Silliness.

Amanda: "...and I was like, 'YELP' but--louder, and more shrieky."

Girls Night In

Jackie: "If Rock Creek Park held as many bodies as NCIS says it does..."
Amanda: "What? It's a big park!"

Trick or Treat?

Halloween is coming up, and I am mostly excited because David will be here. Leila is not trick or treating, as her dad doesn't approve, and I don't care enough to argue about it. She, however, asks about it five or six times a day. I've come up with a compromise--we'll go to the zoo. She'll be so excited she won't even remember the trick or treating! (I hope. I really hope.) Then, the next day, we'll splurge on some Halloween candy and problem solved--we did something fun, and candy was gotten, and these are the things that make Halloween, yes?

I will take a half million pictures. It'll be fun!

No regrets.

Editor's note.

I babbled. Sorry. I will get back to a)trying hard to be funny and b) posting pictures.

David bought me a camera and I've been snapping away like crazy. I figure if I suck at writing, I can at least show you pretty things? So, that I'll do.

My clients rock.

One of my regulars walked in rocking the following accessories and courteously (actually, laughingly) let me take a picture of her.

So: Don't forget to vote, y'all! She sure won't.

Biannual Blogging.

I am absolutely not good at keeping up with this blogging thing. And you would think that I would be, seeing as I talk constantly. A constant stream of chirping issues from my mouth, and whoever happens to be around gets to listen. David is so patient, Amanda humors me to a ridiculous extent, and the girls I work with think I'm hilarious. I kind of think I'm silly.

So I'd love to tell you that I had a super exciting day and I'm here to tell you all about it, but actually, I'm bored at 2AM and I keep swearing I'm going to get back into this, so here I am. I have absolutely nothing important to say, and no funny stories to tell, and I'm wishing I was...more amusing. However. Hi, y'all. I hope to remember to return tomorrow.

Hot. It is hot. Also there is heat.

The DC motto is, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity."

Except when it's both, like today.

Like, your hair sticks to your forehead, and the sweat runs down the small of your back, and the feeling of your messenger bag against your thigh makes you want to throw it against a wall because it's melting your capri pants to your skin. A walk around the corner to the bus stop builds up a sheen of sweat all over you, and by the time you get there sweat runs freely down your legs and of course the bus doesn't have air conditioning, so you try not to touch the back of the seat or the person sitting next to you. And you're gasping for a breeze, dying for open space, praying that you'll be there soon, and when the bus finally stops and you jump off and that breeze hits you....relief.

That's July in DC.

Cabbages and Kings

I grew up writing this asinine little stories and poems, and escaping into fantasy land. So when I started a blog, I thought it was going to be easy and I was going to rock blogland. It's not as easy as I thought. Sometimes I want to be too honest. Sometimes I just wanna talk about shoes. Sometimes I think my life is so fucking boring I just want to scream.

So, today I will try to talk about something other than shoes.

An interesting thing about retail is the artificial sense of closeness it creates between both the employees and the customers. At the store, it's important to create the "relationship" between the associate and the client in order to sell more effectively. The client sees you as a friend, she starts to value your opinion. One, she's going to buy more because it becomes fun and enjoyable. Two, she's going to come back and see her "buddy." This works out all right, different girls have different clients. I have a few in particular that are just a delight to see.

But the thing is, people cross lines. Or they mistake the artificial friendship for a real one. Or they see you as just a warm body to talk at. And talk they do. They tell you things they shouldn't, things about their families, their lives, their medical woes, their money problems... (Rhetorical question: If you have money problems, why are you in my very high-end store?)

Today, a client in my store dropped a bomb: Her son had just died. I was put off by her announcement--grief should be private. We don't live in the Victorian Era, or have mourning periods. But even still, I'm a sensitive person. Parents shouldn't outlive their children, it isn't the way things were meant to be. So I said the usual things, "I'm sorry to hear that, that's terrible," and she proceeded to tell me that he was only 29 and wasted away from cancer...I wanted to cry, but not really for her. I felt like she was milking it. It made my stomach turn over; I just hate public displays of emotion, but she didn't have any emotion. She was just reciting the facts and gaging our reactions. She mentioned that she was medicated, so that could have been it, but I don't know...even the offhand mention of medication seemed calculated.

