My brother has decided he has ADHD.
I'm not sure where this came from. I mean, it's not like he spent his childhood tying blankets around his neck and zooming through the house singing his own theme music or anything.
Oh wait...
Anyway, a year or two ago, one of his best buddies at work got diagnosed with ADHD and got on some medication for it. Clarke bowed to the peer pressure, and he wanted to be ADHD too! I remember him driving me down the street (pretty sure he was picking me up so I could babysit his kid... so he could go with his wife on a - squirrel!) and he told me about taking an "ADHD survey." He answered them all correctly! Wow! He passed the survey! Now he's got a big blue ribbon declaring himself to have a personality disorder that usually gives small children an excuse to make shameless fun of their teachers and disrupt class and get away with it.
And then we wonder why this disorder has appeal?
Anyway, this Christmas, Clarke and my mom were discussing how impossible it was to sit still during church, and now my mom has ADHD too!
I was feeling a little left out. I mean, nobody ever diagnosed ME with ADHD. Why do Clarke and my mom get to have it and I don't?
So, tonight we were doing a big puzzle. It's kind of a Christmas/New Year's tradition in our family to get a puzzle with about 137,000 pieces, and have all of us crowd around a table that only fits half of the people whose hands are going into the puzzle pieces. We then argue over who gets to do the edge pieces, and eventually settle into all of us doing edges, and then each taking a specific part of the puzzle. We do not, under any circumstances, encroach onto each other's territory, or we might face such horrible comments as, "Hey... where did my duck's butt go?"
Clarke decided he didn't want to take part in the puzzle. He's too ADHD for that. Instead he read us Canada's summary of US Politics 2011.
I was focusing on the flowers, and after attaching my glob of pieces to the edges, I decided I needed a break. I got up, announced, "Alright, I'm taking a break." And then, just because part of me kinda wanted to be ADHD too, I added, "My attention span just went, 'zzzzzzzp!'"
Clarke perked up and said, "That's why I don't like puzzles! Because as soon as I sit down my attention span goes, 'zzzzzzzp!'"
Grmf mrmp bgrmp. <- (grumble noise). I suddenly wanted to stop and say, "Yeah, well, I trained myself to be able to sit through puzzles, because my natural attention span is really small."
Honestly, I've been doing puzzles since I was a kid, and I've always loved it. And who says not liking jigsaw puzzles is a sign of ADHD anyway?
So, I very maturely ignored his obvious attempt to assert himself as being more ADHD than me, and went into the kitchen for a snack. I cut the banana bread, started looking for the butter, and went, "Ooh! I could blog!"
So I sat down and started writing this, leaving my banana bread somewhere in the kitchen... I don't really know where.
But, of course, Clarke had to come in and read me a picture book about a malfunctioning robot who says, "Beep bop!" And he read the story at about 1,000 mph while wearing giant, plastic safety goggles.
Alright. I give up. Clarke, you can be the ADHD one. I know you probably didn't realize it was a competition, but I'll just sit here and eat my banana bread (thanks for buttering it for me!) while you read Dr. Seuss to the rest of the family.
Hey look, I finished the post. In one sitting. I guess... **sigh** ... that I'm not ADHD after all.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
It has begun...
01:13 MST.
I am under attack.
I write from the haven of "blogspot.com," because my base at facebook is undergoing an onslaught of birthday wishes.
The attack began at 00:27 MST. The first birthday wish was launched by "Chris" from Canada, making it an international affair. Since then, a few more shots have been fired, and I anticipate many more to come. My wall is sturdy, but I shudder to think of how much it will come under.
As the attack continues into the night, and on through the day, I will hold as strong a stand as I can, taking such defensive measures as "cake" and "presents."
If I do not survive, tell them I fought with honor, dignity and courage.
Thank you.
I am under attack.
I write from the haven of "blogspot.com," because my base at facebook is undergoing an onslaught of birthday wishes.
The attack began at 00:27 MST. The first birthday wish was launched by "Chris" from Canada, making it an international affair. Since then, a few more shots have been fired, and I anticipate many more to come. My wall is sturdy, but I shudder to think of how much it will come under.
As the attack continues into the night, and on through the day, I will hold as strong a stand as I can, taking such defensive measures as "cake" and "presents."
If I do not survive, tell them I fought with honor, dignity and courage.
Thank you.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Beautify that, jerk.
So, I was in my room, clearing clutter off my dresser and otherwise attempting to make my room as shiny as I'd like my entire apartment, and there were people in the front room. Sometimes our front room has people in it. It's a very "front room" thing to do. Anyway, one of them asked my roommate why she dressed up for work when she did an after hours janitorial job. She replied she might still run into someone.
