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sayah_mayee_25
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Name: Sarah
Location: Ruston, Louisiana, United States
Gender: Female
Interests: The Dude - photography - reading - being
homeschooled-writing - drawing - being an idiot - classic rock - caterwauling (called singing by some) - roald dahl - wodehouse - english comedy - cartoons - spiderman - batman - graphic novels - isaiah - jumping up and down - cartwheels - suitcases - sleeping - movies - chicken 'n' dumplings - johnny's pizza - roller blading - riding my bike - icees - shades of green - clouds - nighttime - the morning - sleeping in - quotes - quoting quotes - quoting quotable quotes - 2 samuel 2 - being a punster - spinning little kids around - sharp objects - cameras - music - movies - making movies - swimming - psalm 104 - tubing - grass - trees - climbing trees - volleyball - teaching things - video games - weird clothes - being barefoot - checklists - watches - clocks - shiny, multicolored things - cd alarms - the story of elijah - old things - free time - being bored - pillows - fire - goose down blankets - talking t o myself - running around crazily -
Expertise: Er... not much of anything, I suppose
Message: message me
AIM:  miss_pickles25
MSN: I have limited RAM space
ICQ:  What the heck is that
Yahoo:  mystik_iris
Jabber: And why am I even bothering to do this
Member Since:
8/16/2005
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| So I find it interesting how losing something can become elating if you wanted to lose said object anyway.
But it's a rare instance.
You probably never will say, "Heavens to holy Betsy alive! I lost my wallet! Well, that's okay. I didn't like that money, picture ID, or social security number written on a piece of paper anyway."
Or: blood will never freeze in your veins when you realize you've lost track of a young child, only for the old white and red cells to thaw in a moment when you realize, "Ah, I needed to get rid of that kid anyway."
But if you lose something else, say... weight, if you're like most Americans, you're probably not going to lament that. ("Oh please God, NO! My cellulite!")
So we have two categories. They are as follows:
1) Things we would not like to lose
2) Things we would like to lose
Teeth are a tricky thing to categorize in this way. If you were to approach the average person over the age of 12 or 13 and ask them how they would feel if you knocked out a couple of their pearly whites (or golden browns, as it may be) for them, you probably wouldn't get an answer in the positive. They like their teeth. They don't have the satisfaction or comfort of knowing that, if they lost a tooth, another one would sprout up in its place.
Such is the comfort owned by the young human being.
Perhaps a seven-year-old.
Perhaps a seven-year-old male.
Perhaps a seven-year-old male who is my little brother.
The story went thus: John Clark participates in a local church-sponsored basketball league. If you haven't already figured it out, John is the little brother that I referred to. Whom I referred to. I only pretend to use smart words. I really don't know how they work.
Anyway.
John is responsible for the two basketballs that lie around inside pur house at any given time. If you hear the asthmatic "Bem, bem, bem," of a basketball being dribbled on a wood floor, you can pretty well guess your culprit. If you hear:
"Bem, bem, bem, bem, --silence."
"--Dangit!"
He's missed the floor and hit the area rug.
One day while hanging around in the kitchen, waiting for the available family to report for dinner, John Clark was entertaining himself with his orange basketball.
"Bem, bem, bem."
"Hey John," I said.
"What?" He answered, trying to look at me and simultaneously dribbling. He gave up and concentrated on dribbling.
"We should play some basketball some time."
"Okay."
"Bem, bem, bem."
"Hey John," I said.
"What?"
At this point, I reached out and dribbled the ball away from him.
Let me note something here.
The space in which all this took place is about 2.5 feet wide. It's the space between our window seat and the accepted path of traffic between the kitchen and the door to the laundry room.
It's not very wide.
Note over.
In our last episode, I reached out and dribbled the ball away from Johnny-Boy. Now hear the satisfying conclusion in this episode of Family Trivialities That I Think Might Be Funny.
When I dribbled the ball, I did so with a little more force than John Clark would use. I intended for it to bounce up to my waist height, which is about John Clark's cowlick height.*
That sounds more technical than it was.
