Penguin Perils.

I swear I'm not a penguin hater. I LOVE penguins, especially baby penguins...oh I just want to pet them and cuddle them and bring them home to snuggle with me in bed...

Okay I'm guilt rambling, probably because I played this for so long.

I really am not a penguin hater.

P.S. My highest score is 756.1

*Update* Make that 911.5. I am terrible.

*Update 2* Make that 994.6. Woo hoo!

*Update 3* Make that 1053.9. Bloody brilliant.

Family Guy movie quote!

I just couldn't NOT post this quote.

*in the newsroom*

Diane: In other news, after several grueling days of frightening uncertainty, I've finally gotten my period.
Tom: Well Diane, I'm sure you and your brother must be devastated by the loss of the two-headed offspring that might have been. We now go to Peter Griffin for "You know what really grinds my gears".

How do you know??

I've always wondered how people "know" they've found the right person. How do you know?

I was watching "Boy Meets World" today (c'mon folks, you watch it too, admit it), and Corey and Shawn had an interesting conversation. Corey was torn between two women - Topanga, his lifelong girlfriend, and Lauren, the new prospect. Problem was, Corey was attracted to both. Shawn tried to help Corey by asking him questions about each girl and then putting jellybeans on a scale to see which woman would win. But it was a tie.

Shawn: *sigh* It's a tie. It's hopeless. You like both girls. You can't live without either of them. This was a bad idea.
Corey: No...*pause* No, you're wrong. This was a good idea! I like both of them, but I can live without Lauren. I can't live without Topanga. Thanks, Shawn, I know what I need to do now.

What an interesting thought! Maybe it's more about who you can't live without, and less about who you can live with.

Am I close?

New & Improved!

Tada! Whaddya think? Ya like?

Betcha thought you landed on the wrong site, huh guys?

This is what happens when I'm tied up for 8 evenings in a row and decide to celebrate my hard-won free time.

Oh, and Jason, I know that ticker is way cheesy, but I had one last "blog change" itch to scratch and I couldn't think of anything else to do to it. Besides, it's a good reminder of how long you have to get me the fantastic present that you, of course, were going to get me anyway, right?

L

The Love Squeeze.

*walking around at the Gun & Knife convention*

Jason: *reaches over and squeezes my butt*
Me: You did that on purpose, didn't you.
Jason: Yes.
Me: Because it's a public place?
Jason: Yes.
Me: You're secretly hoping several people saw it, aren't you.
Jason. Yes.

It's a small world. AGAIN.

This morning was the last session of the spiritual healing conference. They split 100 people up into groups of 4. Among the 3 other people in my group was Holly.

Holly - also 22, dating a guy for almost the same amount of time, with the same issues, with similar struggles.

And what else? Not only was she from the same area as Jason 25 miles away, but she often drives through B**'s Drive Thru, Jason's workplace!

What are the odds?! Again?

I bet Jason's served her before and didn't even know it. Ah, good stuff.

It's a small world after all.

So today I was sitting next to my new friend, Marisa, at the spiritual healing conference when she said, "I feel like I've seen you somewhere else. Do you know Jessica C.?"

Turns out we both see the same counselor.

In a conference of over 2oo people, I sit next to the girl who goes to the same counselor as me and sees her on the same day, one hour after me.

What are the odds?!

It's the same feeling I get every time a friend from one part of my world meets and befriends a friend from another part. Like when my friends from mission trips would meet my college friends or hometown friends or whatever...from across the country.

Like the time I went out with a boy I met at Purdue University, only to find out that he was the son of my uncle's bestfriend. In Houston, Texas.

Does this ever happen to you?

War on Mars.

Why does he write me off as emotional when I cry?

Why does he not like to meet my friends and socialize in groups? Doesn't he want to know the people in my life? Doesn't he want to show me off?

