Blooming idiots

I love flowers.  Not as much as chocolate, granted, but there is something particularly beautiful about flowers in bloom.  Nothing else in nature or of man is nearly as striking, as sublime, as just plain pretty as a flower.  Yesterday I was given a small bouquet from the parents of one of my kids at work.  (In case you didn't know, this week was the Week of the Young Child, and Thursday was "Appreciate Your Educator" Day. This ranks among my favorite holidays EVER.)  You can imagine how I fawned and cooed over the blooms, how effusively I thanked the family.

Imagine all you want, that ain't how it went.

Actually, I get really awkward when given cut flowers.  Especially when it's done in a platonic fashion.  Yes, I do love flowers; and no, I'm not that picky over what kind and their meanings and such--although floriography* is some interesting stuff.  But do you know what flowers are?

Flowers are a plant's sex organs.  Seriously.  Flowers are a different shape and color from the rest of their plant, in order to attract pollinating insects.  Rather similar to the way certain women wear strategically placed bits of bright cloth to attract, well, pollinators.  (Both men and mindless drones are attracted to big, bright things they bounce when they touch them.  Think about that for a sec...)

I kept the flowers, though.  It would have been really rude not to.  I just made sure that the decaying sexual members of another living organism were put in a place where I won't have to see them much.  Someplace like my mum's kitchen.

Seriously, guys.  Try giving her a live plant next time.  That way, instead of saying "When I think of you, I think of putrefying sex organs,"  you say something more like "When I think of you, I think of lush, fruitful sex organs, and that procreation can be quite beautiful.  And you smell nice."  Which of these do you think she'll prefer?

 

*Check this out:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Language_of_flowers

Work it out.

So I went to the gym tonight.  Partly because I haven't been in a few weeks, and I feel a little guilty for the mass of ice cream & chocolate I've already imbibed/will continue to consume.  [Stupid post-relationship pounds.  You hear about the dreaded Freshman Fifteen, but you never hear about the Dejected Dozen, seven of which have already adhered themselves to my person.] 

But mostly, I like going to the gym because the endorphin release feels great.  It doesn't hurt that the place's main color scheme consists of my favorite complimentary colors.  Or that I can be on the treadmill and still catch my favorite TV show.  Or that most of the other people there at this time of night are about my physical skill level, and so I don't feel intimidated at all.  It's generally just a great atmosphere.

There is, however, one sore point with me relative to this gym at this time of night.  It's that this seems to be the hour that every guy who goes to a gym on a regular basis is at that gym, right then.  Seriously.  There's got to be at least a 4:1 men-to-women ratio.  And most of them are fairly good-looking.  And it sucks.


It isn't that I'm aggravated by their good looks and muscular physiques.  I can't even complain about their attitude. (Not really, not that I've been looking that hard.)  And it's not that I'm being all bitter about how they all remind me of the guy with whom I just broke up.  I'm really not, and they really don't.  Honest.


It's just that they keep looking at me.


I know, I'm probably just being silly.  The place has several mirror-lined walls, and in those particular areas, there isn't much else to look at; it's both common and natural to meet--or even just appear to meet--someone's eye multiple times in these spaces. But every time I do one of these ocular hit-and-runs, I can't help but think: 'Am I sending the wrong message? Will he take that platonic smile and interpret it as something more?  Does he even think I'm cute?  Is he even looking at my face?  Is my shirt too low? Are my shorts too short?  Why is he still looking at me? I hope he's not some creeper going to rape me on my way to the car....  And if he is, I hope I'm not too tired to outrun him....


So, yeah, maybe I'm a tiny bit paranoid.  Though, admittedly, I would be at a statistical disadvantage in that sort of situation.  I am a white female, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.  I am... rather below average height, thank you very much, and proportionally small of stature.  And female, very obviously female.  They also say that women of proud bearing, who seem sure of themselves and confident and strong, are even more likely to be perceived as targets.  And so chances are, I am fairly likely to be mugged, or raped, or attacked in some other fashion.  

Lovely.  Can't wait.  Isn't it great to be me?

"There's nothing that can stop you From becoming Popular"

Checked the blog stats today.  First time I've actually explored on that tab; normally I just look at the number of views and comments.  Today I found that, in addition to the States, my blog has been viewed in Canada, Australia, Germany, and... Russia?

Seriously?

