take(s) up an interest in poetry and writing, and the story ends with a 15-page poem that he/you wrote winning the National Poetry Prize.

It was an interesting read, and I finished it in a day, which says something good about the book. BUT the best part? I finished it, then turned to the last page, which had the author's brief bio. Which was the most shocking part of the entire book. Which was this:

Peter Kocan was born in Australia in 1947. His failed attempt to assassinate federal opposition leader Arthur Calwell in 1966 saw him sentence to life imprisonment. Kocan was later transferred from Sydney's infamous Long Bay jail to Morisset hospital for the criminally insane. His first books of poetry were published while he was at Morriset. His novel Fresh Fields candidly describes experiences leading up to the act of violence that resulted in his incarceration. He has twice been awarded the Premier's Award for Fiction.

Wow. So now I'm guessing that a large part of this was based on his actual experiences and feelings. I wish I had known that from the start. Not the most riveting book I've ever read, but it gives you a great, albeit creepy, insight into what life must be like for the "criminally insane" although he/you appeared far from insane.

Before this, I finished another (barf) library book called The Yoga Teacher by Alexandra Gray. This book, although drab at times, told the story of a pharmaceutical company rep who gave up all the material things her posh salary afforded her to pursue life as a yoga teacher. I'm a huge fan of doing what you like, and the book was definitely a motivator to firmly and deeply believe in, and devote as much as you can to your career.

So far, these library books have been ok. Maybe the library's not all bad. Barf.

The Spawn...Again

I'm sure that by now I don't have to remind you who the evil Spawn of Satan is who frequents my gym late late late in the evening. And by "frequents" I mean shows up every now and then solely to make my life miserable. We have determined that she is bipolar, because when she's not making snappy comments about clocks being pasted to her forehead (which is still, in my opinion, one of the stupidest remarks I have heard come out of the mouth of an adult) and getting upset that we have altered hours around holidays, she's trying to be our bff.

I ran into her on the way to the cafeteria to get a fat fajita burrito with sour cream and cheese outside the gym the other day, and of course, she was acting all sweet and telling me how the doctor didn't mention that a broken ankle could have possible affected her already existing arthritis. Which probably existed solely due to the undue pressure put on her joints by her excessive weight and repulsive personality.

So I have a funny feeling that a) she is heavily medicated or b) she is in a much worse mood today, because I am now alone with her in the gym, and I should be so lucky that she might actually leave on time, thus allowing ME to leave on time. It just doesn't work out that way for me.

So she waddled in around 7ish and retreated to the locker room. I went back there to dump some towels in the laundry bin, remembering much too late that she was back there, and that I might be forced to seeing her naked. I was thinking horrible thoughts about Medusa, and trying desperately to remember if there was any way to return to normal after being turned into stone as I rounded the corner into the ladies' locker room, but luckily (or not, depending how you look at it) she was fully dressed, sitting on the bench, texting someone on her phone. Actually, since I find it impossible to believe that she has any friends to text, she was probably composing her shopping list. Or taking a photo of her feet, since she's still probably getting used to having toes instead of claws.

So on the one hand, I was very thankful that I didn't have to be exposed to what lies beneath her clothing. On the other hand, she's the only FREAKING PERSON IN HERE, and the only thing standing between me and GOING HOME so WHY THE F IS SHE SITTING IN THE LOCKER ROOM, TEXTING NONEXISTENT PEOPLE, WHEN SHE DOESN'T EVEN GET PHONE SERVICE IN THE GYM??

How do I know that she doesn't get service, you ask? Because 2 minutes later, she hobbles outside with her phone, then hobbles back into the locker room before emerging to begin her "workout". And by "workout" I mean ANNOYING THE CRAP OUT OF ME BY MERELY EXISTING IN THE GENERAL VICINITY OF MY FITNESS CENTER.

So now that she's sufficiently wasted much more time than she needs to, she's making her way down the circuit strength machines. At first I wasn't too concerned because her maximum endurance is, oh, about 3 minutes. But right now she's just sitting on the machines for about 2 minutes before and after each exercise, evilly squeezing every second out of me, and I know I'm going to get another rude comment when I politely try to inform her that we close at the posted time.

Waxing Poetic

Because I didn't really know what else to think about on my way to work today, I was challenging myself to remember the words to a poem I wrote for a project in high school about my infatuation with Rockapella.

So, in keeping with the holiday spirit, since you have all been good little boys and girls, I present to you my brilliant poem, along with another one I wrote in college about staphylococcus aureus.