The person who had asked then announced, "Thank you! Oh, thank you!"
I wasn't out there to raise an eyebrow and wonder what was so glorious about whatever she said, but everybody else did it for me... judging by the awkward 2 seconds of silence, followed by this person's emphatic explanation.
"Well, women are things of beauty. They're here on the earth to beautify and give variety to it. So it bothers me to NO END when women think they shouldn't put makeup on and dress up to go somewhere."
...
...
*blinkblink*
...
...
What did he just say?
Now, annoying as that comment was, it probably wouldn't have been quite so bad, except that I was fresh out of the shower, no makeup whatsoever, wearing a fluffy mumu of a sweater, and fully intending to go buy paper towels dressed just as I was. I really saw no point in putting makeup on for a 30 second run to the store, just to take it off again 5 minutes later when I went to bed. But apparently, this was a horrible affront to my purpose on this earth as a woman.
The rant started to build. I was going out there to tell him what was what. Something to the effect of women are NOT here to beautify the earth - they're here to live lives and have experiences and learn lessons, etc., and it's none of his freaking business if a girl decides to wear makeup or not, so what right does he have to get bothered if some girl is putting an ugly mark on his perfectly pretty world by not getting dolled up for him, and why does beauty have to be judged by makeup anyway? Why don't GUYS have to slather foundation on their faces and cover up any blemishes to be considered good looking?
And then I took a deeeep breath.
And realized I didn't actually want to say all that. I'm not very eloquent when angry, and a scathing rant would accomplish nothing. If I were to have any impact whatsoever, my only option was to throw something at his face.
Like a shoe. Or my cell phone. Or a cheese grater.
Among the clutter on my desk was this weighted, Styrofoam airplane I got for Christmas that comes with a rubber band launcher (which I launched into somebody's head and got nearly blinded by at that lovely Christmas party). It seemed to jump off the desk at me, crying, "I'm here! Pick me up and shoot me at that guy's head!"
I grabbed the plane, loaded it onto the launcher, and darted out to the front room.
And there he was. The "women should wear lots of makeup and do their hair just perfect wherever they are so I won't have to deal with looking at ugly women" jerk who needed to get the shallow stick out of his shallow butt.
Only he was surrounded by 3 people who hadn't done anything to earn my wrath. One friend, the one sitting nearest to my target, saw the loaded plane launcher, and his eyes became roughly the size of cantaloup. "Please don't shoot that at me," he implored.
I didn't trust my aim. The misogynist was too well protected. I would not put innocents in danger for his crimes.
With a flash of warning in my eyes, I slipped away, back into my room.
He might have escaped this time - the coward hiding behind people I actually like - but be warned, shallow butt-face. I have a projectile plane just waiting for your next idiotic comment.
The person who had asked then announced, "Thank you! Oh, thank you!"
I wasn't out there to raise an eyebrow and wonder what was so glorious about whatever she said, but everybody else did it for me... judging by the awkward 2 seconds of silence, followed by this person's emphatic explanation.
"Well, women are things of beauty. They're here on the earth to beautify and give variety to it. So it bothers me to NO END when women think they shouldn't put makeup on and dress up to go somewhere."
...
...
*blinkblink*
...
...
What did he just say?
Now, annoying as that comment was, it probably wouldn't have been quite so bad, except that I was fresh out of the shower, no makeup whatsoever, wearing a fluffy mumu of a sweater, and fully intending to go buy paper towels dressed just as I was. I really saw no point in putting makeup on for a 30 second run to the store, just to take it off again 5 minutes later when I went to bed. But apparently, this was a horrible affront to my purpose on this earth as a woman.
The rant started to build. I was going out there to tell him what was what. Something to the effect of women are NOT here to beautify the earth - they're here to live lives and have experiences and learn lessons, etc., and it's none of his freaking business if a girl decides to wear makeup or not, so what right does he have to get bothered if some girl is putting an ugly mark on his perfectly pretty world by not getting dolled up for him, and why does beauty have to be judged by makeup anyway? Why don't GUYS have to slather foundation on their faces and cover up any blemishes to be considered good looking?
And then I took a deeeep breath.
And realized I didn't actually want to say all that. I'm not very eloquent when angry, and a scathing rant would accomplish nothing. If I were to have any impact whatsoever, my only option was to throw something at his face.
Like a shoe. Or my cell phone. Or a cheese grater.