But the point is, the ball was headed higher than John Clark normally would expect it to. I made a second triumphant dribble. And John Clark closed in.
And his face closed in over the ball.
"Bem, thwack." Ball-mouth contact.
The ball fell to the floor and bounced weakly a couple of times.
"Awwwhhh!" Quoth the pained John.
I laughed, until he reached up to his mouth and brought out a stream of bubbly spit.
"Oh!" I said quickly, forgetting humor. "John, are you okay?" Which is what we only ask when things are obviously at least a bit less than "okay."
He stood still for a moment, looking at the spit in his hand. Then he held out his palm to me.
In his palm was a miniscule tooth.
"Hey!" John started.
I began to apologize. "I'm sorry John, I didn't mean--"
"Thanks, Sarah!"
He pivoted and trounced over to the sink to show Mom his prize.
While I fell on the ground in degrees, laughing my head off.
So in this case, Category 2.
*John doesn't actually have a cowlick, but you get the picture.
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| Ahem.
1. Never underestimate the powers of Emergen-C. Just saying.
2. People change. But People doesn't. Meaning, individual people change a lot. But People, Man, the human race, does not change over the years.
3. There is definitely such thing as too much chocolate. What are you on, Willy Wonka women? [Heehee!]
4. If you need to pee, and have frequent bouts of violent sneezing-- PEE. BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE.
5. God's love is always adequate for me.
6. A zombie invasion would actually be really fun. Besides the people dying and stuff. Can you honestly tell me that provided:
(a) all the people that turned were un-repentant child rapists/mass murderers/insipid talk show hosts
(b) you had a shotgun with a nice spread and lots of shells
(c) you had a pickup truck with some cylinders to it
-- you would not readily enjoy some redneck-style zombie carnage?
7. All people who answered, "No, I would not enjoy that," to Question Number 6 need treatment.
8. There are some people you just can't get along with. And I've learned what to do in that situation. Get over it.
9. Nine is a good number to end on.
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| Every once in awhile, one gets to do something truly awesome on a Saturday. This past Saturday was one of those for me. In training for a trip that I will - God willing - take in July, I went to Shreveport to hang out with homeless people. If you've never gotten to do this, do. If you like meeting new people and getting to know them at all, do it. If you don't, get over it and go. It's so cool to hear everyone's story - there's not a huge amount of people who are just born and go into the business of homelessness. Though there are some that could be referred to as "professional homeless" - that pretty much mooch off of others' generosity - I didn't meet any that day that I knew of, and every one had a back story as to how they ended up on the streets, with no place to call home.
It was hot. We served hot dogs, popcorn, and chips and set out essentials for the homeless to take home: clothes, shoes, and hygiene items. Before everything got under way there was a short sermon and worship service. All of this took place in a big, unused parking lot; grass clumped up in the cracks in the concrete, and surprisingly large and beautiful - if dilapidated - houses lined the street nearby.
That's the basics. I'm hurrying through that stuff because I feel like I have to set the scene. But I have a notion that the stories will be pretty long.
And the stories are so much richer, to me.
There was a wide range of people - like a married couple that had lived across the US, from Alaska to New Orleans, and became homeless when Katrina hit N.O. - they had been on vacation in Pensacola, Florida when their house was destroyed. As we talked, the couple shared a cigarette. The wife, Patricia, peppered her explanations with requests for me to talk to the overseer of the ministry. Richard, the husband, said he hadn't talked to his brother for years, and that they had never really gotten along. He spent much of the rest of the conversation looking off in the distance.