It felt so wrong to me. So many people really do suffer, and live through horrible tragedies without feeling the need to inform everyone they come across, and certainly not the salesgirls at a shop they frequent. Maybe I'm not as compassionate as I thought I was. Maybe I think the worst of everyone. But it all rang so false and at the same time I felt so moved for the rest of her family.

I'm such a horrible person for doubting her grief.

I have things to tell you.

Ssh. I'll be back tomorrow.

Musings on the No. 5

Public transportation can feel almost companionable at times. You sit down gingerly, holding your knees together, arms in your lap...but often there comes a moment where you both relax, then your thighs are touching-- you feel the warmth of their upper arm against yours and it's nice to just be next to someone. You're ignoring each other, but together in some sense.

More fun in my house. Of the fun.

Most of the time, three girls live in my house. Amanda and I, of course, are here all the time. Leila is here three or four days a week.
Now, Amanda and I have a lot of Crazy. And our Crazies play off of each other, mine causing hers to spin out and vice versa. And we're enablers, encouraging each other to buy shoes, whining about the perfect, dream pair of shoes that will complete our lives. We also buy each other things.
It really is somewhat wrong. But it got me these:


Okay. I can't figure out what is going on with my toes here. Is it noticeable to other people? Because it's driving me crazy here. But--TEN DOLLARS!

And these. Okay, I own these shoes in two colors--Amanda owns them in THREE:


We've been bored lately. And I haven't had much of interest to say. But they tell me the eyes are the window to the soul, so here's something for your contemplation. Maybe you can divine what's been going through my head lately, since I'm unable to express it:

This is what we do in my house for fun.

So. Amanda and I like shoes.

Less than half of my shoes. In fact, about a quarter of them:


My favorites, scored for $14:


Amanda's coltish ankles, and pimp patent leather shoes:


Pointy makes me happy:


But in the end, we're both the ballet flat sort of girl:

MIA

Sorry for a lapse, but I'm trying out some new meds and am not exactly with it at the moment. Will return soon--

Cracked.

Amanda and I have been watching Veronica Mars every day for over a week now. We want to be Veronica, we want to bang Logan. (God, do we want to bang Logan. He's so pretty, so so pretty.) (And so is Veronica, for that matter. Cute like a little pixie!) It's a very addictive show, I recommend it if you're a nerd like me who loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
(Um, please don't ever mention that I said that. It is my not-so-secret shame.)
(I am rather parenthetical today.)
While I'm sharing, we have a mouse. Like, "eek, a mouse!" It scared the daylights out of Amanda, and we thought it had taken up residence in our shoe closet (which is filled with my shoes, and Leila's, so Amanda wasn't really too concerned.) but now, guess what? It appears to be living behind the damn stove. So now I don't want to cook or do the dishes, because I'm a-scared of it scampering across my toes and/or giving me hantavirus. (Rodent-borne disease WHICH YOU CAN DIE OF, STOP LAUGHING AT ME.)
I worked a twelve-hour day today, and am starting to feel a little strange. Now that I've shared (because I know that our mouse and Veronica Mars are crucially important to you) I'm going to shuffle off to bed like the old, old woman I am. (When it rains or is humid, my knee hurts like holy hell. What am I, like eighty?)

Back in business.

First day back at The Little Company That Could. It rained and was cold, so the store was empty, and I spent all day learning the company values by rote. Going to help one last time with shipment tomorrow at Big Box, and then I'm bouncing, happily.

--absolutely nothing of interest to write about, and completely free of reflection. So this is a quick entry to try and get back in the habit of writing.

Kindness of Strangers.

We got a new TV! And my laptop decided to like me again. Which is my excuse for not posting last night--my laptop decided the internet didn't exist. Which, technically it doesn't, because we don't have it hooked up and I steal from my neighbors. I have become tired of depending on their generosity, though, and also of getting kicked on and off, and not having cable, so I let Comcast suck my soul and we'll have interwebs starting on Wednesday.

This afternoon we hauled in this massive TV on our own; it must've weighed a million pounds. We got to about twenty feet away from our apartment and had to put it down--our fingers were going numb. Right at that moment one of our neighbors came out, this huge, ripped bodybuilder. He then proceeded to carry the TV in for us, then caught Amanda in the hall a few minutes later and asked her to let him know if we needed anything else.

