Category Archives: I’m Just A Girl

I’m having dreams again.

Just the usual, run of the mill dreams (at least for me, because I’m pretty sure not everyone dreams about saving the world from alien invasions pretty much every night. Except for, you know, Steven Spielberg).

Running throughout them, however, is a common image: rosaries made of lapis lazuli.

Oh, you don’t have to tell me about the meanings behind the various symbols.

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Blogswarm 19 March 08

It’s dark in the mornings, and we all climb on the streetcar in silence. We recognize each other, fellow commuters traveling the same rails together day in and day out. Nothing ever changes.

We fall into our own distractions, sounds piped into our ears to drown out the world, reading homework or magazines or novels to keep from having to look at each other.

The next stop, though, something changes. People are muttering, shifting about, craning to look through the windows, past our own reflections, at something new.

The park has sprouted little white flags in the night.

 “What’s going on? What are they? Is this some sort of college prank?”

Someone who just got on explains to us all. “The sign said every white flag is for 5 civilians killed, and every red flag is for 5 Americans killed in Iraq.”

We start craning our necks, looking for red flags. They should be easy to find in this sea of white. Someone thinks they spotted one, turns out it was a discarded food wrapper that got blown into the exhibit.

The man in the “God Bless the USA” hat quietly says, “That’s a lot of people.”

As the streetcar passes between buildings, my last view is of the little white flags, waving in the breeze.

 They stretch for four blocks.

Ed Johnson

Iraq Body Count Exhibit

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An Issue of Blood

Dear Mister (yes, MISTER) Pro-Life Blogger:

Not that it’s any of your feklaptin’ business, but I take birth control pills. Yes, me, the celibate one over here. I take them to better regulate the hormones in my body, and without them I will bleed for about two weeks out of every three and have to go to the hospital for blood transfusions. Funny thing, it’s entirely possible that I have the exact same condition as the woman you’ve probably read about in Matthew 9:20-22, Mark 5:25-34, and Luke 8:43-47.

If you don’t have insurance (like I won’t after March 30th), these pills cost $145 a month. I wouldn’t even try to convince a Catholic clinic to write me a script. Planned Parenthood, the only women’s health clinic with no income restrictions? $39 a month. And the added bonus of having to look at dead babies and be called a whore by my coreligionists as I go in to pick up my script!

Would you shut your trap, please? You’re making all us Christians look like jackasses.

In Christian Love,
Mary Sue

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I got called out by a coworker for being more of a sarcastic bitch than usual.

“I’m too tired, grumpy, and hurty to care” I shot back in an email without thinking.

“Hurty? What hurty?” was the reply.

“Arthritis.” I sniped. One word email. Supposed to stop the damn questions.

“You’re not supposed to be 28 with arthritis!” the coworker replied. “What’s up there?”

Mmm, yes. Let me tell my joints that.

Interesting. Their reply was, “What’s your damn point?” And then my spine made crunchy noises and my ankle tried to give out on me when I stood up to go to the copier, but I outsmarted it.

Today is not a good day.

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[Neener]

I’m getting bifocals and yooooou don’t!

 *does the dance of “I’m So Much Cooler Than You”*

[/neener]

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Bleaurgh.

Back in good ol’ rainy, gloomy, Portland, where the only tamales to be had are at the kinda skeezy cart near the Central Library (no, I haven’t broken down yet and purchased some from them, more out of a sense of duty to my g.i. tract than anything else).

So, yeah, where to begin? The trip home had good points, sure enough, but there was also the fact my grandmother was in a coma from the 16th to the 18th, but according to her own words, she “put on a good enough show” on the 19th that they sprung her from the hospital on the 20th and she showed up at the family gathering on the 24th. And my other grandfather went seven rounds with his dementia on the 25th and wound up cussing out my shocked and appalled auntie, who’d been in rather deep denial about his worsening mental state until that point.

All that pales in comparison to C’s story, though. She’s a friend of the family, and she visited with us for a couple of hours on the 24th before leaving to pick up her son G for lunch. She called my mother half an hour after she left because G was dead. Mom dropped everything and drove down the Mountain, leaving me as de facto hostess in a house where I have trouble locating water glasses, let alone all the accoutrements for Christmas Dinner.

And once again I curse CSI and NCIS and Criminal Minds and all those shows because we have to wait six weeks for toxicology reports, to know whether or not this will be treated as a suicide or a homicide.

I’ve got nothing to end on.

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Hoo boy.

I just had a conversation that might just possibly lead to a decent-paying, permanent, full time gig in the city I adore.

 It’s not a teaching gig.

Ooog. I tell you this three times, and what I tell  you three times is true: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

Update with more information-shaped things now that I’m not in the office: I’ve been trying to get my teaching license for THREE YEARS. Of those three years, I’ve spent 16 months at this gig. Been called back twice. And every time I’m back, a new position opens up that pays about the same as teaching, and I’m GOOD at this job and I like working here.

Butbutbut, it’s not teaching.

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