Flaunt the Fabulous Four

I was assigned to create a poemic lyr,
and I guess it would behoove me to do it,
for it's due Wednesday morning, no later, I fear.
So I'm forcing myself to hop to it.

Today's lyric subject of vast contemplation
is one I deliriously adore.
It's about my dangerously lethal infatuation
with a group we'll call the Fabulous Four.

Now there's one tiny problem, a miniature disaster
that interferes with my position as fan.
See- while the delicately fine art of singing they've mastered,
they're only really famous in Japan.

So to all you stricken carriers of the Fabulous Four plague,
Don't hide your contagious disease.
Volunteer information and don't you be vague,
your admiration must never ever cease.

Wear their delirium like badges of honor-
stand tall, walk proud with iron jaw.
Make others think versus you they're a goner.
Be uplifted by their spiritual bra.

And if any pathetic naysayers just happen to poopoo
your instrumentless idolization insanity,
don't stoop to their crustacean level of doodoo,
use it as kindle for your fire of vanity.

Simply smile and wax poetic on the subject of your heroes
(Try to rub it in like salt to a scrape).
And if that doesn't work then step squarely on their toes
and run away cackling maniacally at your clever escape.

You know that these guys pummel major wooly mammoth butt.
So don't be a bitter old fella.
Let out your emotions, don't you dare keep them shut
and yell mercifully out, "Do It, ROCKAPELLA!"

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Staph Attack

Gather ‘round and hear this, ye children so fair
For a tale so much older than time.
Listen closely to me , for your health, if you dare-
I’ll try my best to keep tempo and rhyme.

There lives deep inside your inner nasal wall
An evil Staphylococcus aureus.
And, trust me, there’s nothing like it at all
In any dictionary or thesaurus.

It starts out innocently as a child,
Snuggled contentedly inside your schnoz.
But it soon grows restless, mean and wild,
Struggling to escape its resident laws.

It patiently awaits the perfect chance,
A ride that will bring it down south.
A lone finger enters- oh, see the Staph dance!
As it is carried straight into the mouth!

Staph loves the moist, such a Heavenly clime,
He is giddy and brimming with glee.
The finger brings more and more every time,
Our Staph is in good company.

Now, children don’t fear, what I tell you is true
For it happens both near and afar.
What comes next is quite graphic, so listen- please do!
Or you can go wait in the car.

They make their way down to the stomach and such,
Stopping several times on the way.
The lungs, liver, spleen- Oh, this is too much!
But the Staph, how they love to play!

At every pit stop, they leave something behind-
A pathogenic trail of crumbs.
An abscess filled with pus and such kind,
This can’t be cured with no Tums!

They infect every corner, every small nook and cranny,
Causing unpleasantnesses like endocarditis.
You won’t have the strength to get off of your fanny
Once you’re infected with septic arthritis.

But it can do lots more harm, if you don’t take some care-
You can end up with pneumonia or worse.
Just try to fight it, if you bother to dare,
Make every effort to get rid of this curse!

It’s got leukocidin and toxins, artillery galore
To destroy your body’s defense.
Toxic Shock Syndrome will even the score,
So wasting your time? It just doesn’t make sense.

Use all the strength your feeble body can muster,
The Staph just won’t leave you alone.
You simply cannot get rid of that mean grape-like cluster,
But only see every day how it’s grown.

You can use special soap, the antistaphylococcal kind,
And paint yourself white with the cream.
Even with antibiotics, the Staph never mind,
Though with time, they’re not bad as they seemed.

So, now heed my lesson, you know where Staph grows,
Don’t cause me to repeat it.
You know it’s not polite to pick at your nose,
And certainly, don’t ever eat it!

She Works Hard for the Money

My job, like many others, requires active certifications to attest for my knowledge and ability in the fitness field. These certifications, like many others, are not cheap, and require a certain number of Continuing Education credits each year or two. If the CEC's aren't accrued, then the certification expires, and I have to shell out even more money to re-certify.

Obviously, I don't like this.

I understand that cutting-edge is money in my field. What good am I if I'm giving the same old generic fitness advice that was given back in the 1950's? But I feel that my career would take care of my lack of knowledge by itself- I don't need certifications to do that for me. For example, the new guidelines for cardio exercise stress intervals and high intensity (in terms of increased levels of fitness and weight loss- not achieving or maintaining general heart health). If my exercise prescriptions (which don't exist now because we don't offer personal training where I currently work) went off the old-school low intensity, longer duration for the generally healty, based on the premise of the much heard about "fat burning zone", then I would lose clients and eventually lose enough money that I would have to either reevaluate my training methods based on more current research, or find a different career. Or starve to death.