Today was my last day at Big Box, aside from a couple of hours on Tuesday. I handed over my keys and left the building grinning like an idiot and squinting into the sun.

Little bit inconsistent.

Must get better at this blogging business. You wouldn't think it would be so difficult to set aside a few moments to blather on about your day, but I log on and stare at the page for a while before just...giving up. So. It's going to be boring, but I have a resolution to write at least a paragraph every night.

Here's today: Saturday is my last day at Big Box. I am going back to The Little Company That Could. It was a promotion, a raise, and a relief. The work/life balance is something that larger companies just do not understand, and this tiny place really gets that. Definitely some bittersweetness to this, I will really miss my team. I love a lot of the people there. Getting up at four is killing me, and I miss having a life. I've barely been into the city in the past eight months and the thought of going into the spring, spending all my time indoors but what it takes me to walk back and forth from the metro stations...I couldn't stand it. I barely see Leila; I don't have time to travel. I'm tired and the job is stressful. Monday lands me back in granola-land, of soy fabrics and yoga classes, and golf pros who work part time there "because [they] like it so much."

In the vein of returning to the healthy store I am trying to return to the healthy life. I haven't run all winter due to the cold and also--four in the morning?! I'd like to see you get up earlier than that to run! So starting Tuesday I'll run every other day, and Amanda claims she'll run also. We will see about that, of course.

Meh. Feel like I can't hit the right tone here. In summation: will write a paragraph or more every night, will run starting Tuesday. Will not stress over these last two days at Big Box. Will be proud of myself for getting the job at The Little Company that Could.

Justice. Mercy. Hope.

Jenna would've been 23 today. You can see in my sidebar a link to the site Justice for Jenna. You can read her story, and understand what her family (including my friend J) are going through, have been going through.
You will probably cry if you think about it too much, I know I did.
I've been trying to be honest, in all of my life, instead of hiding things under my skin, like I am so prone to doing. So in light of that, instead of blathering on about the situation, I want to post some prayers I wrote in the first few days, and get those thoughts out there again...some kind of karma, directed and Jenna's family, during this tough week.
I don't pray very often, so I started writing things down because I thought it would be easier...

Prayers for Jenna:
Godspeed
May Angels unable to protect you
lead you home with gentle hands
may you hold your unseen child
in loving arms, for all eternity
May your family know swift healing
and may prayers lift them from their grief
and finally: may you have felt no pain, no fear
may you have been blissfully ignorant
and your last waking thoughts of love.

Prayers for Jason:
God help you.
May you retain your faith
May you know the love of friends and family
the support of communities behind you
May the tears shed by your eyes
Open them to the tragedies of others
May empathy rule your emotions
for the remainder of your days
may you know love, Jason
and carry these scars as a badge
a reminder of loss,
a reminder of faith
a reminder of her.
May you be lifted by this prayer , and the other prayers
said by so many, always caring--


The day after the news came about, I wrote this as an addendum:

May the strength that has gotten you through this far stand you in good stead.May our prayers sustain you further. May you cling to the shreds of peace God is still providing.
And may love surround you. Always, always.

How I Shop (Or: Welcome Back to Topic Town)

I love to shop. It is a huge deal to me. (No pun intended.) I simply enjoy the smell of new clothes, fondling them, touching new makeup and fantasizing about how it would look on me...god, I love to shop. I rarely buy full price, working for a major retailer helps out with that, but being a bargain hunter also plays a big role. I like to go by myself, so I can take my time, but I also feel awkward in smaller shops with every person breathing down my neck.

How I choose to spend my money: Makeup, shoes, clothing, books, sushi, and the biggest expense: Leila. Her clothes, her shoes, her books, her toys. More than anything clothes and BOOKS. We like books at our house.

I wish I spent less money on: Coffee. I drink so much coffee they should have to peel me off the ceiling, but it really barely affects me. Getting up so early I have my first latte around 8, and then another around eleven. I don't have any after that so I can go to bed super early.

Speaking of bed, I am super sleepy. I think I am going to go rest my tired, sore body and chastise myself for being a spendy, spendy type of girl. You'll forgive me, right?

Icy Mess and Clean Sweeps

Obama takes VA 64% to 36%.
He busts out in DC 76% to 24%
And another sweep in MD 62% to 46%
Obama now has a slim lead, wow. Wow.

