I wanna hold your haaaaaaand!

I remember writing a personal essay once for a class in high school, and it occurred to me after three years, why mt teacher told me it wasn't what she was looking for. I couldn't find the essay, so if it isn't written like a proper essay, that's why. I'm writing off the cuff, but it went something like this:

I have never been a romantic person. I'm the kind who pretends to gag at the cheesy love scenes in movies. So therefore it is not surprising when I say that the opposite sex has never taken many liberties with me. I have been grateful for this. And slightly disappointed. I am a girl, after all. It was only within the past year that I have been encouraging the sort of behavior normal teenage girl would promote in males of the same age. It has been a miserable attempt.
I reaped the results of my efforts about a week ago when I went to a get together held by a friend. It could even be called a shindig. We watched a movie, I remember vividly what movie it was, but for the sake of discretion I will say it was An Affair to Remember. (at least, that movie is a lot more romantic than the one we actually watched. I do think this sort of thing should happen in a romantic movie. Please excuse the fact that no group of high school teens would watch An Affair to Remember on their own accord)
Anyway, among the invited were two of my friends whom I shall call, "Marcus" and "Ben". Marcus was a a friend I had had since junior high, and we had always been very close. Ben was one of the poor fools I had attempted my feminine wiles upon. Both of them sat next to me during the movie. It was fairly enjoyable, I was snickering cynically.
I was just about to remark on Cary Grants methods of wooing, when I felt a poke. Someone was poking my right leg. And then a pinkie curled around mine, and before I knew it, Ben had clasped my hand and was holding it awkwardly. It was very uncomfortable, especially since I had blushed to the roots of my hair, and the room was already hot. I was debating what to do when Marcus, on my other side, took a daring move and held my other hand.
"..." I thought.
I think they were both wondering what my reaction was, because they looked at me right at the same time, and ended up looking at each other, because I was sunk so low in my seat they could see straight over me.
They looked at each other.
They looked at my hands.
And then Marcus, who has always been very good humored, started to laugh.
Then they both laughed.
Then the whole room laughed, because they all saw what was going on.
I wanted to weep and then die.
Being stupid high school boys, they milked all they could out of it. They both kissed me on the cheeks at the same time. I wanted to duck and have them kiss each other like in the cartoons. That'd serve them right. But I was frozen to the spot.

I forgot how I ended the essay, but I'm sure it was some moving analogy on karma or something. I'm sure it was brilliant. Anyway, I wanted to share it so that all of you who know me will nod and say "Oh! That's why she is the way she is." It scarred me for life, I can tell you.

I'm a gangster!

so I bought new shoes.
My old ones were falling apart, sad to say. They had an ancient Chinese charm on them and everything! But, alas, the Chinese are not as reliable as they once were. I think it has something to do with their sweat shops.
Anyway, I got new shoes, and they are gangster! They make me feel on the edge! Like hanging out with my home-ies, and shupe-dogging the town and listening to p-diddy and mos def all day. Which is weird, because I don't know how to shupe-dogg.
Gangsters use a lot of hyphons.
Anyway, The shoes are too big, so I considered stuffing the toes with something. But everything gangster-ish that came to mind wouldn't work. Dollar bills are a waste, crack is illegal, and brass knuckles are just uncomfortable. I guess I'll have to live with the clunking.
So I was studying my way cool, super bad foot wear and noticed that the gold filgeree (not real gold, sadly) was actually a collage of pictures. There were chains and thorn vines, lip outlines, skulls, some sort of gangster sign and then--
There it was!
Jammed between a star and the sillouette of an ice cream cone was...
An apple with a smily face in the center.
It was like these shoes had been made for me. It was like the guy at the shoe-making factory looked at this particular pair of shoes and said to himself,
"This pair is different!" And then crossing himself, as all good catholic shoemakers do, said "I should mark it. Something brilliant! something meaningful!"
And then the light bulb above his head goes off and he bends down to add little golden apples with bright shining smilies in their center.
Thank you my dear catholic shoemaker!

I have the best shoes ever!

Let the sun shine in...

I am on a hair kick!
My lustrous, long, lurid locks are unlikely to look lanky or limp for long!
heh heh...ahem.
I have decided that I am going to be a hair fanatic. I'm going to have the kind of hair that causes car accidents and makes people run into things because they are staring at my beautiful hair. That kind of hair. So I looked up what to do to have outrageously stellar hair.
I slather my hair in oil every week.
Now I know what you're thinking, but it's not as bad as all that. It smells like coconuts, and it can't be so bad if it smells like that.
I only wash it twice a week.
It may sound gross, but it's actually really good for my hair. It makes it more manageable. Besides, I bathe!
And I only hair dry once a month
And I put in silk dr--

So, none of these things are particularly interesting, but I haven't blogged for a while, and my life is so boring, I had to talk about something. I am always up for talking about my hair. so there it is. I promise I'll try to do something that'll earn the interest of this, my blog. Sorry for the lame post. Next time I'll just make something up.

Meanwhile, I would love some suggestions on what to blog about. Pleeeeease?

Only you can prevent stupidity.

They made me safety team leader at work.
First of all, BAD IDEA!!!
Second, I am probably the worst person in a emergency. But they gave me the badge, and told me that all I needed to do was attend the meetings and make sure everyone wore their safety glasses.
Not true, as it turns out.
Our Safety commander is a Nazi. Granted, a nice one.
We have been through three drills in the past two weeks. And apparently, there are more to come. I don't really mind, only I wish I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing. About a week ago, I heard my name on the intercom, and, puzzled, I met up with six or seven other people who are on the safety team. Our safety commandant...er...commander then marched us into a meeting room and stood us against the wall.
I felt like I was on the losing side of a firing squad.
In front of me was a sleek mahogany table lined with ties. Well, people wearing them, but it's the ties that scared me the most. I felt I was being stared down by the people running the place, and I all the sudden wished I hadn't worn my charlie the unicorn shirt.
Then they started to ask us questions. And they weren't questions they were asking, they were questions they were demanding. What was the weirdest to me, was that everyone else knew just what to say. I had only been a safety person for three months at that point, and had only gone over the basics. When it came my turn, I was scared stiff.
"When you radio in, who do you contact?!!!"
"Er...the person on the other end of the conversation."
Well, it made sense at the time. I didn't know the persons name. The kindly Nazi jumped to my rescue.
"That's right, and your supervisor."
"Yeah."
I then shrank back in shame. When it came time for my turn again, I was determined to get it right.
"How do you sweep the building?!!!"
It was irresistible.
"With a broom!"

...so it turns out the people who run the mill don't have a sense of humor.
Either way, the meeting that ensued afterward consisted of our leader telling us (me) that we needed more practice on our procedure.
"After all," says he, "We never know then there will be an earthquake or a fire, or even a terrorist bomb!"
Because, as we all know, terrorists sit in their lairs (or whatever it is terrorists plot in) and discuss what to terrorize next.
"We could bomb a air base!"
"No! we could bomb the White House!"
"No!! I have it! We could bomb *dramatic pause* A CLOTHING MILL!! BWAHAHAHA!!"
(Because that's how terrorists laugh.)
"Yes! That'll bring this country to it's knees!!"

Anyway, if there actually does turn out to be a terror threat on my sewing mill, I'll let you know. meanwhile, I encourage you all to watch this movie

http://www.hulu.com/watch/55744/the-office-a-lesson-on-fire

There's um...some swearing, but it's kinda funny.
It reminds me of a later meeting, when the boss said he thought it would be fun to have a guy with a gun come in, as a simulation.
That got a great reception.