Bottom line? I think CEC's are useless as a requirement. That being said, I am open to learning new things, and I do appreciate the motivation that they can sometimes provide. I just don't like that they're required and that they are so expensive. Through my certifications, I am lucky in that I have to renew them every other year, on alternating years. And the courses I have to take can count towards both of my certifications.

So my morning today was spent reading about Women, Exercise & Metabolism and Nutrition & Weight Control. Which are both topics with which I would hope any fitness professional with any sort of certification or education would already be very familiar. Each cost me $20. So now I'm $40 poorer for the reassurance that I know what I'm supposed to know, and already did.

Swing Baby, Swing!

When I was in college, I started taking private ballroom dance lessons. To this day I'm not quite sure how I could afford them, since I was far from wealthy, and I was living off a diet of potato roll and mayo sandwiches and noodles with ketchup. But somehow, I scraped up the $52 per week, strapped on my shoes and met Dimitri in the upstairs room at Towson Dance Studio every week so he could teach me how to dance.

I LOVED it. My favorites were the Cha-cha and Swing. He always started with the same song for swing, and as soon as I recognized those first few notes, a huge goofy smile would light up my entire face, and stay plastered there for the duration of the session.

I was good at it, too. Dimitri said I had potential. And I believed him. I learned the entire first syllabus, and then I had to stop because life in general got in the way. School got tough, or work became demanding or money turned scarce. Some stupid reason.

Shortly after I finished college, I discovered I did not want to do desk work. I had taken a job for a non-profit company, where my title and pay was "administrative assistant" but my actual work was "web page and database administrator." It was a small company, and the staff consisted of myself and 2 other ladies- both significantly older than me, and both total wenches.

It took almost a year, but I finally realized that they were taking complete advantage of my young naivety, and were treating me like crap. So I quit. And I followed my heart and applied to become a ballroom dance instructor for Arthur Murray.

I studied with them for a few months, relearning all the moves I'd forgotten, and learning how to teach them to others. I learned how to lead, and how to teach both men and women their respective parts. I student taught and learned how to rack up sufficient clientele. I was doing something I loved, and something I was good at, and it was awesome.

I was offered the job, but sadly couldn't accept it, because they sprung a contract on me that stated that if I were to ever leave Arthur Murray, then I couldn't teach within 25 miles of any Arthur Murray studio for a year or two (I can't remember which). This worried me, along with the fact that I was signing a contract in general- what if there was a huge economic crisis (do those happen?) and people stopped taking dance lessons, but I was still stuck in my contract? What if I never got more than 3 students?

Granted, I was still in my very early 20's, but I had bills to pay! I couldn't rely on the questionable salary and no benefits Arthur Murray was offering, so I had to go somewhere else.

Since then, ballroom dancing has always had a special place in my heart, but the only exposure I get to it is at TB's gigs. So I was very excited to get to go to the Swing Dance event last weekend, especially since LPP was there and he's an awesome dancer.

I danced with maybe 15 guys that night. And they weren't all old and smelly! None were smelly and one was kind of old, but the rest were young and cute. And they were all good dancers. It was a GREAT night. The only bad dancer I got was this funny looking skinny guy with dark hair and a big head. He knew the moves, and he was an ok lead, but he was kind of weird.

I understand the importance of being a strong lead. As a guy, it's your responsibility to cue your partner of what you intend on doing, so she can follow without hesitation. So, for example, when you are ready to turn your partner, you push her hand off with your hand, kind of forcefully, so she knows to separate from you, and do her turn. I'm not saying throw her across the room, but some force is good in this situation. Hence, a strong lead. And there's nothing sexier than a guy who is a confident dancer and a good, strong lead.

This guy had some kind of dominatrix problem. Instead of confidently but gently pushing me away for my turns, he shoved. Hard. Then kind of kept his hand, limp, up in the air. He was all like, "Be gone, bitch." I didn't like it. It felt like he was sick of me all of a sudden, so he pushed me away, but then he'd hold his hand out for me once I completed the turn, so we could continue dancing.

Not sexy.

Do It, Rockapella!

Last night TB and I went on over to the Strathmore to witness my 4th ever Rockapella concert. Despite the fact that I've seen the group before, this was a new group to me. The baritone and bass had left the band and been replaced, and this was the first time I'd even heard them with the new members.