Among the clutter on my desk was this weighted, Styrofoam airplane I got for Christmas that comes with a rubber band launcher (which I launched into somebody's head and got nearly blinded by at that lovely Christmas party). It seemed to jump off the desk at me, crying, "I'm here! Pick me up and shoot me at that guy's head!"
I grabbed the plane, loaded it onto the launcher, and darted out to the front room.
And there he was. The "women should wear lots of makeup and do their hair just perfect wherever they are so I won't have to deal with looking at ugly women" jerk who needed to get the shallow stick out of his shallow butt.
Only he was surrounded by 3 people who hadn't done anything to earn my wrath. One friend, the one sitting nearest to my target, saw the loaded plane launcher, and his eyes became roughly the size of cantaloup. "Please don't shoot that at me," he implored.
I didn't trust my aim. The misogynist was too well protected. I would not put innocents in danger for his crimes.
With a flash of warning in my eyes, I slipped away, back into my room.
He might have escaped this time - the coward hiding behind people I actually like - but be warned, shallow butt-face. I have a projectile plane just waiting for your next idiotic comment.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Good News!
Following up that last post, guess what I'm doing with my life???!!!
So, I'm graduating in one semester.
I'm also about to start editing the third novel for my "client" (who is published, so nyah to my pessimistic side).
I'm also attempting to write another book - currently in outlining phase.
I have a rough draft that just needs a little more editing before I can send it out to the first wave of test readers. *insert pessimistic self* You know you're not actually going to work on that one for a while, since you're starting another one.
I got my photography published.
I'm getting involved in other book-publishing-related ventures, and learning a lot while walking with my mom through the publication process of her books.
So, depressing though numbers may be, though I'm not where I thought I would be, I'm on my way.
I just need to do the math a bit better and figure out that starting college late + time it takes to graduate = I'm gonna be older than I expected when I start my life.
So, I'm graduating in one semester.
I'm also about to start editing the third novel for my "client" (who is published, so nyah to my pessimistic side).
I'm also attempting to write another book - currently in outlining phase.
I have a rough draft that just needs a little more editing before I can send it out to the first wave of test readers. *insert pessimistic self* You know you're not actually going to work on that one for a while, since you're starting another one.
Yeah, well at least I am starting another one, while you're just sitting on your butt whining about how you're 26 and not going anywhere.
I got my photography published.
I'm getting involved in other book-publishing-related ventures, and learning a lot while walking with my mom through the publication process of her books.
So, depressing though numbers may be, though I'm not where I thought I would be, I'm on my way.
I just need to do the math a bit better and figure out that starting college late + time it takes to graduate = I'm gonna be older than I expected when I start my life.
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six is a big number!
If you're talking about number of orangutans in tutus that were hired to do a pole dance at your birthday celebration, that is.
Twenty-six is a very small number.
But only if you're talking about the number of times you've heard that Taio Cruz Dynamite song in the last six months. Really... when will that song DIE???
Twenty six is weird. It's bigger than 25. It's closer to 30 than 20.
Whatever happened to 23? I liked 23. It's my favorite number.
As you can tell, I have a mild crisis. Actually, it's not a crisis anymore. It's calmed into an attempt to reassess and figure out if I'm the about-to-be-26-year-old that I always wanted to be.
At first glance, I'm gonna go with no. When I was like 15, I figured that in 10 years I'd be married, have 3 kids (I was gonna get married super young, and then have twins, okay?), have graduated college, have published 5 books, and have figured out how to read minds, fly, time travel, and belly dance.
Now, ignoring my 15 year old "life plan," let's go with my "I'm going off to school now!" life plan. I never really paid attention to numbers. For some reason, I never calculated how old I'd be when I graduated. The number "26" never occurred to me. I was 21 when I started school. I figured it would take me 5 years. Maybe I should have taken more math, because last time I checked, 21 + 5 does, in fact, equal 26. Still, I never thought I'd ever be 26 and not graduated.
On the other hand, if I wasn't dragging out this last year with all the snails I have in me (seriously... 6.5 credits spread out over 3 semesters) I'd probably be graduating... well... like now. Whatever. I'm taking a scuba diving class. Bet you can't beat that.
Anyway, I think the main issues are that I don't have my own family and I'm not published. Those were always my two life goals. I'm still single, living in a cramped, barely-off-campus apartment, working in a call center (a very nice call center, but a "would you like fries/noni extra with that?" customer service, no education required job nonetheless), dreaming of reaching those goals... and I'm at an age I never thought this phase of my life would see. 26 was always "what's next." Somehow I got to now without accomplishing what I thought I would.