Why did he tell me that I've talked to his bestfriend more than he has and that makes him uncomfortable? Why does he think that his bestfriend of 12 years would make a move on me if he didn't know that Jason would hurt him? Does he think so low of his bestfriend's integrity or their 12-year friendship? Does he not trust me?

Why does it make him uncomfortable for me to join him when visiting friends? Why does he assume that he "knows me" and insists I stay home because he thinks I wouldn't enjoy historical documentaries or conversations about guns?

Why is he afraid that I would judge him if I got too close to his friends? Is there something he's hiding?

Why does he screen for me what I would or wouldn't like? Does he think me so immature and insecure that I wouldn't be confident to say that I am or am not comfortable in a situation?

Why would he say, "I was already stressed, but thank you for adding more stress to my life." Why would he not apologize when I say that hurts?

Is it true that he's too tired from school and work to ever go out? Or should I assume that it is his personality to use all spare time to sleep in and veg out?

Is it possible for a social butterfly and a social conservative to live in harmony?

Why is the closest thing he says to an apology come out as, "I'm sorry I'm not the social butterfly you are"?

Why can't he apologize even when he doesn't think he's wrong, just to smooth things over?

Why did he end the conversation by telling me that I shouldn't have called him while driving? Why did he cut me off and say, "Girls are more emotional than guys when driving. DON'T ARGUE. IT'S FACT." Is that even the point?

Why is it so hard for him to say, "Honey, let's talk about this when we're both more rational. I love you."?

Why is it so hard for him to handle several emotions at once? Why is it hard for him to juggle stress in a healthy way? Why must everything be a burden?



I can't believe I sat in the driveway and cried. I'm such a shmuck.

I don't want to talk or see him again until he says something nice. VERY nice.

"Hi, my name is Leslie and I'm an addict."

I think I'm addicted to naps.

Like any other addiction, it came slowly. You never expect it and you live your whole life thinking, "Oh no, I would never get into that". But one day you wake up and you realize that with it, the world is lollipops and without it...well no one wants to be around you when you're without it.

I mean, I never napped in high school. I rarely napped in college. Naps always seemed like such a waste of time. You should only take naps when you're sick or you absolutely have nothing.to.do.

I think it started when my internship ended in December. It was winter, I was (am) unemployed, and frankly the bed always looked way more enticing than pounding the pavement in slushy jeans.

Today I am trying to stay awake the whole day. I had a good interview this morning and I came home thinking, "Okay...I can make it without the good stuff...you can do it Leslie...". But now that I'm sitting here at the computer, staring at my freelance work, and when I tried to fight off the urge to nap, I got what many addicts so often get: the shakes.

Yep, I'm clutching my desk, feeling dizzy, dreaming of the warm down blanket covering me...I'm snuggled under the blankets...I'm cozy...I'm warm...I'm...

Damn, I gotta go. Be back when I wake up.

a little poem.

Written sometime in 2004.

in my eyes you're beautiful
in my heart you're mine
in my life you're wonderful
in my soul, divine.

~ Leslie

A Cemetery Essay.

I wrote this almost 2 years ago because no one could understand my quiet love for cemeteries. Can you understand now?

April 24, 2004

A CEMETERY ESSAY

Life is busy. It is clutter and it is noise. Thus, people seek shelter. We seek a single place that allows the fog to dissipate. Sometimes, if we're lucky, answers appear and we name it hope. We go there to cry. We go there to plead with God. We go there to feel life bubbling underneath our skin. We go to find inspiration, fulfillment, and meaning. Why we go is never as important as the importance itself.

Some people die without ever revealing this secret place. I will tell you my place, my special place to where I rarely travel, but when I do, I feel alive. You will find this ironic when I tell you.

My place is with those who live six feet under. It is the only place on earth that is full of people you cannot see. They do not talk back, for they are dead, but that does not mean they do not speak to me.

This is the cemetery.