I don't handle change very well, so I wasn't being optimistic about the new singers. But I'm happy to say that the concert was amazing, and that they are every bit as awesome as they ever were.

Here are the highlights and lowlights of the evening. Because I like to think of myself as an optimist, I will go through the highlights first.

-I have a new obsession. For the last 15? 16? 17? years I have been constantly professing my undying love for lead/hi tenor Scott Leonard. I think I've mentioned him before. Well, my friends, I have a new love interest. George Baldi. Sigh. He's the new bass. But, in addition to his deep, sexy, melodic voice, he's an AWESOME dancer. Very smooth. Just to give you an idea of how awesome he is, he did a solo while doing the robot. Read that sentence again. He did a low low low bass solo while flawlessly executing the smoothest sexiest robot I've seen in my life.

The first time I saw Rockapella in concert, Sean Altman, Elliott Kerman and Barry Carl were still in the band. It was at Goucher College, and I was maybe 14 or 15 at the time. None of my friends were interested in Rockapella (big surprise) so I begged my mom to make the hour-long trip from Frederick to Towson for me. She had no interest in attending the concert, but since my brother attended Towson University, she agreed to drive me since she could pass the time by nagging my brother. So there I sat, all by myself, in the most awesome seat ever. I was at eye-level with the band, maybe 20 or 30 feet back, dead center. I was wearing a baseball cap, probably backwards, because even then at that early age I was the epitome of high fashion. Elliott caught my eye, and for some bizarre reason I smiled. He smiled back. That was probably one of the most wonderful moments in my life. Because it was natural and genuine. I tried to channel George in this same fashion, but he didn't respond. I'll have to keep working on it.

-My future husband George said these sentences: I had to clench my butt cheeks really hard. I might need 20 or 30 seconds now. Sure he was joking around about reaching high notes, but just the mental image that comment produced alone....

-They closed with Rock the Boat. Which is still stuck in my head today. Actually, this might be a lowlight.

Not-So-Highlights included:

-Some numbskull thought it was appropriate to, not only bring a 2-year old to this concert, but force the poor kid to sit through the entire show without break. The show was 90 minutes straight through (no intermission). I hardly had the attention span for this, and I was occupying myself by drooling over George and imagining what our kids would look like. The poor kid was loud and fidgety. Which made me angry and unsympathetic. I'm a mom, and I can understand that kids aren't always cooperative. But what upset me the most is that, instead of taking this child out to the lobby when he got loud, they just made things even worse by shushing him and indulging in his desire to crawl across the laps of his 3 escorts. And it didn't help that they were just across the aisle from me.

-The Babysitter that wouldn't leave. I like the girl. But by the time we got home, it was late and I just wanted to get to sleep. I need to be at work at 6am. So I'm putzing around the kitchen, trying to get stuff ready for the next morning, and I turn around and she's standing there. She asks for a Pepsi, I assume she wants the caffeine for the ride home, so I give her one. And then she just stands there in front of me, staring at me, and drinks it. I tried to make small talk because let's face it, it was getting awkward. Finally TB came upstairs and I broke free.

-TB and I are putzes. At close to midnight last night, he was looking for his keys and I was looking for my cell phone. He had discovered that he'd misplaced his keys just before we left for the concert. Not wanting to be late, we just took mine, and he picked up the search for them when we got home. I had left my phone at home for the concert (which NEVER happens), and I had picked it up when we got back to look at my text messages and set my alarm for the next morning. Then put it down somewhere and couldn't remember where it was.

So both of us numbnuts are trying to quietly ransack the house looking for our keys and phone. I'm not sure where he found his keys, but my phone had been placed on a bag of marshmallows on the kitchen counter. Makes sense, right?

Ass Burgers and BS

Attractive title, isn't it?

I finished reading John Elder Robison's book, Look Me In the Eye a few weeks ago. It wasn't as easy a read as his brother's books, but it was pretty interesting and I was able to finish it, which says a lot.

As an adult, Robison was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, which is a condition on the autism spectrum that is characterized by "difficulties in social interaction and restricted, stereotyped patterns of behavior and interests," according to Wikipedia. In his book, he describes what his life was like growing up as an Aspergian, although he didn't know it until much later.

While reading this book, I found that I could totally relate. I'm not saying I have Asperger's Syndrome. My general lack of focus in anything would separate me from the almost savant-like Aspergians. I'm just saying there are small similarities. While I'm generally able to maintain eye contact, while making sure not to let it get to CREEPY level, my small talk skills leave much to be desired, and usually I don't attempt small talk at all because I suck at it so much.

