Horsefly Soup is No Worse Than Escargot.

Oh you horsefly in my soup,

I'm so glad that there you rest.

I liked the soup already,

but fly-flavor makes it best!

Not any classic recipe

creates that unique taste.

Heck, if the menu said 'fly soup'

everyone would leave...with haste.

But they are just close-minded,

and afraid to try things new.

I'm sure that sometime long ago,

there were worse things in the stew.

I feel real bad you drowned in here,

or maybe it was too hot...

But whatever the case may be,

I sure am glad of what I got.

People say I'll eat anything,

and there's surely truth in that.

I once ate cream of pond scum soup.

The main course was grilled bat.

And I even like some rarer things,

like escargot (that's snails!).

So surely horsefly can't seem worse

than eatin' around some shells!

The only thing I'm sad about

is that you'll only last one bite.

But havin' my soup more filled with flies

would be an awful sight.

So thank you, Lord, for what you done

by givin' me this meal.

The fly's a bonus, you know that.

And the sale price was a steal!

So don't turn up a haughty nose

at a fly within your food.

Since all creatures are a gift from God,

that would just be rude.

Horsefly Soup is No Worse Than Escargot by Sarah E. Thomas is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

The Little Girl and the Plastic Card

The Little Girl and the Plastic Card

a short story about curbing your "wanter" and being responsible

inspired by true events.

Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was smart and she had a kind heart, but she suffered from a disorder. It seems that whenever she walked into a store, she was struck with the unbearable desire to purchase something. But the little girl almost always turned out empty pockets, unable to find the coveted green paper she knew the people behind the counter wanted before she could take her desired item home.

Then one day, while she was getting groceries with her mother, she learned of a better way to take home the things she wanted. It was small and plastic, and her mother called it a 'credit card'.

"Mommy, mommy!" the girl exclaimed. "I want one, too! Then I can get all of the things that I want, and all by myself!"

"No sweetheart," her mother said, gently patting her on the head. "You can't have one of these until you're a grown-up."

Disappointed, the child nodded her head. And after that, she dreamed of the day when she would be a grown-up. She would get a plastic card and never have to worry about not having money again.

When the little girl got older, she did indeed get herself a card. And although she had learned that having the card didn't take place of the money, the symptoms of her disorder were still present.

Only now when she walked into a store, turning out empty pockets didn't mean going home empty handed. All she had to do was swipe the plastic card and sign her name. Life was good.

But then one day, as she was minding her own business, her father poked his head in her bedroom. As he pushed the door open to talk to her, she saw that in his hands he held an envelope. She recognized her name on the front, and it bore the same logo as her credit card.

"What is this!?" her father asked, a confused expression on his face.

The girl batted her eyelashes and bit her lip. "It's my credit card bill, right Daddy?" she asked, doing her best to look innocent. Although she didn't know the amount she owed, she gathered by the look on his face that it wasn't too small.

"$600 dollars?" Now the frustration was more apparent. He held the envelope up, as if to show that he had proof of that terrible number.

The girl pursed her lips. Truly that was an amount higher than what she was expecting. And that was just for one card. Her mind raced as she tried to calculate how much could be on the others, for she had many plastic cards to appease her spending habits.

She quickly apologized for the amount, knowing that she meant every word when she told her father that she'd had no idea it would be that much.

With the help of her parents, she gradually paid back the money she owed, and for awhile everything was fine. The amounts billed to her monthly were manageable.

Then, slower than the first time, she accumulated a large sum again. On more than one of her beloved cards. She began to pay what she could, and for awhile did a decent job of controlling her spending disorder without the help of the plastic. But over time the temptation proved to be too strong.

That was when she knew. She had to make some hard decisions. She couldn't afford to keep spending the way she had been.

So she picked a card. The one with the highest interest rate. She took it out of her wallet. She sat it on the kitchen counter, then grabbed a pair of scissors.

After taking a moment to say goodbye, she forced herself to make the cut.

One little snip, and the card was gone. She prepared herself for sadness, but as she stared at the two halves she realized something. The sadness wasn't there. Instead, she felt a blooming sense of self, of responsibility, and of power. No more would she let the plastic control her. No, now she was free. The money still needed to be paid, but now she would not add more to it.