Can you see it? Vast valleys and rolling hills. Green grass blowing in the wind, hiding naked broken twigs shivering. Winding paths weaving in and out among the tall oak trees. But the air is thick with a perfume you cannot smell, a taste that slows your breath and bends your legs. Your fingers itch, and your arms outstretch to the stones before you. Each stone, each mound, a story.

You see, I am a storymaker. Then I am a storyteller. I create life. Then I deliver it. I write it. Then I spell it. You are, and then you will be. You will be, and then you are.

There is a short list running around the world of people whose lives I have recreated. They will never know they are living a double life within my mind. But it was their blotched skin, their crooked teeth, the way they swung their arms, the depth of their eyes, their sunken cheeks,
their hoarse voice, their long toes, the light in their hair, the count of moles...anything and one thing that made them irrevocably and irreversably unique. Suddenly, I whisk them off to a second world.

The man with crooked teeth falls in love with the girl that counted moles on her arms like stars. A tree opens its eyes and, unable to withstand the pain of the world, swings its brown arms in fury. A girl is born beneath the ground. She sprouts,flies among the mockingbirds, and before she dies, writes 65 poems about love, living, and the inbetween.

This is why, when my sleeves turn white and my palms turn mottled red, I resort to the fiction section in the library for my temporary secret place. When I cannot think, I can read the thoughts of other people who did and wrote a book on their thoughts. Wild and free thoughts. The smell of old, of a time before my parents' parents were born, lingers in my nostrils. I finger brown edges; I am that man who killed the bastard that slept with my wife who never cooked anything but burnt macaroni and cheese that she poisoned and left for me.

Fiction is notreal becoming real. Nonfiction is real telling you its version of what is real. But, cemeteries.
Cemeteries.
Running my fingers across a name, a date, a description. Cemeteries are real becoming what might be real and what probably isn't. The difference between a book and a tombstone lies within the beginning. In a book, you begin at the beginning and you wonder how it'll end. Standing in front of a tombstone, you begin at the end and wonder how it all began.

Robert "The Fighter" Dylan. (1914-1942). A boy who fought for peace and found it where he least expected it.

This is what I read with the wind beneath my skirt and dust between my toes. I close my eyes and ask: What did you fight against? Was it the war you did not ask to be fought? Or a disease you did not ask to be born with?

When I look again, I see a patch of grass, pressed so often the blades are permanently bent. But the blades are thick and long, and I wonder whose cheek laid against them. Whose rosy cheeks were laid bare with tears at your parting? Did she beg for your return as her tears watered flowers to blossom there?

The path winds, and a row of tombstones appear. I cock my head in appreciation for the humanity of the awkward grooves, how mud-stained hands must have strained to keep the rusty nail in place as they hammered in honor of the fallen. Crossing my legs indian-style, I read:

Peter Wilkenson. (1845-1895).
Martha Wilkenson. (1850-1895).
Nicholas Wilkenson. (1874-1895).
Patricia Wilkenson. (1876-1895).
Abigail Wilkenson. (1889-1895).

My choice for them is a fatal fire. I can feel the heat on my heels, see the flames licking their nightgowns as they pound the doors, hear Abby crying and hugging her teddy. Peter's arms stretch for one last embrace as his family crouches with him against the walls, helpless as the night envelopes them. In the morning, embers flicker and die. The smoke rises and disappears, camouflauged against an overcast sky.

On and on it goes, story after story. An open grave, ready to receive a husband whose wife waits, as she did for 54 years in the twilight hours with dinner and open arms ready. A baby who never got a chance. An old woman who never took it. The rich, the poor. The lonely and the loved.
Those who fought and those who ran. Men of all races. Women of all societies. Children of tears, years, and capacities. People of all times, lives, and paths. A life continuum through death.

To walk among the living is to experience life in waiting.
To walk among the dead is to experience life continuing.
It is to be saturated with history, love lost, love found, bitterness, regret,
should haves wouldhavescouldhaves, wants and needs, tragedies and victories.
It is all at once tragic and beautiful.
Suddenly young, then old again.