I can understand those first two; they speak English there.  And I know someone in Germany, so that might explain a few hits there.  (Did I use 'hits' correctly?  I am so uneducated in computer jargon.)

But really.  Russia?  I didn't even think English was widely spoken over there.  Could this be the number of times my page has come up when they hit "Next Blog"?  That's the only thing I can come up with; but even that sounds unlikely, because Russia gave me only six hits less than I got from the States.  I don't understand this.

And what really surprises me is that my blog is even this popular.  I never thought more than a handful of folks would bother checking it out, and even then, I only expected it to be the few people I know who like my writing/are interested in my happenings.  Which is a very small number.  To see that my words, my thoughts, my life is being noticed in several countries, by almost forty people is... astounding.  Exhilarating. Humbling.

So thanks to you, reader.  I'll try not to disappoint. 
**************************************

Crisis Analysis

I think I've just had the crappiest day of my working life.  And when you change diapers for a living, that's really saying something.  One of the one-year-olds was running around the room, and fell and busted his head open.  I hope to never, ever see anyone bleed that much again, much less a child.  My brain went on autopilot--a setting that I am still not sure comes from in my head, precisely--and calmed the kid as I compressed the wound.  He took it like a pro, quieted right down and just wanted to cuddle.  His folks were called, and took him right over to the ER to get stitched up.  (I wasn't kidding when I say he busted his head open; the gash was the width of three of my fingers, and looked very deep.)  His dad called after mom had gotten him, asking for information and telling me that he understood and it wasn't my fault.  By this point, I was losing it.  The manager on desk had to come take my remaining kids to the other classroom, and give me a few minutes to calm down. 

I still don't remember how the rest of today went.  I remember walking straight out after all the kids were gone and thinking, "Let someone else deal with everything else tonight.  I want to go home."  I vaguely remember my boss's look of annoyance that I had clocked out before she could make me do anything else.  (No one ever claimed her to be the most compassionate person.  But that's a post for another time.) 

And I can't quite understand why I started flipping out after everything went down.  I could easily understand my hysterics when I had the bleeding kid in my arms, or even panicking when his parents came back to my room to get his things.  Nope.  I didn't start sobbing--not crying, mind you, but body-wracking, choking, full-out sobbing--until the mess was cleaned and the kid was long gone. 

This, somehow, is not an unusual pattern of behavior for me.  I'm the kind who agrees to ride the world's biggest roller coaster, and is completely fine with it until the moment before the first ninety-degree drop.  (Two true stories, amalgamated for my own illustrative pleasure.)  But just because I'm used to it, doesn't mean that I still don't understand it.  Could it be that the gravity doesn't sink in with me until that long after the fact?  Is it a reaction to the subconscious suppression of my natural reaction, increased exponentially by those few, crucial moments?

Or is it just that I'm really freaking strange?

Updates, what, what!

So.  I'm figuring out a few new things, you might have noticed:

• New layout.
• There are now reading suggestions down the left side.
• There is a YouTube link on the right side, under my bio.

What I still want to fix:

• Having predetermined songs playing when my blog is accessed.
• Uploading pics (though this is more a problem with my camera than anything else)
• Posting on a regular basis (Again, not so much of a know-how problem as a... personal issue)

 In addition to listing books in the sidebar there, I plan to write short reviews as I finish new books.  I might, at some point, extend that to the movies I watch.  

And I'm contemplating doing the whole GoogleAds thing on here somewhere, but that [mental] discussion is still inconclusive.  Anyone else using it already?  Any suggestions?  Advice?  It's more than welcome.

I will not gorge myself on chocolate...

You know what really sucks?  Break-ups require chocolate.  Not just "I could totally go for a candy bar right now."  Oh no.  Nothing so harmless as that.  It's more like, "If I don't get chocolate within the next twelve seconds, I'm going to literally bite someone--HEYTHATGUYLOOKSLIKEHEHASCHOCOLATE!!!!"  Or, y'know, something along those lines.

 

I would like it to be known that, as of today, the death count is still at zero.  But it's only been twelve days so far. . . .

Anyway, that's not the suckish part. The truly awful coincidence is that Easter has just passed, and so there are piles of chocolate just laying around my house.  They beckon me.  They want to be eaten.  They know my name, and where I sleep.

So much for trying to stay healthy post-breakup.  At least I made sure it was dark chocolate.  That stuff's good for you, right?

