...especially for this time of year (but really any time):
If you post pictures of spiders ~ live ones, dead ones, plastic ones, decorative ones, puppy-sized ones, any fucking ones ~ on your Facebook page, your tumblr, your blog, your reddit thread, anywhere you can see the damn thing, then you do not get to claim to be arachnophobic.
Also, you don't get to be mad at me if I stop coming by your facebook page, your tumblr, your blog, your reddit thread, anywhere I can see the damn thing.
*whimper*
Those are please-dear-god-just-get-me-to-November-1st Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
You Know, I'm Really Not
You know when people put things off until the very last minute and then say ~ always with a touch of braggadocio, or at least smugness, it seems to me ~ oh, I'm best under pressure. Of course you know it. Who knows, you may even be one of those people. If truth be told, I used to be one of those people. Or, at least I used to be one of those people who said it.
And I can perform under pressure. I can, indeed, make the shot when I have to. Quite well. In fact, I learned a long time ago it is really hard to tell the difference between the work I deliver when I've had all the time in the world and the work I deliver when I've been down to the wire and had to do it rightnowrightnowrightnow. As a college student, this wasn't necessarily a good thing.
This week, I got swamped at work. It was entirely my fault. BIL was in town last week and I had had the foresight to front load that week, so I had the days here was in town completely off. Five days, no work. YAY!
Then Monday, we spent the day catching up on stuff: cleaning, laundry, dishes, groceries. All those things you must deal with after you didn't do a damn thing but enjoy your company for 4 days. Then Tuesday, about 4:00 pm, I realized something ~
I hadn't written a single word all week. So I forced myself to write an article. Wednesday, about 1:00, a migraine decided I should nap the rest of the afternoon. Who am I to argue with a migraine? By 7, I was better physically, but an emotional wreck. Forced myself to write another article.
As of about 20 minutes ago, I just turned in today's 2 articles. It's taken almost all week, but I am back on track with my work for this week. Finally. Wow, do I feel better.
Can I work under pressure? Of course. Can you tell it by the quality of my work? Nope. Not even I can, and I'm looking for it. But am I at my best? You know...
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
And I can perform under pressure. I can, indeed, make the shot when I have to. Quite well. In fact, I learned a long time ago it is really hard to tell the difference between the work I deliver when I've had all the time in the world and the work I deliver when I've been down to the wire and had to do it rightnowrightnowrightnow. As a college student, this wasn't necessarily a good thing.
This week, I got swamped at work. It was entirely my fault. BIL was in town last week and I had had the foresight to front load that week, so I had the days here was in town completely off. Five days, no work. YAY!
Then Monday, we spent the day catching up on stuff: cleaning, laundry, dishes, groceries. All those things you must deal with after you didn't do a damn thing but enjoy your company for 4 days. Then Tuesday, about 4:00 pm, I realized something ~
I hadn't written a single word all week. So I forced myself to write an article. Wednesday, about 1:00, a migraine decided I should nap the rest of the afternoon. Who am I to argue with a migraine? By 7, I was better physically, but an emotional wreck. Forced myself to write another article.
As of about 20 minutes ago, I just turned in today's 2 articles. It's taken almost all week, but I am back on track with my work for this week. Finally. Wow, do I feel better.
Can I work under pressure? Of course. Can you tell it by the quality of my work? Nope. Not even I can, and I'm looking for it. But am I at my best? You know...
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Ironing
I like to iron. That may be an overstatement. I like wearing clothes that wrinkle and I like wearing them not wrinkled. But I also find the instant gratification of ironing nice. So, I iron.
Officially, I learned to iron the 7th or 8th grade, when I took home ec. But a woman named Gail taught me how to iron in real life. You know, when you don't have 3 different size ironing boards with 4 different pegs to make sure each collar and cuff and sleeve and leg is pressed just so. Instead you've got one ironing board (if you're lucky and aren't stretched out on the floor), one iron, and 15 minutes to get out the door.
Since Gail's tutelage, I have gotten good at ironing and yes, I suppose, I do enjoy it. And the other day, we were at the family's and I needed to iron my linen pants. The Hatchling was doing her homework. I was set up with the iron. She was amazed.
What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Was it difficult? Why didn't her mom iron? I answered them all as simply as I could (ironing, because my pants were wrinkled, not really but it did take practice, because her mom doesn't wear clothes that wrinkle as badly). It was a little surprising that I was the one she was seeing do this because her mom is way more domestic than I can ever dream of being. But, at the same time, ironing isn't her thing.
To say I taught the Hatchling how to iron is a huge overstatement. But I did talk her through what I was doing, and why I was doing it. And I passed along a little bit of information that maybe she'll use and remember in 30 years, the same way I remember that day at Gail's house.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Officially, I learned to iron the 7th or 8th grade, when I took home ec. But a woman named Gail taught me how to iron in real life. You know, when you don't have 3 different size ironing boards with 4 different pegs to make sure each collar and cuff and sleeve and leg is pressed just so. Instead you've got one ironing board (if you're lucky and aren't stretched out on the floor), one iron, and 15 minutes to get out the door.
Since Gail's tutelage, I have gotten good at ironing and yes, I suppose, I do enjoy it. And the other day, we were at the family's and I needed to iron my linen pants. The Hatchling was doing her homework. I was set up with the iron. She was amazed.
What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Was it difficult? Why didn't her mom iron? I answered them all as simply as I could (ironing, because my pants were wrinkled, not really but it did take practice, because her mom doesn't wear clothes that wrinkle as badly). It was a little surprising that I was the one she was seeing do this because her mom is way more domestic than I can ever dream of being. But, at the same time, ironing isn't her thing.