But the funniest similarity I noticed between Robison and myself is the need to create names for people. He called his parents Slave and Stupid. I almost died when I read that, I only wish I had been clever enough to think of names like that for my parents (although I did call my mom Mamaduke in high school. She was not fond of that name). He calls his wife Unit Two. His son is Cubby. His brother started out as Snort, then grew into Varmint, and currently has no title other than Hey.

Genius. I, too, create names for people. Some aren't aware of this. Some, unfortunately for them, are. SB started out as a Peanut, but now she is Chicken. Chicken is a nickname. It is short for Chicken Little Peanut Pie.

Some of my creations you have already met- LPP and Bucky, I believe, have already made appearances here. Now here's what cracks me up. It's so much easier on the tongue to use LPP's real name (Pete) than to actually say LPP. One syllable versus three. Yet I still call him that. And his girlfriend is Mrs. LPP. His mom is Mama LPP, etc...

Many of the people who frequent my fitness center have earned themselves titles. G, Mortimer and BB all work in the next building over from mine. Blank Stare works entirely too close to me. Benny (if I'm in a good mood) works upstairs.

My husband plays in a band with the XBF (not really an ex, that's just what I call him), who has dated both The Ancient One and the Crack Whore (currently ex-)Girlfriend.

My husband is the luckiest of all, because his names are everchanging. He has been T-Butt (during my J-Lo phase), Toddles, Toddifer, Bu, and BB (short for Bu Bear). He puts up with a lot.

He would have been Toddsford, but that's the name I gave to a friend back in high school. And they certainly can't share it.


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OK, I have exciting news about Blank Stare.

Are you ready for this?

OK. I was actually nice to him today.

On purpose!

I know!

I talked with him, and everything! I totally acknowledged his existence, and I might have even asked him a polite question or two. I volunteered that TB (being an Eagles/Ravens fan) was very happy with this weekend's games. I told him that I had to leave early to bring SB to the pediatrician, then responded with more than one word about why.

Now don't go acting all crazy, thinking we're becoming friends, or that I'm starting to like him or anything. I can't guarantee I will continue to be nice to him.

But it's a start, right?

Rockapella Tonight!!

I'm really excited today because TB's Christmas present to me this year is tickets to a Rockapella Christmas concert...tonight! He got a sitter lined up, he contacted my boss at work to get coverage for me since this is usually my night to work late, and he got the tickets. It's at the Strathmore in Northern Virginia, and I can't wait. This will be the first time I've seen or heard them with their new tenor and bass.

Awesome.

Now all I have to do is figure out how I can get Scott Leonard to marry me without sacrificing my marriage to TB. Hmmmmm....

Picture Perfect

I have 2 posts on the backburner that I have started, but just don't really feel like finishing right now. One is about a book I finished last week, called Broken, and the other is a recap of the Swing Dance event TB played on Saturday night, where LPP made a guest appearance and my back hurt from dancing so much. Hopefully I'll get the motivation to finish those up and post them. We'll see.

Yesterday was a busy day. We're not a huge portrait family. I just can't justify spending all that money for a picture. But my mother's only request for a Christmas present this year was a portrait of the family, so we felt compelled to oblige her. Since this was all last-minute, and I had no idea how long it takes to get the photos back after the appointment, I was excited to find on Saturday that there was an opening the next day (yesterday).

So we got all dressed up, which was an event in and of itself. I wear sweats all the time at work. It's been a while since I wore any pants that aren't jeans or leggings. After much searching and digging, I settled on a pair of Old Navy khakis and found a sweater that didn't make me look like a linebacker, and was happy.

The dress that I had planned on SB wearing, was a sleeveless dress that goes on top of a turtleneck. Of course, since I do laundry on Sunday, there were no clean turtlenecks. I like to dress SB for comfort since she's all over the place, so there wasn't much available that was suitable for a family portrait. So I had to settle on her Christmas card photo outfit- dark red corduroys and a white sweater.

But that just screwed everything up. I was wearing a cream sweater, and I knew that my cream next to her white would look awkward. PLUS TB had already gotten dressed in khakis and a maroon shirt. So now between the 3 of us, we had 2 shades of white, 2 shades of khaki, and 2 shades of dark red.

Great.

TB's only other clean shirt had a huge stain on the right nipple (wtf, is he lactating?) so changing wasn't an option for him. SB didn't have any other clean clothes that were presentable, so changing wasn't an option for her. I am pretty sure I didn't have any other pants that fit, so those had to stay. But I was agreeable to changing into a green argyle sweater at the last minute, thus sticking to our lame "Christmas" theme.