Wow. We are excited about change 'round these parts. Considering the horrible, messy, awful weather we're enduring, the huge turnout is great.

In other news, it's a fucking disaster. We were totally unprepared for this storm. The ground is covered in ice, and people are slipping, sliding, and falling everywhere. There are accidents everywhere, including a 19 car pileup. In the continuing saga of Jackie Can't Do Anything Without Hurting Herself, Ever, Not Even Walk, I busted my ass in front of the metro station. My knee, ass, and thigh are bruised majorly, and I wrenched my arm trying to catch myself. It's ouchy.

I am sad, because I wanted desperately to go shopping tomorrow and it's supposed to be gross and icy all morning. But I am happy, because Obama makes me feel hopeful. But I don't believe in talking politics; people don't change their minds, and sometimes they get downright ugly. So ta.

Why I'm in my current job.

After several years of marriage, a quick question to my then-husband resulted in the snapped answer, "I don't care!" And with that, our marriage dissolved on the floor beneath me. I leaned heavily against the doorjam, sobbing, while he told me he didn't love me anymore.
For three days, I did nothing but cry. I paid a little visit to the psych ward. There were drugs. I went through the motions like maybe I dreamed that ugly scene.
Shortly after, post-therapy, he told me that if I didn't move out, he might kill himself.
I started trying to get my shit together. I went job hunting, flitting through a few companies before landing at Lucy just as I was moving into my new apartment with my awesome roommate. That helped me feel like I was getting my own shit together. I began dating David, a good man, who can deal with The Crazy.
After a bit of time with Lucy, an old manager at Ann Taylor gave me a call, and after about a month I started at Old Navy. I took the logistics position because it's in the morning, and I get more afternoon, evening time with my kid. I mostly like the job, though I am tired all the time.

What I really like about the job is that...it's mine. I did it. I make enough money to not have to ask my ex for help. I am taking care of myself, when I was so very scared that I would be scared and confused and alone and unstable...things were fine. And I am fine.

Still in one piece, as Jason reminds me. Not shattered.

Hoorah for topics

A list, cribbed from raincoaster, on the things you must blog about. And I will blog about. Because I lack words that want to come on their own about just random daily things. So, I shall talk about the following things over the next few weeks.

1. The Story of My Most Serious Injury
2. The Person I Admire Most
3. This Will Be My Epitaph
4. Why I Love My Hometown
5. Why I Hate My Hometown
6. Why I Was a Childhood Bully
7. How I Shop
8. How I Choose to Spend My Money
9. I Wish I Spent Less Money on This
10. Why I’m in My Current Job
11. My Ideal Job
12. My High School Clique
13. My Worst Subject in School
14. If I Had a Super Power
15. Here’s Where My Opinion Differs From the Majority
16. Why I Voted the Way I Did in the Last Election
17. Why I Don’t Vote
18. The Cause I Really Believe In
19. Why I Came To Religion
20. Why I Don’t Believe Anymore

A short delay.

Sorry to my five regular readers. I shall return like, tomorrow. But first, a quick question: Do you mind if I start putting up small chapters of a story I'm working on? It's really all up in my head and I thought that posting pieces of it on a pseudo daily basis would help me to get the story out and get some nice criticism from some good friends. It will be raw and unfinished, and have its awkward moments, but I hope you'll see something good inside. I'm using the Jess and Conner story. It's about love, but it isn't a romance--I hope.

Okay. Thanks guys. I love you.

Things I never thought I would say to my child: Part the First

"Stop patting my boobies. Those are my boobies and you don't need to touch them!"

Have some class.

I'm a manager at a store where you shop. No, really. I saw you there last week.

How did you treat me? Let me explain something. The way you treat that girl who rings you up, or that waiter who brings your food--that says a lot about you as a person. I don't lose my humanity just because I'm on the other side of the counter, but you people apparently think I do. I have been cussed out, screamed at, threatened, and called stupid or incompetent. I've had people roll their eyes, tell me that my job is low-class. I've heard, "I have a real job. All you do is fold sweaters."

(As an aside, why do people think that I'm stupid because I work in retail? I make really, really good money. I generally like the people I work with, and my job is tough and requires quite a bit of brainpower. I manage sixty plus people. I hold immense amounts of information and am expected to access it at any given time. I know the policies, the computer programs, and information about over a million pieces of product that are sitting in my store at any given time.)