Jimmy was a favorite with some of my friends. He smiled almost constantly, wearing a baggy windbreaker advertising some NFL team. He had white hair and a clean, pink face half-covered with his trimmed beard - you might think he was one of the volunteers, if it weren't for his demeanor. He was sitting on the concrete next to me when I said hi. He responded with a good-natured nod and proceeded to cross his legs indian-style, and in a way that revealed some impressive flexibility. When he beamed at me I realized he was fishing for compliments. It was kind of like a kid, parading their talent to whoever would watch. I didn't get to talk to Jimmy much, but my friend Hillary told me that his ability was tied to the apparent fact that he had Cherokee blood. Jimmy not only had Cherokee blood, but he was going to marry the chief's daughter when he had been called away to be in the Vietnam war.
Yes, he said that. We laughed about this, but I do wonder if he believed what he had said. And then there's also the slight chance that it was true. But...
Then there was Etienne and his brother. I say "his brother" because unfortunately I was never able to understand his brother's name. They weren't actually homeless, they lived with their grandma and went to school - Etienne in the 4th grade, his brother in 6th. Etienne really likes math, and told me when I asked that he never read a book he enjoyed. We talked about math for a little bit, and our opinions about school subjects, and I told him to keep liking math, which may have been dumb, but I don't care.
Ethel was a very polite, in a purple shirt and a floppy hat decorated with faded flowers. A delicate-sounding Southern accent came from a crooked smile-- some teeth were missing, probably due to many years of little dental care. Ethel was relatively tall, because Ethel was a man. When I asked him questions about himself he seemed to get almost nervous, and hurried to the tables where food was being served. He wanted only mustard on his hotdog, and that's about all I got to know about him.
Cedric was one of the coolest people I met. He was a bit short and wore a red trucker hat. He had a wide smile and perfect diction, and his conversation was spattered liberally with his laughter. Cedric had grown up in a military family and was born in Greece; his brothers and sisters in places such as Japan, California, and England. When he left the military, he got a construction job in Shreveport. When the company moved back to their original St Louis base, it left him without a job. Currently he was working in a job program in the city. He said he liked to travel, but that he was ready to settle down somewhere.
But one of my favorite conversations was with a nameless, literally toothless man, sitting on a white plastic bucket that contained all his clothes and eating popcorn by the handful out of a translucent yellow grocery bag. He was chuckling to himself about something and seemed to be talking, too. He looked like he was telling jokes to a crowd of friends, minus the friends. He reminded me of that song by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Curtis Loew-- "Curtis Loew was a black man/ with white, curly hair."
When I walked up he offered me some popcorn, which I saw he had mixed with some barbecue chips. When I asked him his name, he said, "What's that song, 'One two, buckle my shoe, three four, close the door...'"
I guessed that the song had something to do with his name and said yes, I knew the song.
"How's it go, then?" He asked.
"I'm not sure," I answered. "I heard it on the radio once, but I don't remember the tune."
"Whistle it." He suggested.
I laughed, "I can't, I don't remember it."
"Oh." And, after some consideration, "Whistle something."
"Whistle what?"
"Whatever you want."
So I did.
He laughed at me.
"What are you laughing at?" I asked.
"You." He answered, still chuckling.
"Okay, I'm not that good. But I do have a friend who can whistle really well."
"Yeah?"
"Yup, he can whistle really loud and all the high notes and stuff."
"Huh."
He laughed.
"Where does he live?" He asked.
"Lake Charles."
"I wanna meet him." He declared, leaning on his knee and chuckling.
"Well, he lives in Lake Charles, down South, so I don't think I could get him to come right now."
"Whistle fo' him." He made a broad, dismissive pointing gesture.
"I don't think he'd hear me way down in Lake Charles."
"Well go ahead, whistle for him." He insisted.
I obliged.
About this time a stray volunteer walked up and asked the man if he needed anything.
"Ketchup." He replied to the volunteer. "But not in the bottle. The, the little kind."
"Like packets?" I inquired.
"Yeah, like Wendy's kind."
When I tried to ask his name again, he gave me a straight answer, "You call me whatever you want."
So I called him Whistle. The conversation went on from there. I told him my whistling friend in Lake Charles was going to be a Marine, and he asked me why, but before I could answer, went on to another question.