Wow... depressing, isn't it?
If you're talking about number of orangutans in tutus that were hired to do a pole dance at your birthday celebration, that is.
Twenty-six is a very small number.
But only if you're talking about the number of times you've heard that Taio Cruz Dynamite song in the last six months. Really... when will that song DIE???
Twenty six is weird. It's bigger than 25. It's closer to 30 than 20.
Whatever happened to 23? I liked 23. It's my favorite number.
As you can tell, I have a mild crisis. Actually, it's not a crisis anymore. It's calmed into an attempt to reassess and figure out if I'm the about-to-be-26-year-old that I always wanted to be.
At first glance, I'm gonna go with no. When I was like 15, I figured that in 10 years I'd be married, have 3 kids (I was gonna get married super young, and then have twins, okay?), have graduated college, have published 5 books, and have figured out how to read minds, fly, time travel, and belly dance.
Now, ignoring my 15 year old "life plan," let's go with my "I'm going off to school now!" life plan. I never really paid attention to numbers. For some reason, I never calculated how old I'd be when I graduated. The number "26" never occurred to me. I was 21 when I started school. I figured it would take me 5 years. Maybe I should have taken more math, because last time I checked, 21 + 5 does, in fact, equal 26. Still, I never thought I'd ever be 26 and not graduated.
On the other hand, if I wasn't dragging out this last year with all the snails I have in me (seriously... 6.5 credits spread out over 3 semesters) I'd probably be graduating... well... like now. Whatever. I'm taking a scuba diving class. Bet you can't beat that.
Anyway, I think the main issues are that I don't have my own family and I'm not published. Those were always my two life goals. I'm still single, living in a cramped, barely-off-campus apartment, working in a call center (a very nice call center, but a "would you like fries/noni extra with that?" customer service, no education required job nonetheless), dreaming of reaching those goals... and I'm at an age I never thought this phase of my life would see. 26 was always "what's next." Somehow I got to now without accomplishing what I thought I would.
Wow... depressing, isn't it?
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
I don't wanna, and other whiney-butt musings on the value of this mortal life. Also known as, I should be doing my homework right now.
No, seriously. I don't wanna.
Which brings up the deep, philosophical question: WHY??? Why don't I wanna?
Why? Well, because I DON'T CARE!!!
I mean, I already wrote this paper. Granted, it was just a rough draft, but the fun part is done. Know what I have to do now? Well... first item of business is to entirely remove my "voice" from the paper. Apparently my teacher thinks it's too colloquial. And, being that it's a work of academic interest, I am not allowed to show any remote shred of personality. My teacher was very nice about it, though, and went through my paper, deleting my personality for me. Now my paper is happily in his monotonous voice. I just have to transfer his corrections to my document.
After that, I have to rewrite my introduction. As my teacher put it, "It's a fine introduction as it is, but everybody should rewrite theirs after they've finished their paper. Introductions always need improvement, so I want you to change it."
Thank you?
I also need to make my bibliography in line with Kate Turabian's massive style guide, because the Chicago Manual of Style apparently wasn't good enough for historians.
And then, the part I really don't want to do - add in a blip of something that I don't really care about to prove that I did research and "improved my paper" after turning in the rough draft.
And, the absolute worst part of all... I have to **gasp!** quit whining about working on my paper and work on my paper!!!
Which brings up the deep, philosophical question: WHY??? Why don't I wanna?
Why? Well, because I DON'T CARE!!!
I mean, I already wrote this paper. Granted, it was just a rough draft, but the fun part is done. Know what I have to do now? Well... first item of business is to entirely remove my "voice" from the paper. Apparently my teacher thinks it's too colloquial. And, being that it's a work of academic interest, I am not allowed to show any remote shred of personality. My teacher was very nice about it, though, and went through my paper, deleting my personality for me. Now my paper is happily in his monotonous voice. I just have to transfer his corrections to my document.
After that, I have to rewrite my introduction. As my teacher put it, "It's a fine introduction as it is, but everybody should rewrite theirs after they've finished their paper. Introductions always need improvement, so I want you to change it."
Thank you?
I also need to make my bibliography in line with Kate Turabian's massive style guide, because the Chicago Manual of Style apparently wasn't good enough for historians.
And then, the part I really don't want to do - add in a blip of something that I don't really care about to prove that I did research and "improved my paper" after turning in the rough draft.
And, the absolute worst part of all... I have to **gasp!** quit whining about working on my paper and work on my paper!!!
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