She felt confidant that she could do better in the future, learning from her financial mistakes instead of repeating them. As she scooped the remnants of her card into the trash can, she took a moment to enjoy the pride she felt. She held her head high as she left the kitchen, the smile on her face worth more than any silly plastic credit limit.

Fin.

The Little Girl and the Plastic Card by Sarah E. Thomas is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Ah, L'Amour

Single white female seeking real man in it for "long haul".

• Turn ons - Intelligence. Ability to speak the english language with competence and ease. The smell of chocolate. A sense of humor. EDIT:: An APPROPRIATE sense of humor. Ability to read minds, as it will come in handy--Trust me. Respectful attitude. 

• Turn offs - Extreme body odor. Grease. Small insects. Phlegm. Excessive amounts of hair. Plumber's butt. Pretending to listen. Unbearable voice. Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome. Toenail clippings. Leaving the toilet seat up. Gum under tables. Not knowing when to shut up. Being a sore loser. Not understanding when you're not near as cool as you think. Intolerance.

About Me: I'm fun loving and I enjoy trying new things. I'm not picky. I love money and I like being comfortable. I plan to graduate college but I would rather not work any longer than I have to. I complain a lot and I'm sort of a pessimist, but I make up for it with cynicism. I'm loyal for as long as I can stand it, and I never ever ever ever ever ever lie, make mistakes, or exaggerate.  I am moody, unstable, out of control, demanding, emotional, easily amused, giddy, hungry, insecure, happy, crazy, intelligent, bold, mature, unbelievable, shy, independent, undecided, creative, needy, confusing, and imperfect.

Men, approach with caution.

Boys need not apply.

Don't Laugh: It could happen to YOU.

Well folks, it's happened. Believe it or not, I am now fabulously 21 years old! Well, okay, like...a week ago today. So I'm 21 and 7 days. Anyway, remember that post where I talked about growing up and how at 21 I'd be running low on excuses? Well let me just say, while all of that may still be true, I don't feel any different. I'm thinking I should have known, because really when does any birthday really feel like you're older? Technically, you're only a day older than you were the day before. It's just been a year since that day...the year before. I suppose it's much more mental than anything. Like, it may have only been one more day, but it was also the day that I became 21. I was thinking about it, and I realized that sometimes the dignity and grace that come with "growing up" isn't always optional.

Yes, that means I have an anecdote. Are you ready for this? And I'll preface it - this didn't happen to me after 21...but come on, 20 is still pretty "adult", right? Okay, now it's time to casually transition from "I'm 21! Huzzah!" to "Can you believe this happened? Me either!"

So this particular incident happened at work. I got to work, all was well. In fact, I was bookin' it pretty well that night (I change the "on sale for ___" signs) and decided I had enough time to make a potty break. I don't think it's necessary to go into that except to say that that too went fine. In fact, I was unaware that there was an issue until...oh...I don't know, about twenty minutes later. Again, since I was making good time, I paused at the shoe department to quickly browse through the clearance shoes. I don't remember what I found, but I know I tried one on because I had to track down a mirror. Can't buy shoes without seeing how they look on ya, right? So there I am, with my one black shoe and my one try-on shoe, and I turn to get a profile view and that's when I see it.

The toilet paper.

No, not stuck to the bottom of my shoe, that would be too normal.

No, this particular length of toilet paper is tucked in the back of my pants.

IN THE BACK OF MY PANTS.

I didn't even know what to say. It was a good four squares long-- don't ask me how that happened-- and centered pretty flawlessly. 

So I'm busy thanking my lucky stars that I decided to me a not-so-model employee by perusing the shoes when I start to think back on how long it had been since I went to the restroom. That's when I realize it was at least fifteen minutes, probably more like twenty. Then I realize that right before I hit the shoe department, I had a conversation with one of my co-workers. And it hits me. Not only did I have a lengthy piece of toilet paper stuck in the back of my pants, but also that the chances that someone (probably multiple someones) saw it --and didn't say anything-- are pretty darn high.

Wow.