So let's just get a little something straight: If you're treating me and my associates like crap, you are the stupid one. 9.85 times out of 10, you are the one in the wrong. You don't have your receipt. You didn't read the sign. You didn't read the return policy that is printed on every receipt and every single register--that is the absolute number one reason I get screamed at. Our return policy is not complex. It is not any different from most of the stores out there. (Though you seem to think it is, but trust me, it isn't. I've been in retail for a long time, and I am a pro shopper.) You think you're special and the rules don't apply to you. You're wrong. You mean nothing to me, and the more you scream, the more you fight, the more you tell me how ridiculous and stupid I am, the less I care about retaining you as a customer. To tell you the truth, I never cared that much in the first place. We are a massive chain store. We are not Ann Taylor. We don't care about having that special relationship with you. You're nice to us, we're nice to you. Thank you for shopping here and have a nice day. You scream that you're never fucking going to shop here again unless we do what you want us to? Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. There are millions of other people who can act civilly who will buy the merchandise you just left behind.

Who raised you, that you will pick merchandise up, examine it, and then throw it on the floor? Barn animals? I hate to think of how your children act at their playmate's houses. People love to say to me, "That's your job." Well, first of all, it's also your job to act like a human being and not some kind of beast. It's your job to consider how hard the people here work and have some fucking respect for them. But second of all, no, that's not my job. My job is not to follow every person in this store around and pick up the things that they have strewn about. It's not my job to refold every sweater you touched because you apparently don't know a)what size you wear and b)how to take a sweater off of a table without messing up every single item on that table. It is not my job to remove every item you dumped on a table because you are too lazy to walk ten feet and put it where it belongs. It is part of my job to do necessary cleanup in order to make this store look nice. It is part of my job to help you have a pleasant experience, but I can't do that because you have made a pigsty out of my store. You've taken a pair of shoes out of the box to try them on, and then left both the shoes and the box in the middle of the floor for me to trip over. You've let your whining, screaming children run rampant, pulling clothing off of the hanger, throwing basketballs and stuffed animals through the aisles. (Oh, and when I say, with a bright smile, "Please don't throw things in the store, guys!" you freak out on me and tell me not to tell your kids what to do. THEN CONTROL THEM.)

Then you get to the counter. You are first angry because we didn't open up a whole new register line just for you, so that you wouldn't have to wait five whole minutes. Poor you. Please do not ever tell me you are in a hurry. Please do not expect me to feel sorry for you. This is not a grocery store. You did not have to come in here today for milk or eggs. Your need for a tee shirt or a pair of flip flops is not an emergency and if you don't have time then you should not have come in here. You are angry again in a few minutes because you do not understand the concept of waiting in line. A second register opens up because five people have gotten in line, and none of you understand what "I'll take the next customer in line," means. It means the customer standing directly behind the one who is being rung up. Not the customer who runs the fastest. Also? I am not a referee. I am not going to mediate a dispute about who was next, so do not come up to me and get in my face that I should've taken you first. That is most definitely not my job.

We then come to the variations on the same theme: I do not understand what a coupon means, I do not understand the return policy, I do not understand that when a sign says "Tee shirts, 2 for $10" it does not mean that the pants on the same rack are also 2 for $10, and no, that is not false advertising or bait and switch. That is you and your inability to read.

If you do not have your receipt, I will not be giving you any form of money back, nor will I be giving you any merchandise. You will receive a merchandise certificate in the mail. Period. No questions. I will not override anything--as a matter of fact, I cannot. The computer programs that we have do not have override codes. period. Do not tell me you worked in customer service and you know that I can. (If you worked in customer service, you should know how mean people are, and stop being such a prick.) I. can. not. You make speak to customer service, certainly. Here is the number, my name is Jackie, here is the store number, and my position title. Customer service will be happy to explain the return policy to you the same way that I just did. Customer service will tell you that they stand behind me. And when you're on your way out the door, I will tell you to have a nice day. And you will tell me to fuck off, because you were raised by white trash, and now you think your credit cards stand for having real money. But people with real money generally have some class, and you? Have none.

No way.

They just said "posse" on Law and Order. No, really? People do not still say posse, do they?