This is the one place anyone can enter and no one leaves.
Where you talk and no one talks back.
Where you begin at the end.
Where two feet can stand among three worlds.
It is my place.

One day my feet will lie below the ground and not stand above it.
One day someone else will walk by, rest their fingers in the grooves of my name,
feel the breeze underneath their arms, and wonder...
And I will laugh at their stories
About how I sailed the seven seas and married a viking and
About how I killed the pirate who tried to steal a kiss and
About how I died by spearing an angry gorilla, but
I will never tell them what really happened, because
That day I will be dining with Robert, tracing my fingers along his scars.
I will be conversing with Luke, teasing him about his first kiss.
I will sew a new teddybear for little Abby.
We will know that some stories are better told by someone who did not live it.

This is a cemetery.
I walk along its paths.
This is a cemetery.
It is all about what might have been.
This is a cemetery.

This is a cemetery.
This is a cemetery.
This is a cemetery.

I'm Shrinking!

The nurse measured me and announced the horrible news: I'm 5'2.5"

Well slap my grandma and call me Midget Girl, what the crap is up with that?!

I could have sworn that at a past point in my life, I was 5'3" and well on my way to 5'4".

Damn scoliosis. Damn high shelves. Damn 'you must be this tall to ride' signs.

Do they sell medieval stretching devices?

All is video in love and war.

My fingers are poised,
My feet are rooted in the ground.
"Die!" I cry. "Die you bastard!"
I'm smashing buttons into plastic.
Powpowpowpowpowpow
I'm jumping now
The whole room is shaking
I hear laughter behind me
"Are you gettin' 'er done, baby?"
Long arms and legs wrap around me from behind
A warm chest against my back
The smooth side of my face against his stubble
I feel safe.
Safe from all evil doers ad evil
When this knight in shining controller comes to my rescue
He's battling evil.
I'm pumping the air.
"Bring it on, sucka, bring it on!"
We understand this game
How treasure can be uncovered in the most unlikely of places
And how the fastest routes aren't always the best
How looks can be deceiving
And how the best victories are those hard fought together.
So we're ready.
Our fingers poised,
Feet rooted into the ground.

Would You Rather...?

Inspired by Mark's latest post, I'd like to pose the following question:

Would you rather be obese but perfectly healthy?

OR

Very fit but perpetually sick?

(Assume you live the same length of time)

After you answer that, your challenge is to ask ME the most ridiculous "would you rather" question you can think of. The sky is the limit! You can ask my as many as you want (If you look at Mark's post, you'll see that I asked him like 6) and I'll answer them all.

Have fun!

Linking Arms When Life Isn't Fair

Some people live really comfortable lives. They grow up with loving parents, a yappy dog, and lots of sunny vacations. They're good looking and popular in school. They're successful in their jobs. They find Prince Charming or Cinderella. They're healthy, happy, and because they're also wonderful and sweet, it's hard to hate them. I've nothing against these people, save for a little jealousy occasionally. Hey, some of my friends are these people.

Then there's the rest of us. We can see the sun but the storm has been hard to ignore. We're the people who understand poverty, violence, apathy, hate, failure, disease, disorders, or death. We're the ones who've laboured through the valleys of despair, anguish, heartache, and still manage to crack a joke at the end of the day. We have our good days and our bad days, but more than anything, we just want someone who understands where we are coming from. We crave for someone else who's been there...who gets it.

Last night my friend Steve came over and brought his friend Kate with him. I'm always open to more friends so I welcomed her in. She was my age and height, with boy-short brown hair, a matronly figure, and a pleasant smile. She laughed loud and hard at my jokes, so I liked her immediately. Had she not openly shared her struggles, I would have never taken her for anything beyond the norm. And that's the thing with people like us...you'd never guess unless we told you.

