October 30, 2003
Wayward Parotid Gland, Part 4
I've turned off comments for this post. If you do have something to say or a similar experience, my e-mail is angelweaving@hotmail.com.
Part One is located here.
Part Two is located here.
Part Three is located here.
more...
Part One is located here.
Part Two is located here.
Part Three is located here.
more...
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October 29, 2003
Wayward Parotid Gland, Part 3
I've turned off comments for this post. If you do have something to say or a similar experience, my e-mail is angelweaving@hotmail.com.
Part One is located here.
Part Two is located here.
more...
Part Two is located here.
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October 28, 2003
Wayward Parotid Gland, Part 2
I've turned off comments for this post. If you do have something to say or a similar experience, my e-mail is angelweaving@hotmail.com.
Part One is located here.
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Part One is located here.
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October 27, 2003
Places
Travelling - safe in California, in a part of the state that is not burning, thankfully.
The flight was jam packed - maybe two empty seats. I sat between two gentlemen, all three of us plugging away on our laptops. All three of us taller than the average human (well, I'm probably the average man's height, but that still doesn't make for airline comfort).
A three-hour flight is actually a good, productive length. The one-hour flights basically leave you room to read an article or two or three chapters in a book. I like to watch take-off and landing...and basically anything else I can see out of a plane.
I retrieved my luggage, following the Heather rule that every other woman should heed. Do not pack your luggage to be heavier than what you can lift and carry by yourself. This is actually a newer rule, and possibly nothing has changed but my strength. I digress. (What was the point of that paragraph? I think I'll leave it anyway).
And so it came to pass that I found a cab to take me to the hotel. The driver was a Russian immigrant. I didn't pick up on that until he spoke. He asked me what my accent was. Funny, I have an accent? I guess so. A mix if Michigan and Missouri. Perhaps "ten" comes out a little less like tehhhhn and more like tihhhn. I hope not, but it's possible.
And so I asked him where he was from, and he said "Russia, sad to say." I asked how long he had been in the US, and he said 33 months. You or I, we would've probably said, oh, about a year and a half. Or just over a year. This man knew to the month and told me so.
Then, the obvious question: "How do you like California?" He said, "California is like heaven." And he said, "Were you born in the US?" I said, "yes." He said, "Lucky." And then he reiterated, "I'm from Russia, sad to say."
Unfortunately, at this point we were on the freeway, and talking wasn't much of an option. My hearing isn't so great when there's lots of background noise, and he was concentrating on the road and the cell phone that would occasionally ring and into which he would occasionally respond in Russian (I'm guessing).
I met a grateful man today. I've given it some thought. He loves this country. I do, too.
No matter where I travel in America, it's still America. I've seen about half of the states, and while there are some obvious differences, there are more similarities. Such was illustrated again in slow motion to me when I took an afternoon walk from the hotel out into a residential area.
It started as a quest to find the eventual dinner restaurant, which I was never able to do. I was just itching for a bike because the roads are perfect for cycling. Wide enough to share with the cars. The weather, too. But, alas, no bike. Just Heather and her tennis shoes and a time limit because of the midday California sun.
I put in about 2 1/2 miles in just over a half an hour, I'd guess. I passed Electronic Arts and Oracle, and then I found myself in a completely residential neighborhood complete with a child in a green shirt piloting a skateboard. It seemed like Florida because that's something I can compare it to, but there were no palm trees. And then it just seemed like another day in another city that is still America.
And so few of us notice it, sad to say.
hln
The flight was jam packed - maybe two empty seats. I sat between two gentlemen, all three of us plugging away on our laptops. All three of us taller than the average human (well, I'm probably the average man's height, but that still doesn't make for airline comfort).
A three-hour flight is actually a good, productive length. The one-hour flights basically leave you room to read an article or two or three chapters in a book. I like to watch take-off and landing...and basically anything else I can see out of a plane.
I retrieved my luggage, following the Heather rule that every other woman should heed. Do not pack your luggage to be heavier than what you can lift and carry by yourself. This is actually a newer rule, and possibly nothing has changed but my strength. I digress. (What was the point of that paragraph? I think I'll leave it anyway).
And so it came to pass that I found a cab to take me to the hotel. The driver was a Russian immigrant. I didn't pick up on that until he spoke. He asked me what my accent was. Funny, I have an accent? I guess so. A mix if Michigan and Missouri. Perhaps "ten" comes out a little less like tehhhhn and more like tihhhn. I hope not, but it's possible.