Okay, so maybe the way to go is not to not eat chocolate.  I mean, come on; a girl can only be strong for so (not) long.  What if I give myself an allowance of three pieces a day.  And only if I've gone to the gym.  And with this plan, I shall conquer the world.  (Yes, of course chocolate is the world.  What did you expect it to be, a supercomputer financed by mice?)  If only I could suddenly develop some kind of willpower when it comes to this delectable temptation. If only.

Oh!  I almost forgot.  In a previous post, I mentioned staying up to sew.  That seems to have surprised someone.  In addition to blogging, I have started sewing again.  Nothing big or fancy yet (my last attempt at quilting was a disaster, trust me), just pillows for now.  I have two books of different ways to reconstruct old T-shirts; I plan to work my way through (at least most of) both of them.  So far I've done three basic pillows, a four-paneled skirt, and I'm working on a doggie bed (they call it a pet bed; I plan on using it for Asian-style seating.)  I'll start taking pics after I finish this project.  Which means I might post them withing the month.  Or at least, sometime before August.

If anyone has suggestions or instructions, I'd love to hear them!  Also, if you want to donate T-shirts--in good condition--that'd be swell.  Or just look at the pretty photos and comment your envy.  Whatever you like.

And now I'm not going to go get more chocolate.

Pardon Me.

Sorry for not posting last night.  I had a particularly lousy day at work & decided to hit the gym to burn off some steam.  There was a lot of steam; I didn't get home until fairly late.

And then this guy chatted me.  Don't look at me like that.  So we're trying to get over each other... but that doesn't mean we can't go back to being good friends.

Right?

Either way, he just wanted to chat.  We made sure the other was doing okay, and asked about weekend plans and stuff.  Totally harmless.  I wasn't crying when I told him I needed to go, and he agreed, and we signed off.  See?  No emotional crisis involved. I can do this.

Anyway, by that time, it was right around midnight.  I stayed up a little longer to get some sewing done, and went to bed.  And I didn't post.  So I'm doing that now, and probably again after work.

Feels like the first time

I have dated several guys.  Probably a lot fewer than the average girl, but then, I've never been average.  Yes, I went to public school.  I am very outspoken.  And I'm rather enamoured with the opposite sex in general.  I don't know why I haven't dated much.  I'd like to say that it's because I'm particular about who I go out with, and that I have really high standards. (I do.  Now.)  I think, though, that it's more of how... "unapproachable" I tend to be.*  In any case, I haven't dated too many guys.  You'll hear about most of them over the course of this blog, I'm sure.  But I want to tell you about the first one.

I was barely speaking to guys in middle school, and I moved around too much in the primary grades to get to know too many people.  But my freshman year of high school, that was a different story.  There was this guy in my English class.  He was a ginger, and on the crew team, and very sweet.  We bonded over reading Elie Wiesel.  We held hands at school and talked on the phone for a few hours every day, for a few months before I decided he wasn't what I wanted.

And when I told him that, he lost it.  I was never more afraid of another person in my life.  I didn't answer the phone for weeks.  My parents ended up having to call his parents and threaten to call the police.  I never asked how that went.  I still don't know.  I remember how relieved I was that he had transferred to a different school.

To this day, I prefer to let the answering machine do it's job.

*My mother gave me this word.  I have no idea how I come off to other people, nor do I know what, exactly, she means by this.  But I really couldn't phrase it.

Prologue

Guess what?  I'm single.

Again.

Before you go getting all up in arms (or, heaven forbid, sappily sympathetic), it was mutual.  We (separately) decided that neither of us is assertive enough for the other, and that we'd be better off as friends.  as with all my previous relationships, I've known that it was over before it was.  I'm pretty well on my way to being over it.  Not quite considering thinking about dating again, but past the "Crying at Every Other Song on the Radio" stage. 

So, moving on.  That's why I'm blogging.  It's been nearly two years since I've been a Singleton.  I'm somewhat out of touch with myself; I need to get hold of her again.  I also realize that, although this one was pretty close, I still haven't found the Right One.  And I think this might be because I don't really know how to function in a healthy relationship.  Or how to meet people, for that matter.  (Yes, I am that girl.  The one who brings a book to a party.  And reads it.)

So here, dear reader, is what you're getting into.  One recently-single-again gal trying to get over the last guy and start dating again--and doing things the right way.  Yes, you've heard this story before at least a dozen times.  So have I.  But really--who's going to stop telling it for a silly little reason like that?

And now, I'm going to go eat my ice cream.