To say I taught the Hatchling how to iron is a huge overstatement. But I did talk her through what I was doing, and why I was doing it. And I passed along a little bit of information that maybe she'll use and remember in 30 years, the same way I remember that day at Gail's house.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, October 06, 2014
Dear Fellow White People - Screaming Liberal Post # 9
My fellow white people ~ Do you know that protests in Ferguson are even still going on????? Because they are!!! And you should know this!!! Or have you moved on to the next thing that "has to do with me (read: white people)"??????? Ferguson does have to do with you! You should fucking care!!!
My fellow white people ~ You know what you shouldn't do? You shouldn't be killing black people!!!!! What The Fuck Are You Doing????? Are You Fucking Kidding Me????? Stop Shooting Black People!!!! Stop excusing it when other white people do!!!! Why does anyone even need to tell you this??????
My fellow white people ~ We know what happened! Stop pretending like we don't. The fact that the grand jury has been given until next year to decide whether or not to indict is nauseating. We have eye-fucking-witnesses. We know what fucking happened. Two young black men were walking down the street and now one of them is dead because a white cop shot him. There could be no threat that made this an option.
My fellow white people ~ Stop Getting Your Fucking Information From Other White People! Yes! Including me! Why does my outrage, or my version, or my words, carry more weight? Other white people are telling you about the looters in Missouri. They aren't telling you about the vastly more numerous peaceful protesters who are being met with tear gas and riot gear. Read. Listen. Learn. From people who aren't filtering it through your own damn filters. My voice shouldn't matter more than Jamelle Bouie, Heben Nigatu (or brilliantly and must-readly here), Monica Roberts, or Denny Upkins' voices do. Read The Root, occasionally. At the very least, click on Huffington Post Black Voices. Do your own searching, and find your own sources.
My fellow white people ~ Get Over Yourselves. For once in your lives, consider someone else "the norm" or "most important." Let go of any sense of superiority based on flesh tone. We, after all, are the ones killing black children as they walk down the street, ask for help, and go home from the store. What's so fucking superior about that?
My fellow white people ~ Don't You DARE ask me why I'm still writing about this/angry about this/making you think about this "after all this time." Don't fucking dare.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
My fellow white people ~ You know what you shouldn't do? You shouldn't be killing black people!!!!! What The Fuck Are You Doing????? Are You Fucking Kidding Me????? Stop Shooting Black People!!!! Stop excusing it when other white people do!!!! Why does anyone even need to tell you this??????
My fellow white people ~ We know what happened! Stop pretending like we don't. The fact that the grand jury has been given until next year to decide whether or not to indict is nauseating. We have eye-fucking-witnesses. We know what fucking happened. Two young black men were walking down the street and now one of them is dead because a white cop shot him. There could be no threat that made this an option.
My fellow white people ~ Stop Getting Your Fucking Information From Other White People! Yes! Including me! Why does my outrage, or my version, or my words, carry more weight? Other white people are telling you about the looters in Missouri. They aren't telling you about the vastly more numerous peaceful protesters who are being met with tear gas and riot gear. Read. Listen. Learn. From people who aren't filtering it through your own damn filters. My voice shouldn't matter more than Jamelle Bouie, Heben Nigatu (or brilliantly and must-readly here), Monica Roberts, or Denny Upkins' voices do. Read The Root, occasionally. At the very least, click on Huffington Post Black Voices. Do your own searching, and find your own sources.
My fellow white people ~ Get Over Yourselves. For once in your lives, consider someone else "the norm" or "most important." Let go of any sense of superiority based on flesh tone. We, after all, are the ones killing black children as they walk down the street, ask for help, and go home from the store. What's so fucking superior about that?
My fellow white people ~ Don't You DARE ask me why I'm still writing about this/angry about this/making you think about this "after all this time." Don't fucking dare.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, October 02, 2014
Meeting Friends
A weird thing happens in this day and age ~ one can become real, vital, genuine friends with people one has never met. Through blogging, and through email. But also through text message and the ubiquitous phone that instead of being stuck on our wall, where we may or may not be for months at a time, is in our pocket at all times.
When we drove into Lori's driveway, I said to Lithus "these people already consider you their friend; you don't have to feel like you're meeting them for the first time." My statement completely disregarded the fact that I, too, was technically meeting them for the first time.
The shoe was on the other foot last night. We went over to another friend's house, this time one of Lithus' friends. He and the man in the couple have been colleagues for years, became friends about 5 years ago, and have grown into confidants thanks to text messages and being able to stay in touch, even when they are hundreds, or sometimes, thousands of miles away from their homes. As we drove into their driveway, I realized, these people already know me. They consider me a friend. They care about me. They've seen me through everything they've seen Lithus through, and vice versa.
For every time this day and age can break our hearts, there are a dozen other times it heals them. It's nice to meet my friends.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
When we drove into Lori's driveway, I said to Lithus "these people already consider you their friend; you don't have to feel like you're meeting them for the first time." My statement completely disregarded the fact that I, too, was technically meeting them for the first time.
The shoe was on the other foot last night. We went over to another friend's house, this time one of Lithus' friends. He and the man in the couple have been colleagues for years, became friends about 5 years ago, and have grown into confidants thanks to text messages and being able to stay in touch, even when they are hundreds, or sometimes, thousands of miles away from their homes. As we drove into their driveway, I realized, these people already know me. They consider me a friend. They care about me. They've seen me through everything they've seen Lithus through, and vice versa.
For every time this day and age can break our hearts, there are a dozen other times it heals them. It's nice to meet my friends.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
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