And so I asked him where he was from, and he said "Russia, sad to say." I asked how long he had been in the US, and he said 33 months. You or I, we would've probably said, oh, about a year and a half. Or just over a year. This man knew to the month and told me so.
Then, the obvious question: "How do you like California?" He said, "California is like heaven." And he said, "Were you born in the US?" I said, "yes." He said, "Lucky." And then he reiterated, "I'm from Russia, sad to say."
Unfortunately, at this point we were on the freeway, and talking wasn't much of an option. My hearing isn't so great when there's lots of background noise, and he was concentrating on the road and the cell phone that would occasionally ring and into which he would occasionally respond in Russian (I'm guessing).
I met a grateful man today. I've given it some thought. He loves this country. I do, too.
No matter where I travel in America, it's still America. I've seen about half of the states, and while there are some obvious differences, there are more similarities. Such was illustrated again in slow motion to me when I took an afternoon walk from the hotel out into a residential area.
It started as a quest to find the eventual dinner restaurant, which I was never able to do. I was just itching for a bike because the roads are perfect for cycling. Wide enough to share with the cars. The weather, too. But, alas, no bike. Just Heather and her tennis shoes and a time limit because of the midday California sun.
I put in about 2 1/2 miles in just over a half an hour, I'd guess. I passed Electronic Arts and Oracle, and then I found myself in a completely residential neighborhood complete with a child in a green shirt piloting a skateboard. It seemed like Florida because that's something I can compare it to, but there were no palm trees. And then it just seemed like another day in another city that is still America.
And so few of us notice it, sad to say.
hln
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The Story of the Wayward Parotid Gland
All stories have a beginning and supposedly an end. I'm not sure where or if this one ends, but I want to tell it now, twelve years later. It begins in the fall of 1991. I was 19 and a sophomore in college.
I've turned off comments for this post. If you do have something to say or a similar experience, my e-mail is angelweaving@hotmail.com.
UPDATE: Since this is now finally all written, and it's been linked to, I'm coming in after the fact to add the links to the other posts. Thanks for reading.
Part Two is located here.
Part Three is located here.
Part Four is located here
Part Five is located here
more...
I've turned off comments for this post. If you do have something to say or a similar experience, my e-mail is angelweaving@hotmail.com.
UPDATE: Since this is now finally all written, and it's been linked to, I'm coming in after the fact to add the links to the other posts. Thanks for reading.
Part Two is located here.
Part Three is located here.
Part Four is located here
Part Five is located here
more...
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Post contains 1059 words, total size 7 kb.
October 24, 2003
Soreness and Hindsight
Some words of wisdom for you.
Men have more testosterone than women. We all know this - it makes them physically stronger than the female sex. I failed to remember that last evening.
Tuesday and Thursday evenings were Noggles-working-same-body-parts nights at the gym. On Tuesday, we worked our chests, and here I'm smart - I KNOW I'm not as strong as he is. Really, I do. We worked free weights - barbell that night. Put on the Heather weights, took them off, put on the Brian weights, blah blah blah. From incline to flat to decline presses and then pec flyes with a machine. This went well, but the disparity was apparent. I worked up to 60 or 65 pounds on the flat press, don't remember (bar plus 7 1/2 on each side or bar plus 10s). Brian's considerably stronger than that with his chest.
So, fine. Where I get into trouble is legs. My legs can really take some punishment, and, well, I tried to keep up with him. And, for the most part, I did. Mostly, er, ow.
We did a leg press machine, plate loaded. Started at 220 pounds - 15 reps I think. Then just kept adding 20 and slightly dropping reps. Up to 240. Up to 260. Knees back to almost touching chest. Then Brian jumped to 280, and, on my 4th set, I stayed at 270 and squeezed out 5 reps before I declared the legs to be jello. Then we went and did another press, an angled one (more emphasis on quads and thighs). Less weight here, but three solid sets at something like 180, 200, and 220. That's guessing, but I'm sure it's close and may be low.
Then hamstrings, calf muscles, and quads. We both wobbled out of there.