So, I told that story to some of my friends because I mean really, that's a pretty good story. How many people can tell that story? Sure, stuck to the shoe is most common, and maybe even in the pants isn't too rare, but at work? On the job? For half of half an hour, or more? Top that!

Then I sort of forgot (repressed) about it. I thought, "Hey, that'd be kind of funny to blog about but...meh!"

But then it happened again. Not at work, no that would have been too abysmally perfect. This time it was at home. And it was nowhere near fifteen minutes. But just the same. Having it happen twice was just too much not to share.

So I've shared it. My ultimate Humiliation at Work story. Plus a little bonus tidbit. For your pleasure, enjoyment, to cheer you up, or make you happier you're you and not me. Whatever the case may be, there it is. My secret shame.

Laugh. By all means, laugh. It's funny.

Just don't laugh too hard... It could happen to you! :-)

Bill, the Darkness, My Laptop, and Booze. A Collection of Traits I Think You Should Know.

Once upon a time there was this cockroach. For the sake of the story, we will call him Bill. One day Bill moved into a new home. My home. And on one fateful evening, Bill found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which was, incidentally, on my kitchen counter in the p.m. I had no choice - the cockroach must perish! WHAP! My fly swatter brutally wacked the cockroach, but just once. Bill couldn't have seen it coming. Then, as I studied my results, I was overwhelmed with guilt and sorrow. Poor little Bill was still alive, struggling to walk, battered but not defeated.  And I am ashamed to admit it but here it is anyway - I started to cry. That's right, you heard me. I cried. I had to put the poor Bill out of his misery. The misery that I had inflicted. The moral of this story is; never name any insect whose life you are about to end. Because a name in itself gives the bug a personality, and a personality is painful to destroy.

I can't walk through my house when it's all dark. I have a night light in my bathroom, and if I could sleep with a light without it driving me nuts, I'd probably have one in my room, too. I systematically use lights to 'keep myself safe' when I'm heading from the livingroom to my room, but only if I'm the last one up. As long as someone else is awake, I'm fine. I have the kitchen light on, then I go to my bathroom and turn that light on, and then on to my room. Then I head back to the living room, cell phone lit up (for some extra light, of course!) and switch off that light, then look over my shoulder the entire (short) walk to my bathroom, where I flip off that light and pull the door to, and then hurry to my room, checking the hall behind me before I close the door. And even then, I turn on my overhead light, then the light on my nightstand, THEN I turn off my overhead light, crawl into bed, make sure my phone is lit up before I turn off my nightstand light, and then get comfy all in the time it takes for my cell phone to dim and lock itself. Yes, I'm an absolute chicken. No doubt about it.

I love keychains. I have like...six keychains...and only one key. It's an addiction. At the very least, I should get more keys so that all of the keychains make a little more sense. 

I almost always trip when I wear shoes that are too big for me...Probably partly because I drag my feet, a bad habit that I can't seem to break myself of. Oh, and yes - I wear shoes that are too big for me sometimes. Hey, it happens! Also, I love Uggs. And that's just the way it is.

I didn't have my first beer until I was 20 years old. Which I still am. So really, I didn't have my first beer until...late last year? Yeah, I'm a good freakin' kid. :)

I collect cell phones. Right now, I have...seven? Eight? Something like that. Regardless of the fact that I rarely switch them out anymore...since I got my dream phone for Christmas... ^_^

Even still, I don't like to get rid of my old phones. For some reason I feel validated by having so many. Maybe I just like to keep my options open. Or maybe I'm a pack rat. Who's to say? All I know is I keep them in a drawer and I've only ever sold one, and that was because I was (and still am) in WAY over my head with the whole credit-card-debt thing. Let's just say I don't "act my wage," as one of my favorite radio personalities would say. And boy-oh-boy would he be disappointed if he knew of my shameful financial behavior...

Anything and everything that Apple puts out I will love without question. I am completely 100% sold on any product that they put out and I will always use Macs. I've used them for my entire life and I've always loved it. In my house alone there are at least five Macs, I would quite possibly die without my iPod, and I am desperately in love with my iPhone. I wish there was an Apple store closer to me so that I could seek employment there, share my love for Macs with the world. It always tickles me when I have my PowerBook with me at, oh, let's say Starbucks, and people stop and ask me if I like my computer. My response? How could I not!? Yes, I am a die-hard Apple FanGirl. I speak the truth.