In addition to clinical depression, Kate suffers from a thought disorder. She hears voices - loud voices that tell her to do things...voices that can only be quieted by her obedience. Her extreme condition has so severely impaired her ability to function that she has dropped out of school and cannot work. She has taken every prescription drug available, hopping from one drug to another, hoping that the next will be of some help. She's seen such little improvement that she's had to resort to shock therapy, something that is difficult and painful for me to comprehend. The shock therapy has completely killed her short term memory; she cannot remember anything that happens in the present and either has to write it down or have someone else there to remember it for her. With her suicidal past, she fears her own safety, so she never lets herself be alone.

We talked casually yet boldly of our painful past experiences as if we were sisters. Ignorant doctors, misdiagnoses, the medical bills, the shame, the pain, the dreams we've had to postpone...we talked about it all. When she told me about the loss of her short term memory and that she probably wouldn't remember me the next morning, my heart broke. So I wrote down my name and all the details and circumstances on a piece of paper and handed it to her. Had I not been so caught up in the emotion of our conversation, I would have held her close and cried.

In the end, I suggested she come with me to a spiritual healing conference starting next weekend. I explained the entire premise of conference and secretly hoped she'd say yes. I know it sounds crazy, I said, But if you're like me, then you're willing to try anything. And I'll be right there with you.

I looked deep into her tired eyes. I want you to get better, Kate. I want to see you get better.

She sighed. "You're very persuasive, Leslie. Okay, I'll go. In fact...yes, I think I really want to go."

After she and Steve left, I felt that by helping Kate, I'd helped myself...and I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

Sometimes I wish I was like the people I mentioned in the beginning of my post...the people who never fight with their SO's or have stable jobs or never incur anything beyond the normal bills or the common cold. But since my life isn't like that...since I don't have a stable job, I have 3 diseases, a dysfunctional family, and a quirky relationship...I found it so so cathartic to find someone who understands. Not just someone who's supportive, but who has walked the 100 beleaguering miles you have. God, it feels so good to lean on someone else who needs to lean on you too.

Once Upon A Time...

Once upon a time...

There lived a little girl named Leslie.

She had a weird family.
A very weird family.
A family who liked to play mah jong and release a lot of gas, among other things.
One day little Leslie thought, "I wonder if I can find a boy just right for me? Someone who's crazy and goofy and just a tad handsome?...Okay VERY handsome."
Her family was a little...skeptical.
But Leslie reached to the sky and said, "Oh God of mushy love, won't you send me a stinky fellow?"

Henry said, "You're crazy."Jen said, "My pants are falling off."

But Leslie still met Jason.

He was goofy, stinky, and very handsome.They drove each other crazy.
But they loved each other.
It was perfect.
THE END.

I love you, Jason.

Phone conversation with Jason while he's at work:

"*sniffle*"
Blow your nose!
"No!"
Blow your nose!
"No!"
Why?
"It's either the rough TP or paper towels here. I'd rather wait until I get home."
Your TP at home isn't very soft either.
"That's true...not like your TP..."
That's right! My toilet paper is nice and soft...good for the tushy.
"That reminds me! When I was going home from your place the other day, I realized that I wanted to take a crap before I left but I forgot. So I had to hold it in the whole ride home!"
Haha! How come you can talk about poopin' but I can't? You double-standard you!
"Whatever."
Everyone poops, Jason.
"Not everyone!"
What?! Name one person.
"You..."

Poop Conversations...

with the doctor...
I need to poop.
"Ya know, if you take your finger and wiggle it around up there, that might stimulate it."

with Jason...
I need to poop.
"Well you've farted a lot tonight. Maybe that means tonight's the night."

with dad...
"Do you have Metamucil?"
No...
*two days later* "Here you go!" *hands me giant 12-inch canister of fiber powder*

with mom...
I pooped today.
Sigh. "Congratulations."

with sister...
I pooped today.
"Really? You know, when I have a hard one, I rock back and forth *rock back and forth forcefully*. Works every time."