A day later, I can tell I'm going to be sore like I haven't been in weeks tomorrow. Was it worth it? Hell yeah. (Plus, now you know I can lift more than the average dude with my legs but definitely not my chest). Actually, about two weeks ago, I had a guy comment exactly that to me - that I was lifting more weight than him. I never know if that's true incredulity or general flirting, but I smile and am nice but curt (if that's possible) and serious still the same. All business at the gym unless I'm actually working with Brian, and then I loosen up a bit.
And, ladies, if you're fearing you'll bulk up if you lift heavy weights - don't. Remember this pic?
Tomorrow's agenda is my back, and probably no bike ride.
hln
Men have more testosterone than women. We all know this - it makes them physically stronger than the female sex. I failed to remember that last evening.
Tuesday and Thursday evenings were Noggles-working-same-body-parts nights at the gym. On Tuesday, we worked our chests, and here I'm smart - I KNOW I'm not as strong as he is. Really, I do. We worked free weights - barbell that night. Put on the Heather weights, took them off, put on the Brian weights, blah blah blah. From incline to flat to decline presses and then pec flyes with a machine. This went well, but the disparity was apparent. I worked up to 60 or 65 pounds on the flat press, don't remember (bar plus 7 1/2 on each side or bar plus 10s). Brian's considerably stronger than that with his chest.
So, fine. Where I get into trouble is legs. My legs can really take some punishment, and, well, I tried to keep up with him. And, for the most part, I did. Mostly, er, ow.
We did a leg press machine, plate loaded. Started at 220 pounds - 15 reps I think. Then just kept adding 20 and slightly dropping reps. Up to 240. Up to 260. Knees back to almost touching chest. Then Brian jumped to 280, and, on my 4th set, I stayed at 270 and squeezed out 5 reps before I declared the legs to be jello. Then we went and did another press, an angled one (more emphasis on quads and thighs). Less weight here, but three solid sets at something like 180, 200, and 220. That's guessing, but I'm sure it's close and may be low.
Then hamstrings, calf muscles, and quads. We both wobbled out of there.
A day later, I can tell I'm going to be sore like I haven't been in weeks tomorrow. Was it worth it? Hell yeah. (Plus, now you know I can lift more than the average dude with my legs but definitely not my chest). Actually, about two weeks ago, I had a guy comment exactly that to me - that I was lifting more weight than him. I never know if that's true incredulity or general flirting, but I smile and am nice but curt (if that's possible) and serious still the same. All business at the gym unless I'm actually working with Brian, and then I loosen up a bit.
And, ladies, if you're fearing you'll bulk up if you lift heavy weights - don't. Remember this pic?
Tomorrow's agenda is my back, and probably no bike ride.
hln
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October 23, 2003
Quick Thoughts
Got George Clinton's "Sloppy Second Chance to Make a First Impression" going through my mind. Can't find the lyrics, but the title's the gist of the song.
Today's my three-year anniversary with my current company, and I have to say things have gone well. I'm in the tech industry, and thanks to some good timing and a solid company, I've not felt the dot com bust or really any of the pain experienced by the sudden glut of technologically capable workers who are or have been recently in the job-seeking realm.
So, I have my review today. I decide to dress nicely (something other than the normal jeans). Since the esteemed spouse has been working a new job that requires him to iron everything but his underwear, the iron and ironing board are usually nearby. Not today, no. I find the iron, but I don't ever uncover the hiding place of the board. So, hey, a dresser works, right? Problem: iron (plugged in) will not reach the dresser. And curious cats abound. So I take out the pants and splay them across the dresser all while the iron is heating atop a bookcase (I have moved the clock radio out of the way).
When I feel the iron may be hot enough to commence ironing, I unplug it, iron one pant leg, and then, as the iron seems to be cooling down, I replug the iron in, shoo the white cat away from the general direction of my black pants (why is it NEVER the black cat that wants to sit on your black pants), and kinda rinse, lather, repeat the whole section.
Today may be...disjointed.
hln
Today's my three-year anniversary with my current company, and I have to say things have gone well. I'm in the tech industry, and thanks to some good timing and a solid company, I've not felt the dot com bust or really any of the pain experienced by the sudden glut of technologically capable workers who are or have been recently in the job-seeking realm.