I asked him how long he had lived in Shreveport, and he said he didn't know, but that he used to live in Alaska. The couple I mentioned previously was sitting nearby, so I wondered if maybe he had heard them say they used to live there, and he just had Alaska on the brain. I asked him how long it had taken him to get to Shreveport from the Yukon State, and he asked, "'With a map or without a map?" I said with, and he just snapped his fingers and said: "Instant."
From there everything was muddled between Alaska, travel, whistling, Lake Charles, and being in the Marines. And something else about being lucky that also came in and out. Toward the end of the conversation he asked me, "Why aren't you in the Marines?"
I laughed for perhaps the sixth time. "I don't know, I guess I never really thought about it."
"You got legs?"
"Yep."
"You can talk?"
"Yessir."
"You got a tie?"
"Well, I have a few..."
"Then why ain't you in the Marines?"
In short, it was a confusing conversation, but one of the most fun, and the only one in which I was given a rallying speech encouraging me to join the Marines.
Later I figured out through Cedric and the ministry's overseer that everyone called Whistle Old School, since he didn't apparently know what his name was.
Whistle left me swinging his bucket and still eating popcorn, yelling things back to me that I couldn't quite understand. He was a fun old guy.
I met a few other people that day and heard their stories, but these were my favorites. Hopefully I'll get to go again pretty soon. And also, hopefully I'll meet most of them again, and see where they've been since the last time I saw them.
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| I am an intensely creative person.
I'm not saying that to be narcissistic. Though I don't want to deny that I am. I'm pretty sure I'm arrogant in many ways.
But this is not one of them. I don't say that I'm intensely creative to glorify myself - I say I'm intensely creative because I am. To my detriment.
It all started in a basket.
This basket sits on the counter at my house. In this basket lay a bumper sticker. At the bottom was printed something about being Conservative.com - meaning politically Conservative. Obviously something my dad bought online. The sticker displayed the Obama symbol. (You know the one: the sun setting on the horizon - it's always reminded me of Teletubbies, which makes me think of Obama's face as the sun coming over the horizon and babyfaced creatures in the foreground, doing something clever with a vacuum.) And to the right of this symbol, in clear navy blue text, it said "Because everyone deserves a piece of what you've worked hard for."
Or something like that.
Basically attacking Socialism and Obama in one "fell swoop." Great job SomethingAboutBeingConservative.com. Aren't you clever.
I have a bone to pick with Socialism. But attacking the President in a bumper sticker is a bit unappealing to me - don't just state your views of that nature in a bumper sticker and leave people to either agree or be ticked at you. Intelligently debate. I'm not going to say anymore about that. I'm done. I promise.
So I saw it, gave it a grimace and a courtesy laugh, and walked on, forgetting about it.
Last week I looked up from loading the dishwasher and saw the Suburban I drive, in its usual place right in front of the house, because it's our trophy car.
...That's a joke, by the way. Haha. Yes. Funny.
But there was something wrong with Brumhilda (as I just decided to call the vehicle). Grinning evilly from the lower left corner of the back windshield. Stark white against the black-tinted window.
The endlessly clever SomethingAboutBeingConservative.com bumper sticker.
On the vehicle I drive.
Like, in public.
Dad walked in and gleefully informed me that I had a bumper sticker. I assured him that I was aware.
"Please don't take it off yet," he said understandingly. "Just keep it on there for a little while."
I consented, figuring that the car isn't technically mine.
I finished up with the dishes, grabbed some duct tape, and resourcefully removed the sentiment of the sticker without actually removing the sticker.
First I covered just the words, but then I realized that it gave the impression that I was an Obama supporter (not true), so I covered both.
Dad gave me a sad look when I came in, but I said that I was keeping my promise to leave it on for awhile, and he didn't seem to mind all that much.
The next morning, I woke to find a red truck in the yard, belonging to Dad's fishing friend. I remembered that Dad had told us he was going fishing, so it made sense.
And then my eyes flitted to the Suburban. And the tape was gone.
I figured Dad's contribution to Brumhilda's aesthetics had been there long enough.