Random Randomness

Law and Order is on my television. I don't even know what flavor of it I'm watching. (There's, let's see, Criminal Intent, Beef Flavor, Plain, with garlic...)
Leila just asked me, very nervously, if I should be watching this bad show. Perhaps some Dora the Explorer or Disney branded mess o' colors would be more appropriate for the the stinker.
Ugh, Dora, how I hate you. Let me count the ways. I hate your perky voice, and your random words o' Espanol. I hate your many, many, plastic products.
The problem is, when you have a smallish child, people randomly give them gifts. And these gifts are not the things you would actually purchase for your child. So, even though I encourage a Montessori lifestyle for my child with the sorts of playthings that relate to real life, somehow she ends up with random Dora the Explorer lunchboxes and plastic blocks with cartoon animals.
It's hard to say something about it, though, when I'm the hypocrite who buys her Barbie dolls. I can't help it, though! I grew up on Barbies! My Barbies had sordid love lives, always cheating on Ken dolls, having babies, wearing stylish duds.
(This episode of Law and Order is a crazy amount of stupid.)
Anyway, I loved me some Barbies. I played with them way past an age when I should've moved on. And though Barbies seem much more tarty now, (I affectionately refer to one of them as "Fallen Swan Barbie" in a very genteel manner.) I can't help but buy them. Even at three Leila embroils them in immensely complex interactions.
I figure it evens out, since she doesn't own anything with a Disney brand name (including clothing. Winnie the Pooh makes me shudder.) and we don't watch a lot of cartoons.
But if she starts wearing miniskirts and glitter lipstick, you all know who to blame.

I do NOT have an attitude problem.

A customer told me that I have an attitude problem the other day. I found it amusing. Generally, customers say nasty things because, well, they're angry. You didn't give them what they wanted. Poor customer. You'll just die if you don't get that $7.50 back in cash instead of a merchandise certificate.
After the encounter, I popped around and asked a few associates if they think I have an attitude problem. Mostly, they laughed in my face. My associates love me madly, right down to my propensity for dancing in the aisles and my threatening to stab them with broken hangers. I hear a lot of, "You want me to work Saturday? Are you the one closing? Okay, sure."

Now. I know I can cop an attitude. And I know why people think I do. Because as soon as you start acting like a prat, start getting in my face, raising your voice--it's gone. My happy, perky, freckled face will fall right off. I will look at you over the top of my glasses, and my body language will start screaming at you. But it's okay. I still say, very nicely, "I'm sorry you feel that way. Unfortunately, our policy is (fill in the blank) and I am unable to change that." The words are nice. The tone is fine, if a little flat. But everything else is screaming, "Do you think you can talk to me this way? Do you? I oughta..."

I need to be better at this in my personal life. I generally take the abuse because, what can I do? This isn't a customer, it's my friend, my family, etc. (By the way, if you're saying "ex cetera...you lose. It's et cetera. Say it right.) But I should learn how to man up, get those shoulders up, that fake smile turned on, and say, "No, I can't do that right now. You watch Leila tonight, I have plans," with the sweetest smile ever. I should know how to say, "I've asked you several times not to suggest she go to Islamic school, do not make me tell you again."
I should say, "Stop playing with me. We're not a family. And if you want to be one, you need to do more than have sushi sometimes. You can start with a heart-rending apology and see how far it gets you. I don't know that it will get you anywhere. But at least we'll both know where we stand, for the first time in years."

I don't like the drugs, but the drugs like me.

I've had a post rolling around in my head for a couple of days. Two, in fact! One, a deep look at tragedy and fear and love. The other a vituperative rant on the evilness of customers and their filthy, nasty attitudes. Neither are going to happen tonight. I need more introspection for the first, and more energy for the second.

I think I will stumble my ambien-filled noggin to bed, and try to post tomorrow. I have things to say, just not enough time to say them all.

That's gonna leave a mark.

I am a bit behind on posting this, but a few weeks ago I took a tumble, and felt that I needed to put it up here in order to establish precedence. Because something like this will happen again. And you need to know how spectacularly clumsy I am.