I have a terrible memory and one of the reasons I like to blog/journal/take photos/etc. is because I'm afraid that I won't remember something that I wanted to.

I have never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Ever.

I'm frighteningly UN-self sufficient. I don't know how to do laundry, or a load of dishes, or cook... Were I to live on my own right now, I surely would perish within the first week.

Him's a Lover Poochie, Yes Hims is!

The title is from a Luann comic strip that we saw. Mom clipped it out and put it on the fridge, and we always used to say it to Cowboy.

I really miss my dog. And you know, I really don't think it's fair. I mean sure, technically it is. And he had a really long, really good life. He was loved, he was spoiled, he was happy. But I just wish I could have had a little bit longer.Although I'm sure I'm not the first nor will I be the last person to wish that about anything. I guess I just still hate the fact that I wasn't home when it happened. I think in the long run it's best because I can't imagine how hard it would have been. Mom said he couldn't even stand up, and that it was very pitiful and heartbreaking, but I wish I could have at least rode with him to the vet's, sort of had the chance to "say goodbye". I think I'm just lacking closure. Since the last time I saw him he looked fine, normal - maybe just a little stiff in the hind legs, but he'd been laying down for awhile - it's just so difficult to believe even now that between when I left and when I came back he got so sick that he had to go to the vet to be put on an IV. And it's even more unexpected that the next day he was gone. Just gone, just like that.

I suppose "that's life," it's "how the cookie crumbles," just "the way things are," or whatever other cliche phrase you can think up. But when it all comes down to it, that just doesn't help, does it? I mean does that actually make anyone feel better? Maybe in time, but when it's still in the first few months?

I can shake my head and tell myself, "Don't be silly. That's just life," 

but I get no satisfaction or comfort out of it. I'm glad that it happened naturally because I just don't know if I would have been able to make the choice to put him down, even if it was what would have been best. Maybe if I'd been there when he got bad; if I saw that it could have been different. But as it is, I just don't know. I think I would have been too selfish, I would have wanted to him to stay as long as possible. 

Cowboy was the best dog ever. I desperately miss him. Every time I see puppies I want one. I don't want to replace him, or put off the grief. If you know me, you know I already cry plenty over EVERYTHING, and my best friend is no exception. But I desperately miss feeling like I have a dog of my own. We still have another dog, and I feel bad for maybe...not appreciating her as much as I could. But the difference between her and Cowboy (besides the fact that I grew up with Cowboy) is that I know Cowboy was all mine, specifically, because I begged and begged. 

I feel like I don't have a buddy anymore. It's just...different. It's different than if he had just shown up.

I know it's not an easy thing to get over, and it never will be. But I just wish that somehow it could be. I don't think I'll ever not miss Cowboy. He was special, he was incredibly unique. He was protective but gentle, loving, smart, playful. I hate that he's not here right now. But I don't hate that he's no longer in pain. And at least he knew I loved him.

R.I.P. Cowboy

The Best Dog That Ever Lived

and my best friend.

October 1995 - February 25, 2008

What A Way To Wake Up.

We're down to two pets, now. Both outdoor ones. It would seem that the terrible 2008 had to rear it's ugly head again. As I'm sure I mentioned before, the beginning of my year was awful. First my Grandpa, then my best friend- my dog, and now our cat Murphy, who was a member of this family a few years before I was.

She was 23 years old, and she held on as long as she could. Longer than I thought she'd last, actually. And of course this would happen while Mom is out of town. I wish she could have been here because I feel like poor Murphy never really got to be comforted by her momma. She left us sometime early this morning, I think, because I didn't go to bed until nearly 3 am. When I woke up at ten, there she was. In the living room, more or less where I left her when I went to bed.

So what has my morning consisted of? Begrudgingly waking up, hitting the bathroom, and finding the cat. Letting dad know and then standing outside while we dug a hole, and then distracting our dog while he buried her. 