It came off quite easily.
See, I should have stopped there.
It could have been amusing, a war-- Dad slapping the sticker on and Will and I (and everyone else in the family) taking it off, until the adhesive got so crusty that it wouldn't stick anymore.
...But no. I have to be "intensely creative."
So, no good-natured competition, no laughs to remember in the years to come.
Only...
http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/cYOsaOgRitXsLl4UFBF7_Q?feat=directlink
Oh yes, aren't I funny. If you can't tell, I made myself a little noose out of yarn and hung the sticker for its crimes against not looking like an anti-Obama ignoramus nimrod.
I even left a little dollar bill and a note, saying the money was to cover the cost of the sticker. Oh, clever clever me.
Later that night, Dad returned from his fishing trip, all smiles and anecdotes, and asked me where his sticker was.
I directed him to his office and when he came out, he informed me that he had spent eight dollars on the thing.
Eight dollars. For a bumper sticker.
Plus shipping.
I think I need another outlet.
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| I went to the bank on the way home from woik and found that it was after 5:00 - which means that everything within a 50-mile radius is open, except that place where we all put our hard-earned funds. I'm not quite sure why banks get to be open five to seven hours a day. It seems we've just accepted that if we need to cash a check, tough luck. Go see Big Bubba G at the convenience store and hand him your check. He gets 20% of it? Too bad. Buck up, Bucko.
Okay, someday I'll get over it. Apparently banks used to be open for less time years back. For some reason it seems like that should be an incentive to forgive banks. Just like kids used to be horsewhipped until they bled for their childish misdemeanors, so all you domestic violence victims--- suck it up!
That analogy doesn't quite bridge it, but oh well. It'll do for now.
So I now need to wait just under 20 hours to cash my check. I can handle it. It's not like I need to go out and buy something or whatever. I'll be fine. It's not so much that concept that bothers me though.
It's mainly that the bank has those glass doors with a bar that you push to get it.
Oooooh. Annoying, right?
Well, yes, it is. If you're me. If you're me, you're answering all the texts that you didn't want to answer at work as you approach the door, and then you think you're just gonna push your way through with your shoulder and mosey over to the great deposit slip center to fill out your information with those pens that are so incredibly valuable they have to chain them to the desk.
But it doesn't work that way. You get the the door, proffer your shoulder to it, and the door bangs up against something, scaring the crap out of one of the three paranoid tellers milling around inside. And what's even more fun is then, if you're me, you feel you need to apologize to said teller, who can see you fully through the glass and is giving you dirty looks.
But you can't apologize.
Because the bank closes at five.
Sigh.
But wait!
Long ago, someone invented something called a drive through, which is open an hour longer than the actual building, where you get to wait in a seven-car line to cash a $30 check that you don't really need the money for. How convenient! So, taking advantage of this wonderful opportunity, I get in the vehicle and drive around.
Wonder of wonders, I don't have to wait. I grin, thank God honestly, and drive on up.
Even more incredible, I actually don't screw something up when filling out my information. That never happens. I always do the math wrong when adding checks and subtracting less cash, or forget to endorse the backs, or something like that.
But I didn't. I even remembered to stick my ID in. Go me.
Now, as previously mentioned, the tellers at the bank I use are female. Now this could be some great advertising campaign, like Huns Doling Loans, or Babes at the Bank, or Foxes Filing Taxes or some other vaguely-rhyming indistinctly-catchy thing.
Unfortunately, female does not equal foxy in many of these cases. I don't believe in ugly people, and I don't think these women are an exception. But I wouldn't classify them as babes or foxes either. That's probably mean. Sorry.
Well somebody out there disagrees with me on the not-drop-dead count.
As I got the money and my ID back from that space-mail capsule thing, I noticed that one of the tellers had caught one bank patron's eye, and they wanted to connect. In the bottom of the space-mail capsule, I found the words "CALL ME" written in pen.
Bub, if you want to know when she gets off work, I can tell you. | | |
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