At the studio, the photographer was running about 30-45 minutes late. Or so we thought. Sitting in the waiting room, begging our 3-year old to remain calm and not tear the entire place apart, we witnessed the photographer asking his staff is anyone else was waiting. Eagerly, we sat up straighter, only to see the staff shake their heads no. Taking a second to look up from the lollipop she was sucking on, the front desk girl (whose shirt was a good 3 sizes too small for her, creating a puffy life preserver of fat that settled over the waistband of her 2 sizes-too-tight pants) must have noticed my jaw hitting the floor because, shifting her lollipop over to the side of her mouth, she asked me if we were waiting.

I nodded so vigorously my earring fell off. The photographer beckoned us back while the Life Saver girl apologized, saying she thought we had already had our photos taken. I guess she thought we just chose to stay around for the atmosphere.

So we go back there, and the photographer, Paul, tries to make friends with SB by telling her he's a grandpa, meanwhile trying to make friends with me and TB by telling us he recently had hernia surgery. He puts us in a variety of poses, including:

-TB straddling me while I straddled a fur-covered stool, with SB sitting on his leg
-Us standing and holding SB in between us
-All of us sitting on the stained white bedsheet/curtain trying not to gag on the smell
-Above photo with SB laying in front of us, playboy style
and my favorite
-All of us laying on our backs, with our heads in a circle (a pose he admitted he had never tried with adults)

After the photos had been taken, we were lead to a computer where we were presented with our options, including one where the photo was made into a 4x8" card with the words "Class of 2009" next to our lovely mugs. We chose the two most conservative shots (which were conveniently the 2 shots where I looked the best) and placed our order. After politely declining Life Saver's offer of a $159 package that included a variety of sizes but only 1 8x10, expressed only AFTER we announced that all we wanted were 5 8x10s, we headed out.

To see Santa.

Which will be its own post. Later.

I Think, Therefore I...Think. I Think.

So as I was driving home from work today, I found myself daydreaming while stopped at a red light. This is not to say that I don't daydream while I'm actually moving, because I do- more than I'd care to admit. But this time I was lucky enough to be stopped when the daydream enveloped me. And don't ask, because I couldn't tell you what I was daydreaming about, even if I wanted to. Which I don't.

But suddenly I realize without even looking that my light had turned green so I snapped out of it and went on my way.

Fascinating story, eh?

But it has a point. Have you ever noticed how you don't have to even be looking at the traffic light to know when it changes colors? Granted, I probably wouldn't have noticed if I had been looking down, trying to find a good song on the radio. But as long as my gaze is focused in a semi-upwards manner, even if I'm staring at clouds in the sky or looking at nothing while my mind travels at a million miles per second all over the place, I always notice when the light changes.

Which caused me to think: Is that why traffic lights go from green to yellow to red? For that reason, specifically? Or would any selection of colors have the same effect?

So, I looked it up. And I present to you, for your enjoyment and enlightenment, what I discovered:

The colors used for traffic lights were adopted from the color code system used by railroad engineers. Red was chosen because it symbolizes danger or warning, and would get people's attention. Originally, green meant "caution" and white was used to signal "go". But problems arose when stars or streetlights could easily be mistaken for the "go" signal, plus if the red or green cover that is placed in front of the light bulb to create that color fell out, then the naked bulb would be white. So they made green "go" and yellow "caution".

As a side note, the green light has hints of blue in it, and the red light has hints of orange in it to make it easier for colorblind people to recognize the colors.

So there you have your obscure history lesson for the day. I was disappointed to find out that there was no real psychologically-based reasoning for choosing those colors in terms of reaction time or noticeability. Oh well. At least I don't have to think about it anymore.

For some inexplicable reason, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Generally, when I start thinking, this is not a good thing, due mostly to the overanalytical-turned-downward-spiral tendencies of my random thought pattern, which invariably result in increased numbers of insecurities, self-doubt, the compulsion to assign meaning to even the most trivial occurrences, and well, generalized unhappiness and dissatisfaction with every single aspect of my life.

In other words, thinking makes me go to my dark place. And I feel that I'm well on my way since my brain has started acting up again. So hopefully I'll run into some sort of distraction here in my life that will take my mind off this horrible thinking thing and let me live on in ignorant bliss. Kind of like Blank Stare.

But not quite exactly like Blank Stare.