I'll even miss her incredibly loud, I-have-to-pause-my-DVD-because-I-can't-hear-over-her meowing. And feeding her when mom goes out of town, and cleaning the stupid catbox.

R.I.P. Murphy. Maybe now Cowboy will have a friend upstairs.

True Love is Never Having to Say "I'll Do That"

Never knew until I met'cha

how sweet this life can be.

And I'm willing to bet'cha

that it's all because of me.

I know that don't sound lovey,

but I promise that it's true

because without me, honey

I don't know what you would do.

I don't take out the garbage.

I don't cook and I don't sew,

but you can't be mad about it

'cus it keeps you on the go.

And just you think, my darlin',

if I did those chores you asked

you'd have too much time to sit around,

the time would never pass!

You can call me good-for-nuthin'

but babe that just ain't fact.

I let you know when the toilet's clogged

with quite a bit o' tact.

And if the dishes should pile up

all crusted with old food,

you can count on me to warn you, dear,

you know my word is good.

So next time you throw my stuff about

and pack up all my clothes,

you best think twice 'fore you throw me out.

I bet you'd miss me if I go.

True Love is Never Having to Say "I'll Do That" by Sarah E. Thomas is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

The Good, The Bad, and the Random

Today has been one of those incredibly slow, equally uneventful days. Is this a bad thing? Not necessarily. I haven't had a bad day, per say, but has it been fabulous? Hardly. I suppose you could call it a fair mix of good and bad.

Let me explain.

Bad: I initially woke up in a relatively unpleasant manner - the sound of a horn honking outside my window. I literally shot up and fumbled for my glasses (if I haven't mentioned it before, I'm effectively blind without them) in time to see a car slowing to honk - for the second time - at my dog, Kelsi, who took a moment to study the oncoming car before deciding to amble back up the driveway. After I calmed myself down, I went back to sleep.

Good: It wasn't too hard to fall asleep again, considering (Bad:) I was awake until nearly 5 trying to figure out how to get the header for this blog right. Which, incidentally, I didn't get done until this afternoon. And I slept for another hour or so before waking up again.

Bad: I felt rather ill.

Good: I lounged in bed for nearly two hours, staring at the ceiling, reading, dozing. Which was definitely nice.

Bad: I didn't eat 'lunch' until nearly 6 because I spent the majority of my day waiting for someone else to be hungry. The thing is, my mom was at work and my dad...he decided to sleep more today that I did. I think by the time he got up, I was leaving to get my food.

Good: My food was good. :)

And finally, a double dose. Good/Bad: I got called in to work tomorrow night. Bad because I was looking forward to the day off, and, if my plans pan out, I'll have to cut them short. Good because I haven't worked at all this week so even the twenty or so bucks I'll get from tomorrow night will be twenty bucks I didn't have. And good because, even when I don't feel like going to work, if I've felt bored and unproductive that day going to work actually makes me feel like I'm doing something with  my life. Oh, and (Good:) my supervisor will be back at work next week. I missed her unique sense of humor.

And that basically recaps my day. Watched TV, watched a movie, will probably watch another, and blogged. 

Now, for a more...interesting topic than the above play-by-play of my day.

Illegal Immigration.

Two words, and you've got yourself a controversy. Now, I don't really want to get political. In fact, I've got a separate blog for that. However, I don't think I'm about to be political. I think I'm about to make an observation.

Not too long ago, we got one of those delightful solicited phone calls from who-knows-who. You know the kind, one of those "Are you pro this?" or "Do you think there should be laws for this?" Okay, so here's the question.

"Do you think that there should be a law against illegal immigration?"

Let's think about this. Should there be a law that would make illegal immigration illegal?

Should their be a LAW that would make ILLEGAL immigration ILLEGAL?

I have no intention of getting into what I think, or don't think, or what I believe about it. But come on...you can't word it that way and expect me to not scoff. I'm thinking the simple fact that it's called illegal immigration means that the way in which it was done was not a legal one. So to answer the question...I think there are already laws that make immigration (the illegal kind) against the law. There are ways to come into the wonderful U.S. of A. legitimately. The illegal kind would be the...um...illegal kind.

Who knew? :)

So anyway, that's all I've got for now.