So, I have my review today. I decide to dress nicely (something other than the normal jeans). Since the esteemed spouse has been working a new job that requires him to iron everything but his underwear, the iron and ironing board are usually nearby. Not today, no. I find the iron, but I don't ever uncover the hiding place of the board. So, hey, a dresser works, right? Problem: iron (plugged in) will not reach the dresser. And curious cats abound. So I take out the pants and splay them across the dresser all while the iron is heating atop a bookcase (I have moved the clock radio out of the way).
When I feel the iron may be hot enough to commence ironing, I unplug it, iron one pant leg, and then, as the iron seems to be cooling down, I replug the iron in, shoo the white cat away from the general direction of my black pants (why is it NEVER the black cat that wants to sit on your black pants), and kinda rinse, lather, repeat the whole section.
Today may be...disjointed.
hln
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October 20, 2003
The Mustard Story
Okay. When I was 22, I was a single female living alone in Columbia, MO working full time and going to grad school. I had a weird-looking neighbor who lived in the apartment above me. The guys, two brothers, who were in the apartment across from me had mentioned to me that the guy was weird.
Often, I’d hear things crashing in his apartment. One morning at about 6:00 a.m., I heard a loud BOOOM! CRASH! I wasn’t due to wake up yet, and I was pissy about this, so I yelled “what the hell!”
That night, after work, I was doing some laundry, and the laundry area for the apartment complex was very close to my apartment – just around the corner, really. I was carrying laundry back, and this man emerged from his apartment screaming “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID! I KNOW WHAT YOU DID! AND I CALLED THE POLICE!”
He has this long, gray hair, and his face is all scrunched up, and he’s just livid. I think I’m carrying my whites. I don’t remember what I said to him, but I went back into my apartment pretty shaken up, set down my laundry, and tried to figure out what to do.
The easy solution was to visit the two guys across the way who had once said, if you ever need anything… So I did. I knocked, they opened the door, and I related the story. One said, call the police.
I did. From there.
The police come. They go and talk to the man. They come back over to the guys’ apartment. They say, “He accuses you of putting mustard on his door this morning.”
more...
Often, I’d hear things crashing in his apartment. One morning at about 6:00 a.m., I heard a loud BOOOM! CRASH! I wasn’t due to wake up yet, and I was pissy about this, so I yelled “what the hell!”
That night, after work, I was doing some laundry, and the laundry area for the apartment complex was very close to my apartment – just around the corner, really. I was carrying laundry back, and this man emerged from his apartment screaming “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID! I KNOW WHAT YOU DID! AND I CALLED THE POLICE!”
He has this long, gray hair, and his face is all scrunched up, and he’s just livid. I think I’m carrying my whites. I don’t remember what I said to him, but I went back into my apartment pretty shaken up, set down my laundry, and tried to figure out what to do.
The easy solution was to visit the two guys across the way who had once said, if you ever need anything… So I did. I knocked, they opened the door, and I related the story. One said, call the police.
I did. From there.
The police come. They go and talk to the man. They come back over to the guys’ apartment. They say, “He accuses you of putting mustard on his door this morning.”
more...
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October 18, 2003
Cleaning the Office
So, I have spent pretty much ALL day ripping apart my office and reorganizing/throwing things away (since I'm in that frame of mind for some reason).
I found a Thighmaster PLUS in the closet. And I laughed and laughed. And threw it out.
I hope you smiled. That's from college. How naive I was. Spot training. Ha!
hln
I found a Thighmaster PLUS in the closet. And I laughed and laughed. And threw it out.
I hope you smiled. That's from college. How naive I was. Spot training. Ha!
hln
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October 04, 2003
Blogiversary - Brian!
Tomorrow is Brian's 6th month Blogiversary, and mine follows a short five days afterward.
Please visit him - he's a better writer than I, and if he'd just MARKET himself a little more (you know, comments, RSS feed, at the very least), I think he'd be surpassing my readership by leaps and bounds.
Of course, he doesn't post an over-the-shoulder-in-black-dress flirtatious pic, either, as he often points out.
I told him he could borrow the dress, and I'm pretty handy with the digital camera.
hln
Please visit him - he's a better writer than I, and if he'd just MARKET himself a little more (you know, comments, RSS feed, at the very least), I think he'd be surpassing my readership by leaps and bounds.
Of course, he doesn't post an over-the-shoulder-in-black-dress flirtatious pic, either, as he often points out.
I told him he could borrow the dress, and I'm pretty handy with the digital camera.
hln
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