On the first day of seventh grade, I tripped over a rock, breaking my middle finger. It's still a bit crooked. In sixth grade, I wrecked my bike into a guardrail/fence, leaving scars on my lip and chin. (You can still see them if you're paying attention, especially now that I don't wear makeup.) I also have a scar from when I was four--my cousin dropped me on my head, sending me skidding into the corner of the oven. Obviously this runs in the family. Oh! And! My knee has a nice scar--I was around ten, and tripped over the edge of one of those inflatable pools. God, I'm awesome.

I think tonight takes the cake, though. Not many people can cause their bodies this much harm by falling on the carpet.

See, I take this medication, trileptal, and it makes me dizzy and generally drunk-acting. But sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, after it wears off a bit, so I take ambien, too. I work at four in the morning, so I go to bed pretty early, and usually only wake up once, around 12 or so. Tonight, I had a nightmare, and my nightmare woke me up. I thought I needed to pee, so I crawled out of bed, stood up, and tipped right over. But wow, I really have to pee, and I'm still sort of in this nightmare, and need to do something really important. (Don't remember what.) So I started making my way to the bathroom, made it almost there, and BOOM, y'all, I went down like a ton of bricks. And it HURT. I'd gone face-first into the carpet, biting my lip hard, and banging my knee (which I injured when I tripped and fell on the sidewalk three weeks ago)
I howled. Like a crazed baby. There was blood everywhere, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I couldn't see straight, because I was so dizzy. Blood dripped all over the carpet, onto my arms, smeared all over my face. I decided it was from biting my lips. I got to the bathroom and pulled myself up to the sink (still can't see straight) I rinsed my arms and face off, but am still bleeding actively from my mouth. Cry some more. Decide to crawl back to bed (literally) and sob the whole way there, because my knee hurts.

I call Feroze. Maybe he can come over and see what's wrong with me? He doesn't pick up. David says I should go to the emergency room, but I can't g et it together enough to get a cab. I fall back asleep, still bleeding. Feroze calls me back at 11:30 and instructs me to get up and put a washcloth with ice in it over my cut. I can finally see straight, so I limp into the bathroom.
Oh, holy fuck.
I've cut a huge, fleshy gash right below the left side of my lip. It looks like I stopped just short of biting my own damn lip off. I close my mouth and my jaw shoots blinding pain up into my temple. I have scabby carpet burn on the left side of my face.
Feroze drove me to the emergency room, where they x-rayed my jaw and my knee, said I probably just sprained them, and cleaned out my huge, nasty cut. My doctor said it is a cut with clean edges, so he wants to just let it heal instead of stitching it. I just stared at him, because oh my lord, does this cut look awful to me. He sees it on my face, and reassures me that he's doing the best thing.
Holy Fuck, does my face hurt this morning. They gave me percocet, which I am going to have filled, and an irrigation solution for my mouth. The left side of my lip is so swollen my mouth doesn't close right. I look like a prize fighter, and I am definitely going to have another scar. A large one.
Ouch, y'all.

Now, as a follow up, I'd like to let you know that I no longer look like a prizefighter. I have a nicely forming scar directly under my lower lip, with a lovely lump of scar tissue involved. Mostly, I look normal. My fake smile, my favorite smile of all time for dealing with customers and other assholes, is impossible to give now. When I stretch my lips over my teeth, the lump shows, and looks scary. Gotta figure out a new way to show disdain. Tragic, really.

Existentialism: Leila style.

My darling love of a child just asked me, "What does God mean?"
~crickets chirp~
"God and Allah are the same, honey."
"Why do we need God?"
~crickets chirp, very loudly~
Now, it isn't as if I couldn't think of an answer. I could think of lots of answers. But none of them seemed quite appropriate for my three-year-old. After I few false starts, I finally said, "Because He takes care of us."
I try really hard not to lie to Leila. My parenting style is rather blunt, though I think it's loving. When she asks big questions, I try to give short, simple, honest answers that make sense to her.

Unfortunately, my answer doesn't quite reflect what I believe. I believe God loves us, but I don't believe He "takes care" of us or "shelters" us, as many of the hymns from my childhood claim. My views of God are still developing. I grew up a hardcore Christian, somewhat conservative. I don't hold those views anymore, but I still believe in God, still have faith in Him.

But does He really take care of us? That goes against a lot that I have seen in my life. It would imply that He only takes care of some people...and the rest of people, those trapped in war zones, for example, are just SOL. I believe that God loves us. That's different.

So what is God?
And why do we need Him?

I don't have an answer.